xiii.
I
dreamt about the Trail last night.
It
was twilight when I came into a town. I wasn’t sure where I was,
but it felt like Maine. I realized I’d already been to all the
towns in Maine, so I began to doubt that I was in Maine. The town was
dim, with few streetlights, the way most of the Appalachian Trail
towns were. I was looking for the white blaze that would indicate
which way the Trail went out of town, but I couldn’t find any. I
pulled out my guidebook, but found that it had swollen to Lonely
Planet guidebook proportions and was missing a lot of pages. The only
thing that was left in the book was the section on North Carolina and
a lot of currency converter charts in the back. I was beginning to
feel very stressed out. I had told a friend that I would see her at
the next shelter area, and I was afraid that she would worry about
me. In desperation, I stopped a bunch of locals. I asked them where
the trailhead was and they pointed to a blaze on a tree where we
stood. “Then it goes down there, along the highway.” They told
me. Relived, I began to walk in the direction of the highway before I
suddenly realized, ‘wait, I’ve already finished the Trail.’
And
the dream, embarrassed at having been found out, shifted into
something else.
…
The
country started to mellow out a little after Atkins. The climbs were
slight, when they were there at all and I enjoyed a few days of
nearly flat terrain. As such, my mileage picked up a little, some
days I was walking close to 30 miles. I began to worry that perhaps
I’d reach Harper’s Ferry too early. Through the rest of Virginia,
this was my main concern, For at least an hour every day, I thought
about my anticipated meaning with Gina. I created this ideal scenario
in which we came crashing into each other’s arms under the domed
ceilings of DC Union Station. I’d get off my commuter train just in
time to rush to the track where her train would just be arriving. I’d
watch her get off the train and run to her. After that, we’d get an
amazing cup of coffee and we’d go off to eat mountains of
food. Or maybe she’d be waiting for me. I’d get off my train,
dazed by the sudden urban surroundings and look up to see her walking
toward me, with a huge smile and a bag of San Francisco burritos…
I’d
get so lost in these fantasies that I’d come out of them startled
to find myself in the woods, walking. Particularly in the morning, I
was often able to crawl into my day dreams and make worlds out of
them. It was the closest I ever got to the profound thought that I
guess a lot of people expect from their hike. Most of the time, I was
still stuck on the confounding mental radio station of scraps of
songs, images from the past and, rarely, novel thoughts. From what I
gathered talking to other hikers, the Trail produces no Confuciuses
or Sartes. If you weren’t great at profound philosophical thought
before you got on the Trail, don’t expect revelations, expect the
radio, expect pop songs. The day dreams, however, were pretty
impressive.
I
found the mild terrain was better for these fantasies. Climbing and
descending mountains, even the subtle green mountains of the
Appalachians, takes concentration, or maybe it’s just that the
physical effort is distracting. Either way, when I was huffing and
puffing up and down mountains, I noticed the time went by quickly,
but that I was hardly thinking about anything. When I was just
walking along a river or something, my mind would be bouncing all
over the damn place but, as such, time seemed to drag.
Before
Trent’s Grocery, around the Wapiti Shelter (famous for the bizarre
murders that had taken place there, luckily, I knew nothing about
this until I was past it) I enjoyed a beautiful meandering walk along
a river that seemed to last for hours. In the southern parts of the
Trail, water means rhododendrons and this abundance of water had
grown veritable hedges of them which the Trail maintainers bore
through until the Trail resembled nothing so much as an emerald green
mole’s tunnel.
I
walked late into the day and what I thought was just twilight
revealed itself to be rain clouds. It was around 6 and I’d already
walked over 20 miles, but I wasn’t tired after the day’s relaxing
walk. I stopped into a shelter to make dinner and decide what to do.
There wasn’t anywhere to camp in the area and the shelter was
dingy-looking, especially since the sky had darkened. It looked like
a lonely place and I thought I’d probably keep going rather than
stop here.
The
rain came before my ramen water had started boiling and I had to run
out a grab my stove from the picnic table. By this time, a few other
hikers had joined me. As we all seemed to be from different walks of
life and ages, in the little dusty shelter, waiting out the rain, I
was reminded of the Canterbury Tales. I told my fellow hikers about
the book, the different pilgrims and their stories. One middle-aged
guy was really excited to tell stories and he and I mostly talked to
each other while everyone else hovered between attention and sleep.
It was then that I heard about what had happened at the Wapiti
Shelter.
The
rain let up with the suddenness that it had begun to fall. The clouds
parted to reveal a twilight sun. The hour seemed too magical to stay
in the shelter, plus we’d been joined by an incessantly arguing
couple, so I decided to walk a little further before dark.
I
had come a little higher that the river valley where I’d spent the
whole day. The change in elevation, the rain and the twilight gave
the Trail a magical feel, like the path from the book Grandfather
Twilight. I seemed to float along, without a thought. The sky
darkened and I hardly noticed at first but then I realized that I
wouldn’t make the next shelter before it got dark and I wasn’t
sure there’d be anywhere to stealth camp. Almost as soon as I had
these thoughts, I noticed a hammock tied between two trees. Whoever
was in it, looked to still be awake. I approached to see if there
were any tent spots nearby. I recognized the pack leaning against a
tree next to the hammock. “Kyle?” I asked the gently swinging
nylon. “Hey! Mossman!” He bolted up.
We
were next to a beautiful powerline clearing. I camped on the other
side and in the morning, we got up and watched the sun come up over
Pearisburg, VA.
The
walk into town was easy, downhill to Angel’s Rest. I stopped on the
rock for a while to contemplate the early morning view of the river
and the smokestacks piercing the clouds above it.
The
switchback leading down to the town was precipitous, the downed trees
were mossy and wet and the Trail was clogged with mud. I was moving a
little too quickly and almost fell a few times, but I managed to keep
myself out of the mud. About half-way down, I crossed paths with a
group of guys. They had the anonymous air of the city about them, so
I heartily greeted them, as I tried to do to anyone I saw on the
Trail who seemed unsure if they should say ‘hello.’ They
responded not by returning my greeting but by asking me if they were
almost ‘at the end.’ I paused a minute before answering.
“Which
‘end’ are you talking about? This Trail goes all the way to
Georgia.”
“It
does?”
“Yeah.
If you’re talking about the Angel’s Rest, it’s right up there,
but ‘the end’ is about 600 miles down the Trail.”
“Is
this the Appalachian Trail, then?” One of the group asked. “And
are you hiking the whole thing?”
I
told them I was and they rewarded me with the greatest compliment one
can get, looks of total astonishment. To be fair, these guys were out
in basketball shoes and sweat pants, so I can see how they’d be
amazed by the idea that someone could walk 600 miles, they clearly
hadn’t even prepared for their short walk up the mountain. But it
was nice to be the recipient of such looks, they twinkled a little
with admiration, which was nice given that I knew these guys looked
much better than I did. They could’ve just dismissed my bearded and
backpacked character as a ragged bum and moved on.
As
it turned out, thru-hikers didn’t look so out of place in the town
of Pearisburg, VA. The area of town by the trailhead, was a little
down-at-heel. The hotels there were obviously residential and, when I
stopped into the laundromat, I noticed that toilet tank lid was
bolted down, a sure sign of economic hardship, drugs or, as is
usually the case, both.
Despite
this ‘Darkness on the Edge of Town,’ the downtown area of
Pearisburg was very nice, mostly red brick buildings over a 100 years
old. The ‘hostel’ that was listed in my guide, turned out to be a
sort of hikers’ clubhouse behind the catholic church. An ‘A’-roofed
building was edged by a wide porch. Inside was a sitting area, a
bathroom, with shower and toilet in separate rooms, a kitchen with a
stove and a refrigerator and, up a ladder a loft with sleeping pad
that it was way too hot to sleep in. I took a shower as soon as I
arrived and set up my tent in the yard. It was a beautiful place to
stay; there was even a gazebo in the yard where I went to read when
the other hikers fell to talking in the evening.
I
left Pearisburg late the next day. I picked up two packages and
bought some food which had me quite weighed down when I got back on
the Trail. It was a grey Sunday and the Trail skirted the industrial
area on the edge of town. I’d read that there was a stream we
shouldn’t drink out of as there was a landfill nearby. For all
this, after I’d gotten out of the town, the Trail was quick to turn
impressive again. Before I hit the Rice Field Shelter, I hiked with
Tarzan for a while: another thru-hiker I would eventually catch back
up to in Maine.
I
walked past the shelter and looked down from a cliff into West
Virginia. The ledge offered a beautiful walk for the evening and my
thoughts had begun to drift so profoundly, that I almost didn’t see
the bear until I was right up top of him. He stopped digging and
looked up at me. I hadn’t seen anyone since the shelter and had no
reason to think that there was anyone else around. Just this 200+
pound bear and I. I remembered my bear whistle and blew into it. Yogi
didn’t seem at all perturbed and continued looking at me, as if
deciding what to do. I blew again, harder and the bear, slowly,
turned and walked a little way from the Trail. I walked on, trying
not to run. He hadn’t gone far from the Trail and I worried that
when I had my back to him, some instinctive impulse would force him
to chase me.
I
walked until I felt I was far away enough to look back. I didn’t
see him, but for the rest of the evening, when I heard something
behind me. I’d stop and look back, half expecting to see the bear
again.
There
are three places I camped that stand out in my mind and the spot
after Pearisburg is one of them. Not long after I passed the bear, I
came into an area that was semi-bald, that is, there were few trees
up there and lots of long, yellow grass. I came to a rise on the
Trail and found, under an old gnarled oak, a beautiful spot to put a
tent and watch the sunset. There was even a fire ring and improvised
benches nearby.
I
set up my tent and settled down to eat. Having just resupplied in
town, I was particularly weighed down with food and I worried about
not being able to get it all up in the tree for my bear bag. I hadn’t
passed that bear more than a mile back and I worried he was going to
find my campsite before long and come sniffing around for food. All
the cookies and peanut butter I had so recently been excited about
now seemed like a terrible millstone around my neck.
It
wasn’t even dark when I heard a branch break almost right behind
me. I spun around fully expecting to see Yogi lumbering toward me and
was immensely relived when I saw a hiker instead, a guy I’d seen
earlier that evening, standing just off the Trail and having what
looked like an intense conversation on his phone.
He
stopped and introduced himself as Freebird. I offered the tent spot
next to mine, relived to have company should the bear still end up
coming to pay a visit.
After
he was set up, Freebird and I talked and watched the sun set from our
log perches. He told me that he’d been on the phone trying to
figure out what to do with his dog. He explained that he’d found a
stray dog months before coming out on the Trail. They’d become
pretty close and when he set off for the hike, he left his dogs in
his dad’s care. His dad had just called him to tell him a woman had
showed up at the house and claimed the dog was hers and was
particularly beloved by her grandchildren who lived with her most of
the time. Freebird told me that he believed the woman. She seemed to
have good intentions and had furnished various kinds of proof that
the dog had been hers, “Still,” he told me. “This doesn’t
make it any easier to let the dog go. We’d gotten really close and
it’s a bummer to think that when I get back, she won’t be there
anymore.”
We
talked about the dog and about our lives before the Trail until after
dark. When I finally got into my tent, I realized that the tall grass
I had set up in was full of field mice. I listened to their
rustlings, praying they wouldn’t smell something in my tent and
chew through it. I also listened for Yogi, still fully expecting him
to show up at some point, but, eventually all this vigilance took its
toll and I fell asleep.
I
woke up early, before dawn and made coffee. I sat on the log seat of
the night before, expecting to write but put down my pen when I
realized I’d miscalculated where I’d expected the sun to come up.
A sliver of the blood orange-colored sphere had begun to show above
the highest peak on the misty ridge to the north. The mountains were
a cold, milky blue. The valleys sloshed with rivers of fog and, as
the sun climbed, it illuminated this Himalayan landscape with its
fruit-colored light. I sipped my coffee and savored the best sunrise
I’d ever seen.
I
hadn’t been back on the Trail 20 minutes before I crossed paths
with Yogi again. This time, however, he ran off when he saw me. He’d
probably been hanging around while I was watching the beautiful
sunrise, deciding whether or not to maul me.
xiii.
It
rained for the next few days until just before the Dragon’s Tooth.
Although I had cursed the rain and my sodden boots, I felt incredibly
lucky to come to the Tooth after the sun had come out. With so many
rock scrambles and precarious footholds, this section would’ve been
terrible in the rain. As it was, I enjoyed it very much, especially
after the days of rain, the sun-warmed rocks felt terrific. Living
outside in the rain, the body cultivates a cold and damp feeling that
only pure sunshine seems capable of eradicating. I lay on the rocks
and let the heat and light pour into the still-damp pockets of my
clothes. I noticed that the area behind my ears seemed to be drying
(I had ceased to notice that it was damp), as were my armpits and the
divots behind my knees. Only my feet, still swathed in their damp
socks, enfolded in damp boots sustained their dampness. Even these
began to dry when I took off my boots and happily wriggled my
mummified, fish-pale toes in the sun.
The
morning the rain stopped, I woke to the sound of an owl, calling to
another owl through the woods. I fell asleep again and woke up around
dawn. I was on the Trail early and enjoyed the solitude of it. I
noticed a sign, crossing a road, that said something about
‘slack-packing’ here at 8 am. I checked my watch, it was 7:45,
but I was enjoying my stride and didn’t really feel like hanging
around to see what the sign was all about.
I
climbed another rise in the Trail and came down into another gap.
There was a stream next to the road and I had stopped for water when
I heard a car pull up. I ignored it and was just about to go on when
a girl with a strong mid-western accent came tripping over the bridge
calling out ‘Trail Magic!’ I followed her back to the road and
enjoyed a soda and a few granola bars with two girls who had come
from Wisconsin with a thru-hiker supporting regimen. They told me
they were going to be moving up the Trail the next few days,
dispensing food and other hiker essentials along the way. I told them
I hoped I would see them again and walked back into the woods.
I
climbed up the Dragon’s Tooth that afternoon and was awarded with
several beautiful views and the previous days’ rains rising in
gauzy clouds from the folds of the forest. A number trail sections
jutted out in Charlie’s Bunion-like viewing platforms and I was
continually stopping and sighing.
It
was late in the afternoon when I came down into the last gap of the
day where the girls from Wisconsin had told me they’d be later in
the day. I stood around a second, slightly disappointed that I
wouldn’t be having another Coke and walked into the soaking woods.
The path was nearly obliterated by puddles and mud and I hadn’t
gotten far up with rise when I heard a car pull up on the road. I
turned and peered through the trees to see the girls’ car and came
dashing down the trail, nearly falling a few times in my excitement.
The
girls greeted me warmly and offered me a seat and a Coke. I’d made
good progress that day and didn’t mind taking a rest before the
last 3 miles, which looked to be relatively mild. As I was enjoying
my Coke and chatting with the girls, Kyle and another hiker came
across the road together. The three of us chatted while the girls
prepared to receive other weary hikers.
After
our respite, Kyle, No Name (a section hiker, just doing Virginia) and
I walked to the next shelter together. My new companions had come
from town and had brought some wine and olives. We decided to build a
fire at the shelter and split the wine and olives with dinner. The
only other hiker at the shelter was a guy named Green Brier, who told
us about the edible plant and pointed it out. The rest of the hike, I
foraged the waxy leaves of this plant and munched on them as I
walked.
The
next morning, I made my way up to McAfee Knob, saving my coffee so I
could drink it while I took in the view. I stood on the ledge and
took a wind bath, savoring the warm coffee and watching the hawks
rise and fall in the thermals below. After I finished my coffee and
got a few pictures, I had a hard time leaving the most photographed
site on the entire AT, in the quiet of a weekday morning, it was an
amazing place.
Soon
after I came down from the Knob, I was tightrope walking along Tinker
Cliffs, another beautiful part of the Trail. The Cliffs have the
formation of one tectonic plate pushed over the top of another. The
spare vegetation at the edge results in some beautiful and
precipitous views. Walking along, I noticed a piece of paper held
down by a rock—a hiker communique. Something about being in the
woods for extended periods of time makes one believe in the semiotic
tenant that states ‘humans are sign-making animals.’ My eyes
automatically jumped to anything that looked slightly inorganic. I
visually devoured anything printed, even when I knew what I sign
would say, I read it anyway. I saw other hikers do this too. In this
spirit, I stopped to read the note pinned down by the rock at my
feet.
“Be
Careful! There’s a rattlesnake under this rock!”
An
arrow pointed to a rock about two feet ahead and the date was listed
at the top of the note. At first, I didn’t see the snake and then,
as my eyes adjusted, it’s coiled body seemed to spring out into
relief from the stone and piles of pine cones and needles. The snake
didn’t rattle, but, as I moved around cautiously, he coiled tighter
as if anticipating a strike. I took a few pictures and moved off
quickly, so as not to annoy him too much. The rest of the walk into
Daleville, I trod the Trail and little more cautiously, telling
everyone heading the opposite way to keep an eye out for
rattlesnakes, I didn’t realize how unaggressive these snakes are
until I nearly stepped right on one in Connecticut and still didn’t
provoke a bite from it. The terrible thing is that a lot of people on
the Trail feel justified killing these docile snakes on sight, as if
they’re some kind of horrible menace, taking out hikers left and
right. As it turns out, almost no one has been bitten by a poisonous
snake on the Trail who wasn’t provoking the snake in some way.
I
came into Daleville in the late afternoon. The town was spread out
along a highway and wasn’t comfortable to walk. A small section of
the Trail ran between Daleville and the hamlet of Troutville. The
Trail was ringed by highways, but was well-kept as perhaps a place
where locals walked (although I didn’t see any). It was also the
place where I saw my first ripe black berries. I stuffed my mouth
with the fruit as I walked, a thunderstorm moved across the sky and
rabbits bounded continuously across the Trail.
Troutville
was a portion of the Trail I was never able to share with anyone
else. I never talked to any other hiker who’d stopped there and,
indeed, when I camped in the town’s park that evening, there was
only one other hiker. The old town lined a rural highway that slowed
down to a 25 mph speed limit as it passed the peaked roofs and the
thunderous front yard oak trees. There was a general store that was
already closed at 7 pm and a fire station. I stopped at the latter
and was told I could use the facilities to shower and wash my
clothes. I finished just as dark was falling, but luckily the park
was just across the street and I had my tent set up on the soft mown
lawn in no time.
The
next morning, I stopped by the post office on my way out of town. The
front window was decorated with a painting depicting a hiker with a
USPS package. A hiker box placed by the PO boxes was overflowing with
granola bars and toothbrushes. After I got my package, I went back to
Daleville to resupply and stopped at an outfitter where I found a
pair of trekking poles in the hiker box. As one of the only people on
the trail not using these poles, I had begun to feel curious about
them, especially as I had begun to feel a pain just beneath my
shoulder that daily waxed and waned, but never entirely diminished.
Since the poles were free, I figured I’d just try them out, if I
didn’t like them, I could always leave them at the next hiker box I
came to. But after I hit the Trail, weighed down by my overzealous
resupply and climbing up and down hills all afternoon, I was
overjoyed to find the poles made the walk so much easier. Even the
pain in my shoulder seemed to have vanished. Initially, the poles
were a little awkward, but it didn’t take long to acclimate to
them. The only drawback was that I no longer had a free hand to snack
with as I walked, which probably wasn’t a bad freedom to have to
give up.
xiv.
Ran
into Leslie the next morning, leaving the shelter and we walked
together, talking until about 3 pm when we reached the road where the
girls from Wisconsin were hosting a sort of trail magic bonfire. They
had bagels and all kinds of snacks they were giving away, saying they
were going back to Wisconsin and didn’t want to bring any of the
stuff back with them. I had a difficult time deciding what to do but
eventually decided to camp in the area rather than move on so that I
could enjoy the food and nearby river without feeling like I had to
keep moving. I went for a swim in the cold water and ate everything I
could get my hands on. The girls had lots of vegetarian stuff and I
ate until they had to go. Leslie caught a ride down the road to meet
her parents. We’d been walking on and off together since North
Carolina and I expected that we’d cross paths again sooner or
later, but after that day, I never saw her again. I asked after her
further up the trail. Once in Pennsylvania, someone told me that she
was ahead of us, but the last I saw of her was in the logbook at the
ATC in Harper’s Ferry, WV.
Bear
activity had closed down the next shelter 15 miles up the Trail from
the river where I’d camped the night before. As I hiked the next
day, still full with all the trail magic food I’d eaten, I scanned
the woods and the Trail for signs of bear, but didn’t see any. I
passed the closed shelter in the late afternoon and made my way down
to a clearing about 5 miles further out where I’d heard there was a
good place to pitch a tent. When I found this clearing, there was a
note stuck in a post marking the camping area. The note was an
impromptu logbook. The first entry was dated 5 days earlier and read
“Camped here last night and had a bear show up just before dark. We
yelled, threw rocks and even maced it, but it wouldn’t go away. I’d
consider camping somewhere else.” The next entry, dated the next
day, said “a bear showed up and hung around sniffing for a while
before leaving. Also, there’s a copperhead in the hollow tree to
your right.” Although it was getting late, after reading this
disconcerting note, I decided to keep walking. There was another
shelter area further down the mountain and I figured the lower
elevation would probably discourage bears.
The
walk down the mountain in the evening was beautiful. A number of
times the Trail came out alongside the mountain and opened up to the
evening sky and the autumn colors of the late sunset. As I often did
when I’d walked a long day, I put on my headphones and listened to
a podcast and just spaced out for a while, crossing rivers and
walking down switchbacks as the darkness rose through the forest,
growing from the roots of trees, up into the lower branches, like a
swelling shadow.
It
was almost dark when I came into a river valley. The south bank of
the river was marked by a clearing and a single tent. The hiker was
already inside. I found a place to camp on the other side of the
river, it was a peaceful spot, but I was disconcerted to notice there
was no place to hang a bear bag. All the branches were either very
high or very flimsy, as was so often the case and with all the nearby
bear activity, I really didn’t want to leave my food out where it
could be pulled down or would attract a bear to the area. I tied my
paracord to my water bottle and tossed it as high as possible to the
lowest, thick branch I could find which was still probably 35 feet
up. The bottle fell short of the branch and exploded when it came
down on a rock. I paused a moment to fume about the bottle, but I
realized that I’d still be able to drink from it, but like a cup,
since it’d broken in half. Still, I wasn’t happy and I was even
less pleased on my second attempt, this time using a rock, to get my
paracord stuck in the tree—something I’d felt fortunate I hadn’t
yet experienced after seeing it happen to so many other hikers.
It
was completely dark by the time I got my bag up in a spot that any
bear could easily pull down, but, at least it wasn’t in my tent or
lying on the ground. I crawled into my tent and hoped for the best
before falling into a deep sleep after the long day.
The
next few days passed without much event. I crossed the Charles River
Bridge, which was quite impressive and walked all afternoon along a
lake that resulted from a dam. It was a scorching hot day, but I kept
walking as I’d read that the next shelter area was supposed to have
a great swimming hole upstream from the camping area. After I’d
gotten my tent up, I walked deep into the brush along the river, but
I never saw anything like a good swimming hole, but I was too hot and
sweaty to care about the lack of options and I settled for lying down
in the shallow river for a while.
The
next day was Sunday and it was incredibly quiet. I hardly saw any
other hikers after having some great trail magic at the first gap I
came to in the morning. It felt like everyone else had left the
trail. I walked all day, alternately lost in thought and thinking
about nothing in particular before heading down into a bowl-like
depression where there was a spring that flowed out from underneath a
huge rock. The trickle of the spring and the unnatural darkness
created by the depression gave the place an eerie air. I made a fire
to cheer myself up a little, but a gentle breeze blowing the twilight
through the trees felt like it blew right through me into my heart.
It was getting dark and no one else seemed to be coming. For the
first time since I’d gotten on the trail, I knew I’d be camping
in the spot all alone. The lack of underbrush made it possible to
look deeply into the surrounding forest, even in the fading light. It
felt huge, like it went on forever, an ocean of trees and darkness
breaking against the tiny bulwark of my tent.
I
woke up once in the middle of the night in that desolate place. I had
to pee and as I stepped out of the tent, it was like falling off a
cliff; I hadn’t taken more than two steps, but I felt like I was
alone in the middle of the woods with nothing, no tent, no jacket, no
shoes. I stood there for a minute feeling this baptism in wind and
night, the dry leaves rattling overhead before I jumped back into the
tent, wound myself up in my sleeping bag and lie awake, listening to
the howling darkness, waiting, as a child waits, to hear something,
softly and pitifully, deep in the forest, begin to call my name. I
listened until I was asleep again.
xv.
I
woke up and left the haunted grove behind, as soon as I climbed back
up to the Trail, the sun hit me and warmed my face, which had grown
cool and slightly clammy after a night in a depression by water. I
was walking, lost in thought when I accosted a sobo who told me he
was walking to Panama. He also told me that an up-coming blue blazed
trail was well worth the detour as it was basically along an entire
chain of waterfalls, which provided great swimming opportunities. I
thanked him, convinced that there were some occasions worth getting
off the Trail and a trail of waterfalls was certainly one of them.
I
had a late breakfast on top of the Priest Mountain. The log book
there had been turned into a confessional, but it was disappointing
to read that the confessionals were mainly about eating stuff on the
Trail or going to the bathroom and not burying it. It hadn’t been
much of climb getting up the Priest, but the switchback going down
seemed interminable, wrapping around the larger rocks of the
mountain, occasionally spilling down in little rockslides. I tried
not to move too fast, but it was hard when walking down what, in
places, must’ve been nearly a thirty-degree grade.
Down
in the gap at the bottom, there was a substantial stream along the
road and a few locals were out for the day, their dogs gamboling in
the water. I thought about stopping in the alternately golden and
aquamarine stream and soaking my feet if not jumping in and spending
the afternoon drying out on one of the large rocks that stood,
half-soaked, in the river.
I
kept moving, thinking of the waterfalls ahead and before long, I came
to the junction which continued on the AT or veered to the left for
the Mau-Har Trail. The sobo had told me that the trail was really
rough, sawtoothing up and down with little respite. Initially, it
didn’t seem too bad, but about half a mile down, the trail ran up
the mountain and then slid down like a rope of Christmas tree lights
that have slipped their nail and are hanging in a big tangle from the
eaves.
I
was continuously listening for the familiar roar of a substantial
waterfall, but couldn’t differentiate the sound from the continual
wind in the trees. Eventually, the distant roar raised itself about
the sound of wind. The Mau-Har Trail took me down a crumbly
switchback and I was standing above a river going straight down the
mountain, alternately stopping in pools and then tumbling 10 or 20
feet further down. It seemed a shame that the AT skirted this
majestic tumbling body of water.
There
was a group of hikers down on the bank of the river sitting in the
fashion of stoned hikers everywhere, that is to say, their packs were
all nearly empty, stuff was spread out everywhere and they all wore
happy grins as if admiring the chaos they’d created at their feet.
I said hello and then went bounding down the falls, looking for the
ideal place to swim. About 200 yards downstream, I found a great
pool, the middle of which looked as though it may go down
indefinitely to the earth’s core and come pouring out in some
antipodal fountain. I stripped, put on my swimming trunks and then
made the mistake of trying to wade into the freezing water. For
minutes, I couldn’t face the possibility of jumping into the icy
water. My feet had gone numb, but my body was still sweaty and dirty.
I finally let myself tip over into the arctic water. I shot up
immediately, teeth chattering, fingertips instantly numb, ear lobes
and lips blue. After hiking in the humid 80-degree weather all day,
it was beautiful. I plunged in again and dog paddled over the abyss
in the middle of the pool. I let myself sink for a while, but the
water got so cold and I couldn’t tell if I was anywhere near a
bottom, besides, who wouldn’t fear the life that such a desolate
and dark pool may cultivate, despite or maybe in spite of the
cold.
I
swam around for a few more minutes before getting out; my whole body
had gone deeply, shockingly cold. Even my scalp felt chilled. I dried
off and decided that I would retrace my steps back down the Mau-Har
Trail. I could’ve continued down the trail and shaved a few miles
off the AT, but I didn’t want to miss anything, so I decided to go
back to where I left the Trail.
I
can’t say this was exactly a mistake. But damn, it was hard work.
In places, the Trail was so overgrown I felt like I was bushwhacking
through a tropical jungle, using my trekking poles to knock the
overgrown grasses out of my way. This side of the gap seemed to rise
as steeply as the other had come down, where I’d been slipping and
sliding a few hours before, I was now leaning on my trekking poles
and heaving myself up every step. Perhaps the cool water of the
waterfall had energized me. I’d been walking all day, but I didn’t
mind the climb. The sun began to sink behind the mountains and I felt
peaceful, like I belonged to the mountain, like I was not an
intruder, but a natural component, like a tree, a rock or a bear.
I
came into the shelter just before dark, there were only two other
people camping there. There were iron fire rings and bear poles—poles
that looked like giant hat racks, each with a loose pole attached to
it by a chain, the purpose of which was raise food bags up to the top
of the hat rack. It took a few tries to get my bag up there,
especially as I’d used the last of the daylight finding wood for a
fire. I stayed up with the fire for a while, appreciating the
spectacle. The warmth it provided was almost as a secondary
characteristic.
The
next day’s walk was spent recounting the dreams of the last few
nights, which seemed to be increasing in severity and verisimilitude.
In the mornings, I had been waking almost dazed, like I’d been
thrown suddenly from the arms of Morpheus, back into the waking
world. As I walked, I picked over details, so realistic, I wondered
if I wasn’t still dreaming.
I
was attempting to camp right before the gap that led into Waynesboro,
VA. As usually happened before coming into a town, I had begun to
feel food-crazed and I wanted to be as close to town when I woke up
as possible, so I could stumble into town, get a coffee and a bag of
cookies and then plop down in a laundromat and watch the world go by
for the rest of the day.
The
last shelter was 5 miles out, it was a beautiful place, right along a
river, with tent spots all set at a distance along the water. I
decided to stop for a snack at a memorial bench that’d been built
next to the river. A man at the shelter was holding forth on the
area’s topography, flora and fauna. I decided to go up and ask him
if there were any good stealth spots before the gap leading into
town. As there were two streams, I assumed at least one of them would
have an area to pitch a tent, but the man shook his head. “It’s
all ridgeline,” he assured me. “There’s nowhere to pitch a tent
between here and the gap, unless you want to sleep in that pioneer’s
cemetery about half a mile from here.” I asked him if he was sure
there was really nothing. He nodded vigorously as if it were the one
thing in life he could be sure of. Slightly dejected, I went to look
for a place to set up my tent along the beautiful river.
The
bugs were terrible, so I built a fire. I cooked and then watched the
flames until I ran out of wood and the bugs came back, driving me
into the tent and another tumultuous night of dreams.
I
woke up before dawn, feeling like I was starving. The thought of
cookies, coffee and a laundromat pushed me out of my sleeping bag
before the sun was up. I was on the Trail early; I stopped for a
minute to pay my respects at the Pioneer’s Cemetery; in the early
light, the crude, eroded stones looked themselves like ghosts, or
lights rising from the ground. I was soon to find out I wasn’t
alone on the trail. Not long after the cemetery, I heard a sound like
digging and looked up to find the largest black bear I’d seen
sitting right next to the Trail, digging in a stump. I could see that
I’d have to walk right past him, so close that he’d be able to
reach out and take a swipe at me if he should feel the need. I
decided I’d try to scare him away, rather than walk by him. I
raised my trekking poles up and started banging them together,
yelling, but without much conviction, so early in the morning, it
sounded more like a childish complaint. I couldn’t think of
anything to say other than “hey, bear!” Luckily, he seemed to get
what I was trying to do and took a few steps back from the Trail,
enough for me to get by. I looked ahead as I walked past him, careful
not to make eye contact that could be viewed as a sign of aggression.
I
hadn’t walked half a mile after my bear encounter before I heard a
scratching and looked up to see a bear cub scrambling up a tree, at
the base of the tree the mom was crouching down in the way dogs do
before they launch themselves after a ball. I couldn’t tell if she
was trying to hide herself behind the tree or if she was getting
ready to charge me. I noticed she had another cub on her back; she
couldn’t have been more than 50 feet from me. I tried to make
myself as non-threatening as possible. I walked on casually as if I
hadn’t seen her, my heart hammering in my chest, waiting to hear
the heavy sound of her paws pounding the Trail behind me. She stayed
behind the tree. About 20 minutes later, I passed another bear, this
time, I didn’t even bother to look up, neither did he, much more
concerned with digging in his log that watching me. I came into the
gap, like I came up from being under water, taking a deep breath
after a morning in the bear-haunted forest outside Waynesboro, VA.
That
night, I pitched my tent in a town park, in an area designated for
thru-hikers. It was supposed to storm, but it only drizzled for a few
minutes sometime in the night.
I
was ahead of schedule to meet Gina in DC, so I decided to stay
another day in Waynesboro, hanging out in the voluminous library
there. The anticipated storm came that night while I was still in the
library. It was amazing to hear the tumult of rain and thunder from
safe inside a building.
That
night, I stayed in a church basement hostel, thinking the storm would
come back. I went for a walk in the evening, I could still hear the
storm rumbling in the distance and the streetlights gleamed in the
rainwater puddled in the slick darkness of the town at night. I heard
voices talking quietly between sips of beer and the crinkly sound of
burning cigarettes on the porches of the surrounding houses.
In
the morning, I thumbed a ride back out to the Trail where it entered
the Shenandoah. Freebird, the guy I’d met outside Pearisburg, after
I’d seen the bear, was already in the car. We hit the trailhead
together, but split up soon after. There was a shelter area only
about five miles in, too early to stop and the next one was too far
out. I figured I’d just walk until I came to something in the
evening. I wasn’t seeing too many stealth spots, but I wasn’t too
worried, the Skyline Drive which kept crossing over the Trail in the
Shenandoah, made the Trail seem less remote.
As the sun was setting, I found a spot that looked flat enough,
cleared off an area to pitch my tent and sat on a log to eat. I
hadn’t been there 15 minutes when Freebird caught up to me. He
stopped a moment to examine the area, looking to see if there was
another place where he could pitch his tent. Although it was getting
dark, he decided he was going to keep moving to see if he could find
a better place further down the Trail. I wished him good evening,
finished my meal, watching the light fade between the spindly ash
trees that ringed my campsite and climbed into my tent just as the
moon was troubling the horizon.
xvi.
The
Shenandoah was easy and I was way ahead of schedule to reach Harper’s
Ferry, so I tried to take my time through the park. It was this point
on the Trail when I started seeing the same hikers over and over,
perhaps because I was doing shorter days. Sometimes, I appreciated
the sense of camaraderie, but the park was already slightly more
crowded than other parts of the Trail had been, so I occasionally
resented never feeling far away from the next hiker. Even sleeping, I
often found myself close enough to hear several hikers snoring
through the night. But sometimes, it was beneficial to sleep near a
group.
I
had been hearing rumor of bear since I’d entered the park, but
there were so many people, I didn’t pay much attention. I had seen
plenty of bear and under more solitary circumstances when their
presence was liable to be more unnerving. But, as in the Smokies,
the talk was of the bears who were completely indifferent to people
and, as a result, were quick to swipe at your pack or sniff around
your tent at night, considering ways to enter.
Before
I came to the—perhaps conspicuously named—Bear Fence Shelter,
these claims didn’t worry me. It had been a lazy day and I’d been
hiking on and off with a thru-hiker named ‘Go, Go Gadget.’ In the
late afternoon, I came to a Way-Side (the camp stores that sold junk
food, soda and beer throughout the Shenandoah Park) and plopped down
on the bench outside deciding if I wanted another fruit pie (I was
beginning to feel spoiled with all the extra food). Gadget was there
charging his phone and asked me if I wanted a beer. He went in and
bought a few and we sat on the porch of the store, talking about the
Trail and our lives before it. The Bear Fence Shelter we were both
headed to, was less than a mile up the Trail. So, even as the sun
set, we were in no great hurry. It was the first beer I’d had since
I’d said good bye to my folks in Georgia and this new unhurried
relationship I was cultivating with the Trail felt good.
We
continued the conversation as we returned to the Trail and got so
involved in what we were saying that we missed the side trail to the
shelter. We had walked more than half a mile past it before Gadget
noticed. Having not seen any other places to camp, we decided to turn
around.
There
weren’t too many people at the shelter and we easily joined the
conversation taking place around the fire. Gadget handed me another
beer and after not having a drink for nearly two months, I could
easily feel the effects of the alcohol, my hands and tongue felt
heavy and I felt increasingly comfortable just listening to the
voices of the other hikers detached of meaning, the way one would
listen to birds sing. It wasn’t long before I decided to go to
sleep.
I
had pitched my tent down from the shelter in a semi-marshy area.
There were few campsites in the area, as it most mostly large rocks
and mud. Even the spot I had found I would’ve avoided if I thought
it was going to rain; it looked low enough to flood.
I
hadn’t been asleep long when I awoke to a sound, like a fugitive
running blindly through the woods, but instead of the baying hounds
behind him, I heard a sort of squeal. Now, everyone who camps with
any kind of regularity has heard an unexplained noise in the dead of
the forest night. Countless times, I have heard stories of
growling-screaming-yawning sounds that were certainly not the product
of coyotes, raccoons nor the frequently blamed loon. I have had this
classic camping experience myself having once woken repeatedly to a
sound like wings flapping in the middle of the night. This
experience, however, was much more blatant.
Shortly
after I heard the squeal, which was also a sort of braying, the
crashing started. All at once, it sounded like a heard of elk was
storming through the woods. I could hear the large rocks lifting and
knocking back together in seesaw motions as the heavy animals trod on
them. The braying continued and seemed to be moving around my tent.
The crashing and knocking seemed to follow it. Something was wounded
or lost, I envisioned a bear cub and an entire sleuth of bears
hunting frantically for it. As the crashing grew louder, I considered
looking outside, but it seemed certain that, should I risk something
so foolish, I would be quickly and deservedly mauled.
Eventually,
the sounds quieted, but it took a while. Every time they seemed to
slacken, some stubborn member of the heard or pack or whatever, would
come stomping, slowly past my tent. I feel asleep, hoping nothing
would inadvertently crash into my tent.
The
next morning, I was packing up my tent when I saw Gadget getting up.
I was about to ask him when he yelled out “what the hell was
that last night?” I was glad
that I hadn’t been alone in the experience.
The next evening, a storm was blowing in. I’d hiked into the sunset
and enjoyed a peaceful dinner, watching the last rays fall below the
horizon from a picnic table in front of an empty shelter. A few other
people were camping, but they were all already in their tents,
anticipating the storm which the warm, dark wind blowing through the
area seemed to portend.
The wind blew all night, but the storm never came. When I woke up
around dawn, the sky looked stormier than ever. I hurriedly made my
coffee, knocked down my tent and scuttled the mile up to Mary’s
Rock. Standing on the windy ledge, overlooking the green valley and
the heavy storm clouds in the distance, I sat down and tried to
appreciate the view and my coffee, but, as high as I was and with the
storm coming in so quickly, I started to think it would be prudent to
climb down a little.
While the rain makes the Trail unpleasant, the lightening makes it
terrifying. The Trail goes over the mountains and, often, to assure
the greatest views, it goes right up to the top. Every time a storm
came through during the day, I found myself running along, hoping the
trail would go down, but, imperturbably it always continued up, as if
seeking the thunderous clouds themselves. This became especially
hazardous after I picked up my aluminum trekking poles; when storms
came through the poles were like my personal lightening rods. I had
even tried once or twice, when a storm came, to wait it out, crouched
under a tree, but no matter where you were in the woods, you got
soaked in the rain. Being so wet, it was impossible to stay still.
Without moving, it wouldn’t be long before you would start
shivering. To keep warm, you had to keep moving, to keep moving, you
had to climb, ever closer to the lightening.
The morning I came down from Mary’s Rock was possibly the one
exception while I was on the Trail. Just as the rain started to fall,
I spotted a parking lot and visitors’ center. I ran to the
structure’s already dripping roof and managed to get under it
before the rain began to fall too hard.
Being in a crowded park with a road weaving across the Trail had its
advantages. Later on that day, I found myself gaining another
visitors’ center and giftshop just before the rain began to fall
again. I waited out the light shower, eating an apple I purchased,
mealy as it was, I enjoyed it profoundly.
It was the third rain that got me. I was on the Trail, talking to a
girl who’d recently lived in Buenos Aires. We were talking about
Colonia del Sacramento when the light drizzle began to coagulate
until I felt like someone was continuously pouring a bucket of water
me. I said goodbye and began to walk in the hopeless quickened pace
of all hikers in a storm, who know themselves to be far from any kind
of shelter.
I arrived to the shelter thoroughly soaked. The rain seemed to be
slackening and I set hung my boots and socks up, hoping for a windy
night that might, at least partially dry them.
I left Shenandoah the next day. The walk was easy and I was at the
last shelter area before the town of Front Royal before 3 pm. To kill
time, I set to building a nice fire to cook with. I’d heard a storm
was coming and the shelter was empty, so I refrained from setting up
my tent, unsure what I was going to do.
I had just gotten a fire going, when a group showed up. Initially, I
thought them day or section hikers, but as I overheard more and more
of their talk, I realized they were actually attempting to walk the
whole Trail as such a mob. How they planned on doing this, I had no
idea. I couldn’t even fathom how they’d gotten as far as they
had, given that the hour and a half they hung out around the shelter,
I’d only heard them argue about which of them was going to go into
town and get pizza.
The shelter was much more peaceful after the group left and before
evening, the sun came out for the first time in days. I knew the rain
was supposed to hit early in the morning, but I thought I’d
probably be up before it hit anyway. I was planning on going into
town the next day and I wanted to get an early start.
I set the alarm on my phone for 5 am, so it was no surprise that it
started pouring rain about 4:45. I lie there in my tent listening to
the rain falling through the pine needles, listening to the earth
turn to mud.
It rained hard all morning. There was no point in leaving the tent, I
knew I would only get soaked, but after more than two hours of lying
awake, staring up at the tent, I decided I needed coffee, besides, I
was going into town so I knew I’d be able to wash and dry my
clothes, at least. I also expected to pick up my replacement boots,
so I’d even have dry boots waiting for me at the post office.
I caught a shuttle into Front Royal from the trailhead and hitched
out in the evening, after a day of washing, eating and reading. The
shelter was an easy five miles up from the gap and I walked it with a
loose, easy feeling. In town, the weather report looked good for the
next few days and everything I had on was dry. The one detail I was
upset about was the sign I’d seen for Harper’s Ferry. The town
from which I was to take a train into DC to meet Gina was only about
22 miles—a day’s hike—away and I still had a week left before I
was to meet her. I didn’t want to spend the time just ambling
around DC. Harper’s Ferry would’ve been worse as there was no
place to stay in the small tourist town. I couldn’t walk farther
than Harper’s Ferry; the further north I went, the farther I got
from DC and the more difficult/expensive it became to get into the
city.
I had one good day of hiking before coming to the most impersonal
part of the Trail around Bear’s Den. The section was just outside
of suburban DC and, as a result, was crowded when I passed through
over the weekend. Over the course of the entire Trail, I greeted
those who passed by. Usually, the other hikers, regardless of whether
they are out for a day or a month, were friendly. Perhaps the
greatest thing about the Trail lies in its ability to act as an
emotional link between very different people. Out in the wild, most
people recognize that they are equal. Spending the better part of the
day alone with the birds and trees induces a greater degree of
friendliness in the most curmudgeonly hiker.
The hikers outside suburban DC have brought too much of the city to
the forest with them. They walk in groups, talking loudly and don’t
bother to even look up when they pass other hikers. Passing these
people all day, I began to feel as if I were walking down a sidewalk,
rather that hiking in the woods. When I did venture to greet people,
my attempts were rebuffed, as if I were asking for spare change. Very
few people even bothered to acknowledge me.
After living on the Trail for nearly two months, I felt a connection
to it. Until this point, I had never felt jealousy over sharing it
with others, but among these indifferent suburbanites, I felt
protective of the Trail. I felt it belonged more to me than to them.
I’d walked every step from Georgia, these people had just driven
out for the day to try out their new running shoes. They weren’t
giving the forest a chance; their headphones and loud conversations
were isolating them from the experience.
It
was a shame to have these feelings
just before I knew I’d be returning to the city myself. I didn’t
want to feel bitter. I wanted to take the Trail with me into DC. Out
here, I’d seen so many magnanimous acts. People had given me rides,
warned me of approaching storms and had fed me for no benefit to
themselves. I had been the recipient of so much kindness, it seemed
terrible that just being close to
the city already seemed to be stripping it away.
That night was to be my last night in the woods for a while. I
reached a campground full of people about 5 miles before the last gap
before Harper’s Ferry. In the morning, I was going to walk two
miles to a farm I had read did work-for-stays for hikers. I still had
six days before Gina came into DC and I thought working on a farm
would be a good way to pass the time if I couldn’t walk. I also
hoped that my time on the farm might restore my faith in humanity
before I went into DC. After the last few crowded and impersonal days
on the Trail, I didn’t really even feel like hiking much anymore.
My one concern was that I would have to deal with heavy proselytizing
on the farm where I was going to work. The place was owned by the 12
Tribes, and though I’d heard they were friendly to hikers, I
worried there was an ulterior motive to their friendliness. Still, I
had no other option, other than to hang out in DC for nearly a week
before Gina arrived. Rather than face the multitudes again, I woke up
early and headed down the road toward the farm.
