Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (20 page)

After a couple more days of this leisurely stroll in increasingly hot weather we came to Daleville, Virginia. A Howard Johnson’s was fifty yards to the right of where the trail ran, so I went over and checked in. This central Virginia town of perhaps eight thousand people was the biggest borough we had seen since embarking from Springer Mountain.

After eating ravenously with the Gang of 10 I went to the grocery store. There I ran into the renowned
Sweet Sixteen
. Her tantalizing trail name had, according to trail gossip, inspired all kinds of night hiking and “pinkblazing.” Pink-blazing refers to a hiker altering his or her hiking schedule to connect with a member of the opposite sex. Turbo Joe had reportedly become so obsessed from reading Sweet Sixteen’s journal entries in shelter registers, that he went into a three–day, souped-up frenzy of day and night pink-blazing to reach her. Upon finally arriving and greeting this matronly figure of no more than sixty-four or sixty-five years young, he had become so disillusioned that he quit the AT. Another hiker named Saxy Lady (saxophone player) reported a similar phenomenon of panting, sweating hikers arriving at campsites after dark, and discreetly inquiring if Saxy Lady was on hand.

“What is the key to your success out here?” I asked Sweet Sixteen.

“Opposites attract,” she said, “and I’ve found lots of opposites to hike with.” Indeed she was with a group of middle-aged males who seemed to enjoy her personality for no other reward than that. Pumpkin would have been shocked!

“Are you planning to go the distance?” I asked her.

“I negotiated six weeks on the trail with my husband before beginning,” she said. “At the end of that I negotiated a second six weeks. That’s on the verge of expiring and now I’m contemplating my negotiating strategy for a third six weeks.” She added, “One bargaining point in my favor is that I spend less money out here than at home.”

I wished her the best and never saw her again. Apparently, she was out about another month and finally got off with plans to do the second half of the AT the following year, perhaps as Sweet Seventeen.

I got my first really good night’s sleep since Fontana Dam, five hundred miles back. It was a hot, humid day, and the Gang of 10 was nowhere to be found. I had felt like an addendum to their group to begin with and was especially sensitive about becoming another unwanted presence to Vogue. So off I went, solo. It felt especially lonely at first, perhaps because I had been surrounded by so many friendly people lately.

The trail was surrounded by thick, tall grass on each side, which effectively blocked out all breeze. Even for a hot weather aficionado such as myself it was very unpleasant. The romantic haze that gives the Blue Ridge its name is the product of plant transpiration and great humidity. But on this Sunday morning, as the trail began to ascend into the Blue Ridge Mountains, I was soon enveloped by a fresh mountain breeze that made for a perfect day to hike.

Three miles later I ran into the Blue Ridge Parkway for the first time. The AT used to be exactly where the Parkway now runs, but after great debate and a power struggle the AT was expropriated to build it. The current AT runs up and down ridges, with frequent crossings of the Parkway. It is 469 miles long, bookended by Great Smoky Mountain National Park on the southern end and Shenandoah National Park on the northern end, and covers some of the east’s highest peaks. A total of twenty-six tunnels were blasted through hills and mountains to construct the parkway during the Great Depression. But the effort was worth it because its pristine condition is striking—trucks are not allowed on it—and with its many overlooks it’s one of the few roads worth driving purely for pleasure.

I hadn’t seen any water in thirteen miles, when I took the steep drop-off from the AT to get to the Bobblet’s Gap Shelter. I got down to the shelter expectantly listening for the steady hum of flowing water. A mid-fifty-ish couple was there, and I said, “Please tell me there is some water.”

“Well, you might be able to filter some out of a pool of water right behind us,” the lady said sympathetically in a rich, New England accent. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to go aways.”

I went aways, bushwhacking farther and farther downstream, trusting I’d find my way back. I was sensitized for the sound of any trickle. Finally, after about a quarter mile of slashing through bushes and trees I finally found a little falloff to put my Nalgene bottle under and fill up. The upside of this kind of activity was that it actually made me feel a bit more like a real outdoorsman.

The couple at the shelter were Buffet and Goat, from New Hampshire. They had been planning their thru-hike to the most-minute detail for two years. Further, they seemed totally disciplined and intent on executing their plan flawlessly.

“What is it,” I wanted to know “that makes every single New Hampshirite such a good hiker?”

“Take a look at a map.” Goat said chuckling.

Goat was in trim form, but that night he exploded my theory that snoring was the exclusive domain of overweight people, as he practically blew the roof off the shelter. Not surprisingly, he and Buffet were up and out by 7 o’clock. That beat me by over an hour because once again I had to go slashing down the creek bed, even farther than the previous evening, in pursuit of water.

At midday I stopped at the Cove Mountain Shelter and read Hump Master’s latest entry to Vogue. In it he worried that she was holding back and mused about the possibility of reverse-hiking to find her. I still hadn’t met him, but began to conjure up images of Robert DeNiro playing a deranged villain in Cape Fear.

Cove Mountain Shelter—mile 734

6-8-05
: Vogue, Hump Master’s latest entry conjures up the dreadful possibility that he is morphing from a pink-blazer into an all-out stalker. Thus, it might be prudent for the Gang of 10 to consider altering their renowned single-file trail-marching formation in favor of a more protective, circular formation, with you in the middle.—
Skywalker

It had been so nice the last few days that at the first sound of distant rumbling I thought it was an airplane or even firecrackers. However, it soon became apparent that it was thunder and there was a twenty-two hundred foot climb ahead. Even though I was tired and the sky looked ominous I felt a compulsion to continue and reach my goal for the day, which was five more miles. I was in a
Virginia mindset
, feeling the need to go to full capacity each day for maximum miles. The idea was to give myself a cushion to avoid getting caught by early winter in New Hampshire and Maine.

Thus, I started the long climb up Floyd Mountain and immediately the pyrotechnics started. I cursed myself for being so “mileage greedy.” Soon it began to pour and I took refuge under some bushes. But it turned out to be just the basic run-of-the-mill afternoon thunderstorm. These afternoon cloudbursts and electrical shows would be part of life over the next two or three months as heat and humidity reigned. And unlike the miserable early experiences in the southern Appalachians, it would now be possible to get warm and dry afterward.

Just before dark Buffet and Goat trudged in, wet and weary, but happy. Since I considered myself a close call to make it all the way I figured their game effort would fall somewhere shy of the mark. Upon bidding them farewell the next morning I said, “See you down the road.”

Buffet responded, “At the rate you’re going, probably not.”

I demurred, but secretly agreed with them. But we were both wrong. The two denizens of the Granite State were tough as granite, and I would see them again, well up the road, when I least expected it.

When I arrived at the bottom of Apple Orchard Mountain (forty-two hundred feet), the highest point on the AT between central Virginia and Massachusetts, a girl in her early twenties was sitting on the ground having lunch.

Knowing the Sleazebags were somewhere up ahead, I asked, “Are you with that group of guys ahead?”

She looked slightly scared, even hunted, and said, unconvincingly, “Oh, yes.”

I remembered that the AT guidebook had suggested telling suspicious hikers you were with a group just ahead or just behind. Apparently, suspicious was the category into which I fell, and she wanted to avoid any betrayal of vulnerability. I had planned to take a break right there as well, but decided to hike on a mile or so to alleviate her concerns.

Central Virginia was proving much more rugged than everybody had anticipated, with rocks and steady ups-and-downs day after day. Like many other hikers, my feet were throbbing from the daily pounding. As the trail wound down the mountain along a stream toward the James River, I decided to try soaking them in the cold, running water. The numbing effect was as magical as several hikers had promised. Unfortunately, another black snake appeared after a few minutes and my comfort level plummeted. Nonetheless, the frigid torrents had numbed and freshened my feet and the effect lasted for hours.

The quiet, apprehensive girl I had passed a few miles back wandered up while I was taking a break. “For once the data book is right,” she said positively. “The water source mentioned in it actually contains water.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “I not only drank it, but soaked my feet in it. Fabulous therapy.”

She seemed interested, then said, “We haven’t met. My name is Seeker.”

She had a demure, mild-mannered look, but I was just glad she seemed to no longer think I was a predator. After chatting amiably for a few minutes, I asked, “Are you going into Glasgow to re-supply?” But my question made her cagy again. I took that as my cue and headed on.

The trail wandered for miles in close, humid air along the historic James River. The James is notable to hikers because it flows east into the Atlantic. Every river and waterway south of it flows south and west to the Gulf of Mexico. I kept a close eye out for my new bogeyman—snakes—and was glad when a bridge crossing the James came into view. It is the longest foot-use-only bridge in the entire national park system.