by Seneca Fox
Chapter VI
:25 or :26 to 4:00
Max and I were sitting around a small fire we had built at our campsite. We both enjoyed campfires, but at the end of most days were we typically too tired to make one. That is unfortunate. Making a fire fits well with the preconceived ideals of the typical would-be thru-hiker. My experience however, has been that building a campfire breaks the routine, helping me to slow down and reflect on our journey. Moments like those are important. Hiking more than two thousand miles is a formidable task, so much so that one often blindly marches on from day to day, rarely taking time to linger. Some thru-hikers make more than thirty miles a day; many routinely hike between twenty and twenty-five. When elevation changes are taken into account, most days become nothing more than a long, tiring and dirty journey. At the end of the day, few thru-hikers are energetic enough to make a fire; instead, they pitch their tent or spread their sleeping bag inside a trail hut, chat with fellow hikers, then crawl into their temporary shelter and snore the night away. Campfires are generally not a necessity, as most hikers use small cook-stoves to prepare food and sleeping bags provide adequate warmth. And so, when Max and I gathered wood for the second time in the same day, I planned to spend the afternoon – lingering.
A while later we sat stoking our campfire when a man from an RV that was parked nearby approached us. “Fella’s,” he said.
“Hi,” Max replied.
“Hope you don’t mind my asking, but what brings you here?” After I told him that we were taking a detour from hiking the Appalachian Trail, the man said, “I thought so – you’ve got that trail-weary look about you.”
“You know that look?” I asked.
“I know it well. I used to work at a little campground near Jennings Creek. It’s just south of here over the mountain.”
“Jennings Creek,” I said. “I used to spend time there in the summer.”
“Then you probably know Black Bear Campground?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Hikers used to stop there all the time for supplies and showers; sometimes they’d bunk down for a night or two.” The kind man scratched his head and asked, “You boys hiking all the way?”
“That’s our intention,” I responded.
“That’s quite an undertaking.”
“You can say that again,” replied Max.
The man looked hesitantly at Max and then at me. He pursed his lips slightly and nodded, giving the impression that he had just made an important decision. “Bet you boys would like a hot shower,” he said.
“Can’t think of anything I’d like more,” replied Max.
“Well,” he said, “You’re welcome to use mine.”
“Seriously?” asked Max.
“Sure,” replied the man.
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse,” said Max.
“Get your stuff together and follow me.” The man looked at me and said, “How about you?”
“I’m in.”
Max picked up his backpack and said, “Let’s go.”
The man laughed. “Come on,” he said.
Max and the man disappeared into the RV. I sat by the fire and prepared myself a cup of coffee. A few minutes later the man stepped out of his RV and walked back to our camp.
“Forgot to introduce myself. The name’s Squires, Owen Squires.”
I stood up, shook his hand and introduced myself.
He looked at me and smiled. It was a tired smile. He appeared to be in his late sixties or early seventies. He had a thick frock of neatly combed white hair, his cheeks were red and his skin was slightly transparent with small spider veins and scattered age-spots on his hands and face. His ears and nose were large, more characteristics of his age, and his eyes were sad. The white cotton shirt, tan slacks, brown braided belt and walking shoes were well worn and comfortable looking.
As I looked at Mr. Squires I was reminded of a particular afternoon I spent at a marina near my home in Tidewater. Standing on the deck of small yacht, with a rope in his hand, was a former governor of Virginia – a man whose picture I had seen many times in the newspaper and on television. His face was so familiar that I recognized him immediately, although he did not look at all as I expected. My image of him was one of a man who commanded respect by his appearance and the eloquence of his words, but on that day at the marina he looked like a man whose best days were past, like an almost lifeless soul who had little more to give. Mr. Squires looked the same.
“Mr. Squires, what brings you here?”
“Please call me Owen,” he said. “I’ve come with my son, Junior. My wife passed away a few years ago. For a while after that, I just sat around the house and didn’t do much. Then, Junior, he insisted that I get on with my life. We both live in North Carolina. One day, about a year ago, I guess, he came to visit. While he was there he took me out to look at RVs. When I asked him what I’d do with one, he said that we could travel together to these reenactments. You see, my wife, she was pretty sick for a while, so I didn’t do much back then but take care of her. My son, he’s just looking out for me and wants me to get out of the house and all. You know…” Owen’ eyes filled with tears and he paused, taking a deep breath before he continued. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” I said, and for a moment I pitied him.
“Oh,” he replied, sounding disgusted with himself. “My son’s right – it’s time to move on.” He paused and then asked, “So what’s it been like for you and your brother – hiking the A.T.?”
I summarized our experience, including details about Max’s fall and the six straight days of rain. I told him that we were hiking from south to north and that we started at Springer Mountain in mid-March. We discussed the character of the Trail and how it changed as one progressed from the mountains in northern Georgia to Maine. Owen said that in his lifetime he had hiked “bit and pieces” of the Trail in Virginia and in the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina. He had even camped on the Trail a few times. “You know what I like most about hiking for a few days?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, I know it’s kind of cliché, but what I like most is the solitude. It’s good to get away sometimes. But,” he said with emphasis, “I bet it’s not the same when you’re out there for weeks on end.”
“You’re right. In fact, some people don’t handle it well.”
“So I’ve heard,” he said. Even with his familiarity he was intrigued by the idea of thru-hiking the Trail. He continued asking questions but soon seemed satisfied, and he changed the topic by asking, “So, when did you spend time at Jennings Creek?”
“Mostly during the summers when I was a boy. Early 70’s, I guess.”
“That’s when I worked at the campground. Did your folks have a place there?”
“No, but the family of a friend of mine owned a cabin that stood alongside the Jennings Creek.”
“I might know the place,” said Owen. “What were your friends’ names?”
“Last name was Butler.”
“Butler. Hmm, they probably had family around there. There was an old log cabin on the campground that once belonged to the Butler family.”
“You know,” I said, “I remember going to see that place.”
We both stood silent for a moment. I was remembering the cabin and wondering if Owen was doing the same. Finally, he said, “Small world.”
“Yes it is,” I replied. Unable to think of anything to add to the conversation I asked, “So, what do you think of all this, Owen?”
He stared at me as though he didn’t know what I meant. Then he asked, “You mean reenacting?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, for most of the boys this is just a hobby. Others live and breathe the Civil War. They study it and talk about it all the time. You know how a man can be when he gets obsessed with something. Most of them are pretty good boys, I guess.”
Owen took a deep breath, then looked down and scuffed at the dirt. He w
as wearing a distant expression that made me wonder what he might say next. In the awkward silence I thought about the reenactors Max and I had encountered when we first came down from the mountain. The awkwardness vanished when the door to Owen’s RV opened and Max walked out with a smile on his clean-shaven face.