Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail
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Authors: Bill Walker
Indigo Publishing Group, LLC
| Publisher | | Henry S. Beers |
| Associate Publisher | | Richard J. Hutto |
| Associate Publisher | | Rick L. Nolte |
| Executive Vice President | | Robert G. Aldrich |
| Operations Manager | | Gary G. Pulliam |
| Editor-in-Chief | | Joni Woolf |
| Designer | | Audra George |
| Marketing & Media | | Mary Robinson |
© 2008 Indigo Publishing Group, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations used in reviews written specifically for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast media.
Disclaimer: Indigo Publishing Group, LLC does not assume any legal liability or responsibility for the accuracy of any information or content in this publication. The statements, views, and opinions presented in this book are those of the author, based on his own research, open public records, and do not reflect the opinions or views of Indigo Publishing Group, LLC, its staff, or associates. This narrative is from the author’s recollections, and represent the author’s opinions. Others may recall events differently. While many of the conversations reported are verbatim, some are approximations. The timeline of a few events and shelter entries has been rearranged. Some names have been changed.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2007941445
| ISBN: | | (13 digit) 9781460999424 |
| | (10 digit) 1460999428 |
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61397-688-3
Contents
My father, the late Duncan Walker Jr. (1922-2004), who would have thought trying to hike the entire Appalachian Trail was a nutty idea, but who would have been my biggest fan anyway.
To the literally tens of thousands of volunteers, “trail angels,” and members of local trail clubs who maintain the Appalachian Trail and form part of its unique culture.
“There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all their voyages end in shadows and miseries.”
—
Brutus, in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar
O
n the third afternoon in Shenandoah National Park I was trooping along contentedly. The sounds of bird chirps and the soothing flow of wind in the treetops lent a carefree atmosphere. Suddenly, I heard something to my left that gave me the feeling that whatever made the noise was large. I turned quickly and saw in the fern bushes a large black bear looking at me, not twenty yards away. I stopped in my tracks as it ran across the trail in front of me.
Great, I finally got a good glimpse of a bear and it ran just like many people had said it would.
But then this bear stopped, right on the trail, about twenty-five yards in front of me. It slowly sauntered down the trail away from me and disappeared around the bend. I watched in rapt attention.
I was tense, but not petrified. But my condition rapidly changed from the former to the latter when the bear suddenly reappeared on the trail, walking very slowly in my direction. I felt helpless, even cheated. Everybody had promised me they were afraid of humans and would run. But this bear didn’t look afraid and wasn’t running.
So there I was in a standoff with a bear. It assumed a crouching position and I got the distinct impression it had been through this drill many times before. I utilized my “bear training,” and began speaking back and forth to myself, and even to the bear while waving my hiking pole (and potential weapon) in the air. It was very low to the ground, but looked much bigger and wider at the stomach from a head-on view than it had appeared when it was running sideways toward the trail. God knows what all was stored in that stomach.
So what in the world was I doing in a standoff with the king of the Appalachian food chain?
“Bill, have you heard of the Appalachian Trail?” Tara asked.
“Yeah, it starts in Georgia—my home state.” I replied. “Why?”
“Oh, you’ve got to read Bill Bryson’s latest book.” she said. “He and this crazy friend of his, Katz, tried to hike the entire trail.”
“But doesn’t that trail run almost the length of America?” I asked in amazement.
“Yes,” she giggled.
I was living in London, England, in 1998 and was shocked at the strong undercurrent of anti-Americanism. The transplanted American author, Bill Bryson, had developed a huge following among the British with his own brand of anti-American mockery. Nonetheless, I had read a couple of Bryson’s books with a combination of dismay and mirth, and made an immediate mental note to read this one—for a special reason.