Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (8 page)

I climbed steadily to the Muskrat Creek Shelter, which at 4,600 feet, is one of the most elevated shelters on the AT. I was delighted to see Seth and amazed to see Study Break on hand. “You’re the most improved hiker on the trail,” I noted to Study Break.

“I’ve already dropped twenty pounds,” he cheerfully noted, “and am picking up speed.”

Despite the beautiful weather, I was having trouble staying warm as the cool late afternoon wind wafted over the mountain. Further, the shelter’s open side was exposed to a stiff late-afternoon breeze. And Warren Doyle’s axiom that a thru-hiker should hike long hours on nice days still infected me. Thus, I decided to assert my independence and move on from where everybody else was going to stay. Before leaving, the conversation at the shelter turned to wild boars. “They’re nocturnal animals,” Seth said, “and can be quite mean.” With that soothing thought in mind I headed out from the shelter alone, at dusk.

My goal was to find a lower elevation to set up my tarp and stay warm, but no appreciable descent presented itself. After a couple miles I came to an old jeep road called “Chunky Gal Trail” which looked like it had some spots flat enough to string the tarp to some trees.

After setting up “camp” and climbing into my sleeping bag it became clear the terrain wasn’t as flat as I’d originally thought. Getting out of my bag to make some tarp adjustments in the dark, I was amazed at how cold it had gotten. Not only had the temperature dropped precipitously, but the wind was roaring. I was to be continuously amazed in the early going at how powerfully, almost overwhelmingly, the wind blows at night in the mountains, even after calm, nice days. Channels of wind could be heard originating from seemingly miles away as it thrashed through the forest toward me with gathering intensity.

I put on every ounce of clothing I had, which was six layers in all, including two sets of long johns. Over the next couple hours I tried every position I knew to get warm, but nothing succeeded. Compounding my misery were the menacing creatures I imagined in every shadow and sound in the black as pitch night. My food bag was in my backpack, right next to my legs, which could be inviting to a bear. Then there was my new bogeyman to worry about, wild boars.
What in the hell am I doing out here
?

I finally remembered that in my backpack was an item I picked up as an afterthought at REI. It was an emergency space blanket that weighs only four ounces. The package showed a shivering, desperate-looking man out in the woods with this blanket wrapped around him. It had seemed like a pretty good bet for four ounces. Lyle Wilson, the outfitter back at Neel’s Gap, had urged me to throw it out, but I uncharacteristically asserted that I would keep it as an ace-in-the hole for the worst conditions. So, here deep in the mountains, in a state of great distress, I finally pulled it out of the box and slipped between the aluminum foil layers. The idea is that the aluminum foil traps the body heat, and indeed it seemed to be working. It helped turn a disastrous night into merely a bad one as I was able to relax my muscles and even sleep some.

A sign on the bulletin board read:

CAREFUL!

BLACK BEAR SEEN BETWEEN HERE
AND SILER BALD SHELTER
STOLE A HIKER’S BACKPACK
SHOWS NO SIGN OF FEAR OF HUMANS

As I started the climb out of the gap and up Indian Mountain along came Seth from behind after another early start. “Really comforting sign back there, huh” he said, “and we have to worry about that bear for the next twenty-six miles until Siler’s Bald.”

I climbed to the top of Indian Mountain and saw an overall-clad sixty-ish fellow, called Billy Goat. Listless from such a poor night’s sleep and overwhelmed by the nighttime cold in the mountains, I sat there in the shelter sullenly chatting with this stranger. Morale was running dangerously low. My fitness for the entire enterprise was being called into question. Soon, it became clear that it was time for a bowel movement. This was one of the few shelters on the trail without a privy—the small outhouses built by the local trail clubs. After fumbling through my backpack I pulled out some “Wipes” and asked Billy Goat if he was familiar with them.

Sensing that I was a bit uneasy with the task ahead he lit up and said, “Yes, they’re great.” I nodded dutifully, when he added, “You can wash your face, your hands, and your rear end with one wipe. The
order
is what’s important.”

Never was any advice more appreciated.

After sixteen miles for the day I arrived at USFS 67 and looked around for the trail. It appeared that it might go up the dirt forest road when I spotted a blaze on the steep embankment in front of me. This was Albert Mountain. In a preview of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, I started scrambling up the boulders using all fours. Lucky breaks have a way of evening out; this could have been outright dangerous on a bad-weather day. In fact there had to be hikers who flat out wouldn’t be able to make it up this single section.

Soon I was at Big Spring Shelter, and was reunited with several friendly faces, including Scottie Too Lite. After being deep in the dumps so early on in the day, my spirits immediately soared. I was even considering trying to sleep in the shelter for the first time, despite ample warnings about mice. “What’s the status on these shelters?” I asked.

“Expect something between a Swiss chalet and an outhouse,” Scottie Too Lite replied.

The AT shelters are decidedly rough-hewn, three-sided structures that are open on the front side. Their wooden sleeping platforms sleep anywhere from four to twenty-five, and availability is on a first-come basis. They are quite popular, especially with thru-hikers, despite the hazard of serial mice-infestation. They run on average about every ten miles. Many hikers religiously planned their hiking schedules to arrive at a shelter late in the day, and the spirit of camaraderie tended to be high as everybody recounted their day’s toils.

“This is the area where Eric Rudolph hid from police for years after bombing the Atlanta Olympics,” Pockets said. “He was even on the Appalachian Trail some of the time.”

“How the hell could you ever catch somebody in mountains like this, anyway?” I remarked.

“But remember the main reason they couldn’t find him,” Scottie Too Lite interjected. “He was a hero to all the hillfolk around here. Everybody helped him hide.”

“Hey now, we’ve come a ways since John Wilkes Booth was given safe harbor after shooting Lincoln,” I protested.

“We’re sure glad to finally hear it,” Scottie smiled. Fortunately, the stereotype of the backwoods, armed, militia-prone crackpot was not in much evidence on the AT.

Sure enough, when darkness fell I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet seemingly doing gymnastics all over the rafters and under the sleeping platform. However, none of the creepy scenarios of mice on the forehead, or even worse, materialized. The shelter kept me shielded from the wind despite being open on one side, and I resolved to sleep in them more often.

At Winding Stair Gap a mother and father were having an emotional farewell with their daughter, Tigress. They had planned to try to thru-hike with her, but the mother had been shocked by the mountainous terrain and dropped off after thirty-one miles at Neel’s Gap. Tigress had continued on with some others until meeting up with her family here at Winding Stair Gap on U.S. 64. Her mother was now making a final plea for her daughter to get off the trail, but her daughter was determined to continue. Tigress was a brown-haired, freckled, young woman in her mid-twenties with a distinctively innocent look about her. After chatting with them a bit she said emphatically, “Skywalker, will you please tell my parents I’ll be okay?”

“She looks like a lot safer bet than me,” I said. “Have you hiked much, Tigress?”

“Yes,” she emphasized. “I’m a wilderness therapist. I lead groups of recovering drug addicts on outdoor trips.” Her mother didn’t look convinced, but they had a tearful departure and Tigress headed off north alone.

I ran into Tigress again a night later at Cold Spring Shelter after trooping all day alone. Far from looking threatened or out of sorts, Tigress seemed to be having the time of her life in the company of her all-male retinue.

A jolly, confident, healthy-looking fella’ in his mid-twenties from Montana named Rooney was entertaining everyone at the shelter with his stories about his thru-hike the previous year.

“Skywalker, the shelter only holds six,” Rooney said when he saw me looking around for an open spot to put my sleeping bag. “You can have my spot.”

“That’s all right,” I responded, “I’ll just sleep at a right angle to all of you at the entrance to the shelter.” This was a group of folks I liked.

The humor took a turn to the bawdy side. I told an obligatory southern incest joke, and there was demand for more. The entertainer in me won out.
What the hell
.
We were in the middle of nowhere, and they seemed to love them
.

Captain Hook asked, “Is it really true, Skywalker, that they eat their young in the South?”

“Only when we run out of possum pie and squirrel innards,” I responded.

Then, out of nowhere, Rooney lit up with a spate of racist jokes. It came as a surprise to everyone; he seemed to be too upbeat and bright to wallow in such filth.

“You can’t really be a racist, Rooney,” Tigress protested. “You have a full set of teeth.”

It was a three thousand-foot, sharp drop-off from Wesser Bald to the Nantahala River. Even traversing the switchbacks, it was a rugged descent. Fortunately, I was part of a big group traveling down together. Hiking was often fulfilling, but a big, chatty group like this also made it fun.

Scottie Too Lite and I shared a cabin at the Nantahala Outdoor Club and allowed Captain Hook to sleep in the loft. Hook was an eighteenyear-old, just out of high school who had been accepted to Harvard, but was delaying it for a semester to thru-hike the AT.

“How in the world could you pass up Harvard for the AT?” Scottie Too Lite wanted to know.

“Everybody said I would learn more on the AT than in my first semester of college,” Captain Hook replied.

Scottie Too Lite wowed several of us at dinner with details of his meticulous planning for the AT. He was optimistic at all times and equally voluble. One female hiker named Scholar claimed that one day she had been listening to him talk non-stop about every bit of trail minutiae to the point that she couldn’t take it anymore. She began to run from him. She swore that as she fled he ran after her talking nonstop.