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.