Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (18 page)

“Are you going to be stopping in Pearisburg?” I asked Fork Man before he pulled out of camp.

“No way, man,” he said firmly. “I’m going to get a quick bite to eat and head out of town.”

The relatively flat terrain of the previous day was short-lived as the trail gave way to a much more angular and jagged topography. At the Doc’s Knob Shelter at the eight-mile mark I wrote in the register:

Doc’s Knob Shelter—mile 610

5-29-05
: Ladies and gentlemen, fellow hikers, fellow Americans: It is my high honor and great privilege to inform you that Pearisburg, which lies just eight miles ahead, is the most underrated town on the trail. The citizens even genuflect when smelly hikers pass by. Take extra long strides to get there as soon as possible.—
SkyWalker

There was a steep descent into Pearisburg where the trail emptied out of the woods with a motel just across the street. Better yet, the parking lot was bustling with hikers.

In the parking lot it became clear that the group of about ten hikers all knew each other well, as they tossed the Frisbee around. A quite attractive brunette in her late twenties wearing a University of Michigan cap was sitting out taking it all in.

“Are you all hiking together?” I asked her.

“It’s ended up that way, yeah,” she said. “My name is Vogue, by the way.”

“I’m Skywalker,” I replied.

“Hi, Skywalker,” she replied.

“Did you all start together at Springer or meet on the trail?” I asked.

“We met and formed a group of five the first night on the trail, and have been together ever since,” she replied. “Then, we hooked up with another group of five. The ten of us have been together ever since.”

“Wow, everybody must be on their best behavior to hang together like that,” I said, amazed.

“We’ve had some colorful arguments, to be sure,” she replied, “but it’s been to everyone’s advantage to hang together.”

Given Vogue’s grace and seemliness she seemed like an unlikely candidate for all the controversy she would soon find herself in.

Hot weather was finally setting in after a cooler-than-average spring, and I seemed to be almost the only person on the trail happy about it. Fork Man, Lizard, and Mark, the biologist from Indiana, all became exhausted and bored, and dropped out in the middle of the 500-mile stretch known as Virginia. Like Seth before them, these were all strong, fast hikers. But they were classic victims of that congenital trail condition veteran hikers had warned about: “The Virginia Blues.”

After the trail crosses the New River outside Pearisburg it climbs twenty-eight hundred feet to Rice Field, an exposed, grassy expanse. With the mid-day sun beating down directly on me I hurried through the wide-open field. Suddenly, I heard a sharp, hissing sound. About ten feet in front of me was a coiled rattlesnake. I had seen snakes (“no shoulders” one hiker memorably described them) almost every day up to this point, most of which didn’t appear to be terribly dangerous. But I had wondered if I would even recognize a rattlesnake when I finally saw one. Yet the way this tanned, diamond-exterior reptile in front of me rattled, it left no doubt.

I stepped back about twenty feet, but the snake didn’t move. The way it was so tightly coiled I wondered just how far and how quickly it could uncoil and strike. A friend who is an avid hunter later told me they have the capacity to uncoil about half their length to strike. Finally, I grabbed a rock and threw it at the snake as I ran by about twenty feet to its left.

About a quarter mile later I came upon another hiker stopped in the middle of the trail. “Excuse me,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “There is a rattlesnake in the middle of the trail here. Do you happen to know the best way to deal with these types of situations?”

“Yeah,” I said breezily. “Just give it a wide berth and run around it.” Then without slowing down I proceeded to “bushwhack” about twenty feet to my left and ran around both the hiker and the rattlesnake. When I was about twenty yards past the snake and back on the AT I looked back; the man had a confused look on his face as he grudgingly edged over into the bushes to get around the snake.

Those were the first, but not last, rattlesnakes I saw. Almost invariably when I came across one it would be in hot, muggy conditions in an area blocked off from any breeze. Given the menacing, poised-to-strike posture they adopt, it is easy to see why some people feared them more than bears. Indeed, statistics showed that hikers are more likely to die or suffer serious injury from a rattlesnake than from a bear. But I never worried about them as much as bears. And Shenandoah National Park, with its renowned dense bear population, lay ahead.

On May 16, 2006, David Sharp lay with his life in danger at twenty-nine thousand feet in the infamous “Zone of Death” on Mount Everest. It isn’t clear what ailed Sharp. Some say he had used all his oxygen, while others say he was suffering from standard altitude sickness.

As Sharp lay fighting for his life it is said that no less than forty-two people passed by him. Many of those forty-two passed by twice—on the way up and down. What was their response? In most cases they did nothing.

One of those who passed by Sharp was Mark Inglis, a forty-sevenyear-old New Zealander. Inglis had already lost both legs to frostbite on Mount Cook, New Zealand’s highest peak. Now he was gaining national attention for his attempt to summit Mount Everest with two prostheses.

Interviewed about the episode, Inglis said, “We talked for quite a while and it was a very hard decision.” They radioed down to their expedition leader who said the situation sounded hopeless. With that, they did what everybody else did. They left Sharp to die.

This incident stirred an international debate about outdoor and mountaineering ethics. Edmund Hilary, the legendary New Zealander who was the first person ever to summit Mount Everest was outraged. “The people just want to get to the top,” Hilary fumed. “They don’t give a damn about anybody else. I think it was the responsibility of every human on that mountain to try to save his life, even if that means they don’t get to the top of the mountain.”

The second night out from Pearisburg I got to Laurel Creek Shelter and ran into Nurse Ratchet and Whitewater. Also, on hand was a married couple from California. Both were doctors.

That evening, I kept hearing muffled conversations on the other side of the shelter between Whitewater and Nurse Ratchet. “Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Erin’s (Nurse Ratchet) hurting,” Whitewater said softly about his wife.

“Is there anything I can help with,” I asked. But, of course, there wasn’t. I tried with little success to get back to sleep.

I was up at first light because my goal for the day was to hike 22.8 miles over mountainous terrain and get to the Pickle Branch Shelter. I went through the usual, glum morning routine of eating cold food, visiting the privy, retrieving water, and packing. My goal was to be off by seven o’clock. I was ready five minutes ahead of that.

But while I had been putting the finishing touch on things I heard increasing moans and anguished discussions from Nurse Ratchet’s corner of the shelter.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“She’s hurting again,” Whitewater said glumly. “It’s coming from her stomach or kidneys.”

“You know, that couple out back are both doctors,” I mentioned. “They’re stirring around. Let’s ask them.” I went over to them and mentioned what was happening. They walked dutifully, if warily, toward Nurse Ratchet.

The wife, who was the spunkier one, asked, “Would you like me to get involved?”

“We would appreciate that greatly,” Whitewater said meaningfully. Then addressing the obvious question, he said, “And there isn’t a one in ten billion chance we’d ever sue you.”

The female doctor then jumped into the shelter with Nurse Ratchet and did what appeared to be a routine checkup, sans instruments. Finally, she said to Nurse Ratchet, “It could be that you’re pregnant, or it could be kidney stones. But I highly advise you to get it checked out soon.”

Her husband, who as fate would have it was a urologist, said, “I can pretty well assure you it isn’t kidney stones.”

But his wife quickly interjected, “You need to have it looked at.”

I was sitting there quietly digesting this, wondering whether to head off as planned, or what. I looked at the data book and saw that the trail crossed Virginia Highway 30 in four miles. I suggested, “I can carry your backpack down to the road and ya’ll can hitchhike from there.”

Finally, Nurse Ratchet unconvincingly said, “I’m feeling a little better. Don’t worry about me.”

I asked a couple more times if there was anything I could do and again offered to carry her backpack, but Nurse Ratchet quietly said, “No, go ahead, Skywalker.” She had a fiercely competitive side that hated to see a peer like me get ahead of her. For my part I reasoned that she had her husband and two doctors there, and there was nothing I could possibly do other than carry her backpack four miles to the road (which wouldn’t have been easy). I needed to leave to have any chance of making 22.8 miles in undulating topography. So, off I went.

My conscience gnawed at me all morning. I got down to the road, which was paved, but there weren’t any cars.
Hitchhiking could be a problem for them
.