AWOL on the Appalachian Trail (6 page)

After a restful night's sleep in the crowded Tricorner Knob Shelter, I head out into a windy, gloomy morning with an irrational fear of a tree falling on me. With the recent storms, there are blow-downs all over. I have heard but not seen trees falling. It rains for over two hours. In the midst of the storm, I come to another shelter and go in for a reprieve from the downpour. Another hiker and a ridgerunner named Ron are in the shelter. They've stayed the night and are getting ready to brave the rain. The hiker is decked out in a hooded rain poncho and high gaiters. He makes an unceremonious exit from the shelter, making it clear that there is no love lost between them. Ron makes a "Wall Street" comment about the hiker, who is attempting to thru-hike, so that becomes his name.
¹⁶
I also tell Ron of my fears about falling trees. He reassures me by telling me I am much more likely to get struck by lightning. For good measure, he tells me the story of two hikers who were killed some years ago when lightning struck a shelter.

By the time I reach the next shelter, the rain has stopped. A hiker is out front having lunch. I introduce myself, and he answers with disdain, "You just met me at the last shelter."

It is Wall Street, but I failed to recognize him without his poncho. We have a curt conversation while I eat my lunch. I look over the shelter register and see an entry from the Cardinal, with the familiar bird sketch. This entry is longer than most, because it is his last entry. The Cardinal explains that he is grateful for all that he has learned about himself, but will be stopping now, with 234 miles on his boots.

"I haven't seen your name in any of the shelter registers," I mention to Wall Street.

"I don't sign them," he retorts. "I don't see any reason why I should."

Instead of a privy, there is a PRIVY AREA sign to one side of the shelter. It is a minefield of soft spots where droppings of previous shelter denizens are buried in shallow holes.

Beyond the shelter I am on a nice downhill stroll. My stomach is more settled, and I am certain that I suffered only garden-variety diarrhea. I'm relishing the success of making it through the Smokies. Not long ago I viewed this park as the first test of my hike; a test that I've now passed. I f an itch on the back of my right heel.

North of the Smoky Mountains National Park, there is a confusing road walk on segments of three different roads to get hikers over the Pigeon River and under Interstate 40. Each time I have to guess when to change roads and which way to go, since there are sparse markings. Over the entire length of the trail, I spent more time searching for my way on roads than I did in the woods. On the last leg of the road walk, I take a turn down a gravel road away from the trail, headed for Standing Bear Hostel. Wall Street is stomping down the road toward me, cursing the lack of marking. He had made an unintended trip down to the hostel only to find he is off the trail. I'm happy that he won't be staying and not unhappy that he is astray.

On the trail, "hostel" is a generic term for any inexpensive or free lodging. This could mean bunkrooms at a private residence, outfitter, or church, or steerage-class accommodations at a hotel or bed and breakfast.

The Standing Bear Hostel is a wedge of land with a stream running through it and an assortment of structures. One building is the home of Curtis and Maria, the owners. Curtis started this hostel. He's proud of his handiwork and gives me a tour. He's built bunks in what used to be a garage. He built a bunkroom on top of a bridge over the stream. There are outdoor showers, an outhouse, and a fire pit. There is a small shelter with laundry machines, a phone, and a laptop computer for Internet access (it's not working). He has converted a tool shed into a storeroom where he sells an assortment of trail foods.

This is Curtis's job, but clearly he also likes the company of hikers. Tonight he takes a drive to pick up pizzas for me and Matt, the only hikers staying. I choose to sleep in the bunkhouse on the bridge for the unique (and cold) opportunity to sleep over a babbling stream.

The itch that I felt on the back of my heel yesterday is now a blister the size of an almond. I can hardly believe that such a large blister could form when all I felt was an itch. I pop the blister with a needle, drain clear fluid, and put a bandage over it. I've seen blisters come and go already, and I figure my feet get tougher with every callus. They are of no concern.

The day is perfect for hiking. It is clear and cold enough to wear fleece when I'm not moving and a T-shirt while hiking. I hardly break a sweat. The trail here has a lot of variety and is nicely graded. For miles there are fields of white and pink trillium, mayapples, and purple wildflowers. There are two grassy balds, pine forests, blooming mountain laurel, rhododendron tunnels, and many stream crossings. Set loose, a child would run down the paths, scramble up the rocks, lie on the earth. Grown-ups more often let their minds do the running, scrambling, and lying, but the emotion is shared. It feels good to be here.

The wind is blowing strong all day and is especially noticeable when going over the larger bald, Max Patch. I stumble across it, fighting the wind like a drunk trying to hold a straight line.

The trail across Max Patch Bald.

Walnut Mountain Shelter is a ratty old shelter with a platform that would comfortably fit five or, uncomfortably, fit six. I am number six. Usually I would pass on a crowded shelter, but it is late in the day and I am ready to stop. I try to evaluate the group. Wall Street is snuggled inis bag at one end of the shelter, looking miserable and asking for cold medicine. "Hello, Awol," he says feebly. His hello is sincere. I recognize friendliness buried under his brusque persona. I am glad that I stayed cordial with him when I had considered him off-putting.

The other four men are obviously familiar with one another. One of them I take for a day hiker. He has rag-tag gear and a car-camping-sized stove. He introduces himself as Steve O., and says he intends to thru-hike. I am immediately uneasy about Steve O.--not because I have any special powers of perception, but because he would make most people uneasy. He has a hard-living look to him, with leathery skin and worn, yellow teeth. He has an odor that stands out even among thru-hikers. I make my dinner on a log in front of the shelter, minimally unloading my gear. This is a nonverbal way of showing that I'd like to stay. They catch on and start talking amongst themselves about making room for me in the shelter. Three of them crowd to one end, leaving a half-body-width space next to Steve O. Now it is clear to me that they know him, but are not "with" him. Steve O. isn't budging, so there won't be room for me. I pack up and move on.

One of the guys says he heard a radio weatherman forecasting temperatures down to twenty-five degrees in the mountains tonight. It is obvious he feels badly about me moving on from the shelter late on a cold night. The wind makes it seem colder. It tries to blow my tarp away as I try to stake it down. I have found a place to camp a mile from Walnut Mountain Shelter, just off the trail on a cozy bed of pine needles. I sleep warmly in my down mummy bag with the hood string drawn tight, to the sound of my tarp flapping in the wind. I leave only a two-inch circle open around my nose.

I've slept in shelters more often than I have slept under my tarp, and I will continue to do so. But I sleep better in the solitude of my tarp and wake rested, content, and feeling self-sufficient. I put away my gear, sit down to eat, and notice a rabbit chewing leaves just fifteen feet away, not bothered by the noise I made packing. We eat our breakfast together.

Magic Rat, one of the friendlier guys from Walnut Mountain Shelter, catches up while I am trying to take a photo of myself using a timer on my camera. We walk in tandem the rest of the way to Hot Springs. Both of us are moving at a good clip to get to town for mail drops, food, and errands--typical town stuff. We talk all the way, and the twelve miles pass quickly. Magic Rat apologizes for not having made room in the shelter. He is hiking with two guys and two girls. The girls, Nova and Bear Bait, were not feeling well, so Curtis had given them a ride from Standing Bear Hostel up to Hot Springs, where the group will get together again. Meanwhile, Steve O. has been tagging along, hinting at his need for money, and the guys don't want to be saddled with a moocher.

Within a mile of town, when rooftops are first visible through the trees, I feel the return of the ache in my knee. Also, my Achilles tendon is stiff, causing me pain when I flex my ankle. There are steep stone steps descending the last fifty yards to the street. I hobble down them. Magic Rat looks back to see why I've fallen off the pace. How suddenly and causelessly these troubles arise.

Hot Springs is a main-street town. Every restaurant, barbershop, and bar has an address on Bridge Street, the street with a bridge over the French Broad River. The street is marked with white blazes, from the south end of town where we arrived to the north end, where the trail crosses the river and dips back into the woods. Here, the choices of efficiently standardendon isAmerica are not available. The most popular restaurant has honey-stung chicken on the menu instead of value meal number four.

There's a large subset of people with a connection to the trail. It is not uncommon for trail towns to have at least one former thru-hiker who has returned to take up residence. Outfitters, post office workers, and hotel and hostel owners all know and cater to backpackers. A procession of new thru-hikers maintains a transient presence. In towns as small as Hot Springs, add a few dozen hikers, and it seems like they are everywhere. Thru-hikers are easy to spot; they shop wearing rain suits while laundering their trail clothes; they wear sandals exposing feet papier-mached with moleskin and duct tape. Most men make the trip without shaving.

I'm staying at the Sunnybank Inn, otherwise known as Elmer's Hostel. The place and the person are legends on the trail. The inn is a Victorian home on the National Register of Historic Places. There are seven bedrooms, one phone, and no TV. Elmer has run this place for over twenty-five years. He is gruff, in his midsixties, with unkempt gray hair and an untucked Oxford shirt. He lets out a puff of air when a hiker asks if there is a computer in the inn. Elmer is proud of his anachronistic ways, yet he is no simpleton. Books are everywhere, and he is more comfortable the deeper the conversation delves.

On a scale at the outfitter's store I weigh 157. I weighed 172 when I started the trail and thought I was trim. I assumed I'd lose about ten pounds over the length of the trail, and this thing tells me I've lost fifteen pounds in less than three weeks. It is an old scale; it must be here only for show. While I'm still perusing the store, I see a nonhiker family near the scale. The father steps on the scale, so I move close enough to ask him.

"Is that right?"

"No," he says, "ain't no way I weigh that much!"

"It reads heavier than you think it should?"

"Naw, I only wish it was wrong. It's right on."

So 157 it is. That might explain the appetite.

I have a gourmet vegetarian family-style dinner with Elmer, his helpers Paul and Casey, and five other hikers. Dinner has a communal feel. Elmer explains that each night they come up with a question and circle around the table hearing everyone's answer. "If you could choose one musical group or artist to eliminate--it would be as if their music never existed--who would you choose?" Paul asks. Much conversation ensues, and we get around to the subject of trail magic.

Nova, one of the girls from Magic Rat's group, is a pretty young girl with wavy brown hair and a stellar smile. She has a flower-child demeanor and says "peace out" in place of "goodbye." "We were on Clingmans Dome," she tells us, "and kinda wanted to go into Gatlinburg, you know, so I went up to a couple next to their Suburban and asked, um...could we get a ride? They were really great. They gave us a ride into town, and then took us out for a huge steak dinner. They paid for everything. It was really great. Then, in the morning, they came to our room and gave us a ride back to the trail. Oh, they bought us breakfast, too. It was so cool."

All the while I think of my fruitless experience at Newfound Gap. I tell them I'm feeling sorry for myself for not receiving any trail magic. If ; she tooked like Nova.

"You go too fast," she says.

Cimarron is rooming with me. Cimarron is small, wiry, sharp, quick to smile, and eighty years old. "You know what people under seven or over seventy have in common?" He then answers himself: "The first thing they tell you is their age."

The next morning I'm with a group of hikers waiting for breakfast, and through the window we see Steve O. restocking from the hiker box. It's a peccadillo to take from a hiker box at a place where you are not staying. No one cares about this, but his presence sets off a discussion about him. Everyone has a Steve O. story. Or more accurately, everyone has an incredible story that they've heard from Steve O. He has told people that he hiked the Pacific Coast [
sic
] Trail. He had all his gear stolen in Mexico. His wife died of cancer and her dying wish was for him to hike the AT. We rationalize the hiker gossip as a safety issue. We want to know who is out in the woods with us.