Back to Damascus

For those of you who have been anxiously awaiting this post, you need not click refresh anymore. For its tardiness, I apologize but you can blame it on the state of Virginia or Moonshine (more to come). I am now in Pearisburg VA, 624 miles north of Springer Mountain GA, putting the phrase, “within walking distance” into perspective.

There is a festival once a year in Damascus VA. called Trail Days in which a town of 1000 people plays host to upwards of 10,000 hikers, vendors and hiking enthusiasts. The small town is flooded with representatives from every backpacking outfit, thru-hikers past and present, trail legends and Virginian teens from near and far who have been waiting patiently for the largest party of their lives and better yet it lasts a week. The week is filled with lectures, gear demonstrations, advice panels, a talent show, a hot dog eating contest, a cake eating contest and free medical screenings, naturally I had to attend. I hitch-hiked  50 miles back to Damascus to catch the weekend festivities. My friends has reserved a place for me in Tent City. Now Tent City (appropriately named) is where these thousands of people reside during the week long fight against sobriety. It is about a mile outside Damascus proper and sprawls further than I could imagine or venture to guess. Tent City itself is divided into neighborhoods, which is how you explain your whereabouts to others. A group of hikers collectively drops their packs on level ground gives it a clever name like, Billville, Booze Town or John Cougar Mellon Camp and it becomes a neighborhood. I was staying in Rio Dulce named for the beautiful stream it paralleled. My friends the Ohio State Boys, 2 Beers, and Y2K acquired this prime piece of tent city real estate neglecting to realize it was a solid bed of poison ivy but with a name like sweet river we could not be bothered by the infectious weed and proudly staked our claim.

The culmination of Trail Days events is a parade of hikers marching down main street shouting chants of their thru-hike year (mine being ’08) like some college rally. The crowd dons squirt guns, water balloons and buckets of water pummeling the hikers as they pass. The hikers mount their own H2O offensive but can not avoid the onslaught.

The evenings in tent city are wild to put it mildly. every night a monsterous  bonfire is erected drawing the masses, jumbae and bongo players a handful of fiddlers and a lot of amateur guitarists. Ultimately the drums win out and those moved by the “spirit” throw off their shirts (male and female alike) and dance around the fire in some “tribal” release. Not one to be out-performed I ripped off my shirt and joined in for a lap until the heat threatened second degree burns and I fealt my flesh peeling from my body. I don’t know what trance-like state propelled these dancers but it certainly numbed them of any burning sensation. Perhaps it was the moonshine. Ah yes Moonshine, still alive and well in the south and being passed around liberally in nalgenes and platypus bags through the crowd. I must admit I was pleasantly surprised by the fruity flavor expecting some bitter toxic sludge that could only be consumed by “real men”. Then the “spirit” moved a special few beyond dancing. Fire breathers began spitting giant fire balls into the air over our heads and an acquaintance of mine, Papa Sarge, boldly or stupidly, leapt twice over the conflagration followed by a slow strut over the burning pyre before being removed from the circle of spectators, scolded and treated for burns. Altogether it was an uncanny experience.

Bad news at the medical tent the next day. My good friend Y2K has a stress fracture in his foot but true to thru-hiker form, he is going to rest it until the swelling subsides, wrap the foot and continue hiking albeit 100 miles south of me. My friend 2 Beers was told she has bursitis in her knee and should no longer hiker so she is off the trail for the time being as well. Fearing the worst, I didn’t inquire about my knee problem but I was told at the courtesy foot washing station that I would need to take two days off simply to clean the dirt from my feet.

At the medical station I was also informed of my BMI statistics which are frightening but not surprising. I have lost 10lbs since the start of my hike and am down to 6% body fat. I consume 1750 calories at rest and have a blood pressure of 105/63 which the physician informed me was superior which I made him repeat loud enough for my friends to hear. This trail has significantly changed my body. The average male hiker burns between 6000 and 8000 calories a day far more than one can realistically consume on the trail. Despite the great shape I appear to be in, 6% body fat is dangerous if not monitored. My friend Snacks was down to 2.1% body fat though the lowest the physician admitted had been a man with 1.4% who was immediately escorted to the “emergency tent.” That being said my diet is revolting: pop-tarts, snickers, instant cheese pasta and family size packets of tuna or chicken nightly. A jar of peanut butter only lasts 4 days and can maybe stretch an extra two if I ration. I am perhaps the only person mourning the passing of trans-fats. Old Buzzard Tonto, a colorful hiker, carries a bottle of Canola Oil which he swigs like malt whisky.

A quintessential Mass-Hole, I met Old Buzzard through the OSU boys and have become very fond of him since. He doesn’t carry rains gear, a tent or cook citing his inability. He is usually half dead  when I see him on the trail. At some point during the fire dancing he managed to misplace his umbrella and blamed his loss on the OSU boys and I. Being 20 miles north he has been leaving 2 1/2-3 page rants warning other hikers how dangerous we are providing dossiers and diatribes about each of us. He has now assumed the identity of the father from the shining, writing entries in shaky script with backwards letters threatening to hack us to pieces for our supposed theft of his umbrella. Though it is all in jest I find myself assuaging the fears and concerns of other hikers unfamiliar with Buzzard and his charm explaining that he only comes in one emotion “grumpy.”

More from Virginia soon,

Newt.

Hostel Territory

I have now completed 461.1 miles of trail and have crossed three state lines. I am writing from Damascus, V.A., reputed to be the friendliest town on the Appalachian Trail.  I would argue against this having already quarreled with the librarian about my alloted internet time and the owner of a Bed & Breakfast who in my opinion, was guilty of price gouging.

As a result I find myself camping out in the back yard of the Damascus Methodist Church which operates under the guise of a hostel. I have had some pretty amazing hostel experiences which seem to be as much a part of the hiking culture as the trail itself. I feel almost obligated to stay in the hostels to get the true experience of being a thru-hiker.

Most Hostels are (dis)organized similarly. There is a large central bunkhouse filled with bunk-beds, cheap bug infested mattresses, a pillow (if you are brave enough to use it), and the smell of hikers who have been marinating in their own filth for days, if not weeks, at a time. Behind the bunkhouses are private cabins which usually get snatched up by older couples, people looking to escape the party scene, or those trying to save face. There are usually showers littered with empty hotel shampoo samples. If you’re lucky, laundry facilities are provided. There is always a kitchen area adjoining a common area where many hikers fall into a couch or cushy chair only to realize three days later that they haven’t moved. This is referred to as the hiker vortex.

Last week I stayed at the Kincora Hostel in Tennessee which was highly recommended by a few thru-hikers I met, who told me I would be an idiot not to stay the night. How could I refuse? Kincora operates on the honor system simply encouraging a $4 donation. I was immediately served a bowl of curried lentils, fresh fruit and bagels upon entering. A hiker named Bone Lady had spent the last three nights cooking banquets for hikers, having been sucked into the vortex herself. Tattoos of early Salvador Dali nudes stretch across her forearms and from what I could gather she is a self-taught taxidermist (in addition to being a fine chef). She informed me she was preparing chili with cornbread and sugar cookies that night, available to me for a couple dollar contribution for groceries. There is usually a shuttle into town for those who need to resupply or those looking for greasy food– the pizza place has put restrictions on the times available for hikers to have pizza delivered so as not to be overwhelmed. Hostel owners compete to see how many hikers they can cram in the back of their vans. At Kincora, 15 people including myself piled into the back of a small van watching passing cars do double takes.

It is at this hostel I caught up to my friend Y2K, who I had met in Franklin. His name comes from his food which was donated to him by family friends who had stock piled months of Mountain House Meals in preparation for the “Year 2000 Apocalypse.”  Eight years later they are still good though to eat, though even if they weren’t I doubt anybody would be able to tell. Y2K is a mechanical engineering student taking a break from school to hike and has an insatiable craving for slushies. Not crushed ice or snow cones (inferior products) but the time tested convenience store staple. Having hiked together for a few days now, he’s even managed to whet my appetite with his slushy obsession. Together we decided to design the first portable hiking slushy machine. Not a mechanical engineer myself, I have to rely upon the two engineering tools at my disposal: liquid nitrogen, and solar panels.  With these, I am convinced anything is possible. Throwing in phrases like “cooling agent” and “pressure differential” (neither of which I understand) I was convinced I had a brilliant design.

With a better understanding of mechanics, Y2K proposed a much more refined and plausible design, but without the pretentious and cool technical jargon I immediately dismissed it and started in on product licensing. Needless to say we have given this much thought. Fortunately, before we drove ourselves crazy with the slushy dilemma, my Aunt Mary appeared performing trail magic with barbecue ribs, peas, fresh fruit and juice which was timed perfectly with the weather. That morning we had been walking a ridge in torrential rain with lightning crashing beside us and a forecast that warned of tornados. Unfortunately, without a practical way down from the ridge, we were forced to keep moving. Right when Mary arrived the weather cleared. Coincidence or intelligent design? I defer to you.

After leaving Mary, the rain returned with renewed vigor. Forty mph winds blew rain horizontally, which turned to hail as it struck me from the side.  For the first time since being on the trail, I was scared. My body was fatigued, and I needed to set up my tent knowing I couldn’t make the five miles to the next shelter. The one place I found was extremely exposed and the wind nearly knocked over my 50 lb pack before I could begin to retrieve my tent. I stood there shivering starring at my pack for 15 minutes as hypothermia began to set in. I said to myself, “I have to do something or I will die,” so I strapped my pack back on and began to walk. Freezing water flowed freely through my shoes and socks. I ran into a fellow hiker who told me it was not worth risking my life on the ridge, and suggested we turn back, hiking off the mountain to find relief from the storm.

The next day at the hostel everyone shared their near death experiences including Y2K who had struggled for 10 minutes to unfasten his sternum strap, unable to move his fingers.

I am now taking a well deserved zero day in Damascus perhaps the biggest vortex yet. This morning my friends Y2K, Two Beers, Pre and I sat down to breakfast at a diner on the trail at the edge of town watching hikers attempt to escape the vortex’s gravitational pull. All of those who stopped into the diner to say goodbye wound up ordering a plate of pancakes, bacon, chili fries and a slushy only to resign themselves to having only hiked 200 yards that day, truly a hostel takeover.

Newt

Hiker Humor

Q: What’s the only difference between a hiker and a homeless person?

A: Gore-Tex

This Appalachian Life

I have boldly braved a forest fire to be here today. The last 10 miles of woods into town were charred black from a controlled burn that was a complete surprise to me. Hand written warnings at the shelter read, “THE WOODS ARE ON FIRE!!!!” For some reason the Tennessee trail workers decided that the best time to set the woods ablaze coincided with 1,500 backpackers taking up residence in those exact woods. To be fair the fires were mostly out by the time I arrived, but I digress.

I have walked almost 340 miles now and owe partial credit to Ira Glass of This American Life . It is my favorite radio program, he is always entertaining and since I can’t watch “Lost,” I have to fill the void. To honor this man I have decided to structure this post like an episode of This American Life, but with an Appalachian twist.  In this post I will reveal the seedy underbelly of the Appalachian Trail and the intricacies of trail etiquette in three acts. Act I: No Nuts For You; Act II: Murky Waters; and Act 3: To Squat or Not!

Now you may not realize, but hikers operate by a set of trail manners.  They’re not quite as codified as the rules that govern high society, but an understood code of conduct none the less. For example, it is not offensive to fart next to someone without warning, or blow your nose by clogging one nostril with a finger and blowing out the other (snot rocket), or even to burp righteously if one were to ingest enough food to require a belch. It is however inexcusable not to yield right of way to an uphill hiker when passing, a personal pet peeve of mine. The following tales address some of what I like to call “Backwoods Etiquette.”

Act 1: No nuts for you

One amazing aspect of the Appalachian Trail is how information is transmitted over great distances. At every shelter is a “Shelter Register” where hikers, camping or simply passing through, sign in and can check to see who else has signed. Often hikers leave notes to friends behind them, information on dry water sources, dangers, obstacles ahead/behind and words of encouragement for other hikers. Many people post cartoons, funny anecdotes or even poems. It is a remarkably efficient and effective system. To send word ahead, one simply finds a faster hiker and gives them a message.  Abusing this system is an unthinkable offense, yet one has.

I came upon a post by Worldwide the other day who criticized hikers for writing GAME (Georgia to Maine) after their entries as almost every thru-hikers does. He claimed that it was presumptuous and technically incorrect for one to write ME when one has not yet reached Maine and should write GA2? instead. Well I was shocked and offended by this inaccuracy. I know where I am and where I am going for the most part and find the business of a question mark laughable. GAME is really a declaration of intent not an exclusive club. More than this, I am appalled that a hiker has assumed ownership not only over the trail, but of the English language. Needless to say Worldwide is not well liked and has made many enemies. Retired at the age of 38, he likes to believe he has 60 years of life experience which he is eager to share. He has asked people to leave shelters whom he didn’t like and boasts about doing 50 mile days balking at simple hikers can who only do 10. But he still claims that having thru hiked already, he’s just out here for the people. Well the people disagree.

My friends Sparky and Stubby informed me that recently they were approached by an older woman offering peanuts. They politely declined but suggested that she offer the recent arrival (Worldwide) some nuts, to which the woman replied, “I don’t think so, I don’t give my nuts to just anyone.”

Act 2: Murky Waters

Another character I met goes by the name Blue Water. Do not let this name fool you: when I met him it was at Standing Bear Hostel at noon and he was already falling down drunk, insulting everyone around him.  He was in the company of friends of mine, and while I thought it odd that nice people would adopt a belligerent alcoholic into their circle, I kept my mouth shut. I found out later from my friend Snowflake that he was a creep. She told me that waking up one morning she found him glaring down at her, “I’ve been watching you sleep all night,” he said.  She and her group have been trying to escape this man for weeks and had succeeded only to find him at the hostel having hitch-hiked to catch up with them. He is rumored to be hiking the trail, a task that seems beyond his abilities, to avoid paying child support, and worse he is not the only one. I have heard many stories of hikers out in the woods escaping child support.

Though a lot of these situations are largely speculation I’m certain that Blue Water has a young daughter and is not interested in keeping contact. One night he and I stayed at the same shelter and stumbling up in a drunken stupor he proclaimed that my bear bag was shoddy and would surely be devoured by a hungry beast. I happen to pride myself on my bear bag engineering and was very offended. I promptly went to bed to avoid interacting with such a dubious character. The next morning I found everyone’s bear bag hanging right next to mine. Untouched and in one piece.

Act 3: To Squat or Not

The information superhighway that is the AT let me know three days in advance not to camp at a particular shelter because of squatters. I, of course, was curious to know who would voluntarily remain for multiple days at a mouse infested, uninsulated, three walled structure. I found out soon enough. These were three punk kids who had been staying at the shelter for over a week, though were quick to tell me, “Yeah, uh, we just got here today.” Ha, lies. They were camped out in front of a pile of garbage and litter was everywhere. Even the privy was filled with litter which is especially disgusting because it is the job of some poor unassuming forest ranger to pick out the litter from the privy, sorting garbage from the mound of poop. To pass the time, they had been self-tattooing and had black images all over their arms and face including three dots under their eyes.

My friend Muffin Man said that the three dots means they have either lost someone they loved or have killed a man. I am hoping the former. They had made a fire of nothing but plastic containers after burning the pages of the shelter register for fuel. Wearing jeans and cotton t-shirts they were completely unprepared for the elements. This was bad. Most hikers hiked past this scene sensing danger. The few who camped around the shelter almost all had encounters with bears. The bears, smelling the mound of garbage from miles away came every night to raid bear bags. Three guys from Cincinnati had each of their bags ripped from different trees all in one night and had to hike 18 miles without food to get to town, having previously only hiked 10 miles a day at most. They were in very high spirits when I saw them mostly because they had the foresight to remove their pot from the food bag before the bears arrived. They punks were reported and I have not heard anything since.

In spite of these people I have met many wonderfully interesting friends, but as attrition continues, and the normal people return to their regular lives, only the crazy remain. Onward, ho! ‘Til next week I am Newt with This Appalachian Life.