Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail

by Bill Walker

  About a quarter mile later I came upon another hiker stopped in the middle of the trail. “Excuse me,” he said somewhat sheepishly. “There is a rattlesnake in the middle of the trail here. Do you happen to know the best way to deal with these types of situations?”

  “Yeah,” I said breezily. “Just give it a wide berth and run around it.” Then without slowing down I proceeded to “bushwhack” about twenty feet to my left and ran around both the hiker and the rattlesnake. When I was about twenty yards past the snake and back on the AT I looked back; the man had a confused look on his face as he grudgingly edged over into the bushes to get around the snake.

  Those were the first, but not last, rattlesnakes I saw. Almost invariably when I came across one it would be in hot, muggy conditions in an area blocked off from any breeze. Given the menacing, poised-to-strike posture they adopt, it is easy to see why some people feared them more than bears. Indeed, statistics showed that hikers are more likely to die or suffer serious injury from a rattlesnake than from a bear. But I never worried about them as much as bears. And Shenandoah National Park, with its renowned dense bear population, lay ahead.

  On May 16, 2006, David Sharp lay with his life in danger at twenty-nine thousand feet in the infamous “Zone of Death” on Mount Everest. It isn’t clear what ailed Sharp. Some say he had used all his oxygen, while others say he was suffering from standard altitude sickness.

  As Sharp lay fighting for his life it is said that no less than forty-two people passed by him. Many of those forty-two passed by twice—on the way up and down. What was their response? In most cases they did nothing.

  One of those who passed by Sharp was Mark Inglis, a forty-sevenyear-old New Zealander. Inglis had already lost both legs to frostbite on Mount Cook, New Zealand’s highest peak. Now he was gaining national attention for his attempt to summit Mount Everest with two prostheses.

  Interviewed about the episode, Inglis said, “We talked for quite a while and it was a very hard decision.” They radioed down to their expedition leader who said the situation sounded hopeless. With that, they did what everybody else did. They left Sharp to die.

  This incident stirred an international debate about outdoor and mountaineering ethics. Edmund Hilary, the legendary New Zealander who was the first person ever to summit Mount Everest was outraged. “The people just want to get to the top,” Hilary fumed. “They don’t give a damn about anybody else. I think it was the responsibility of every human on that mountain to try to save his life, even if that means they don’t get to the top of the mountain.”

  The second night out from Pearisburg I got to Laurel Creek Shelter and ran into Nurse Ratchet and Whitewater. Also, on hand was a married couple from California. Both were doctors.

  That evening, I kept hearing muffled conversations on the other side of the shelter between Whitewater and Nurse Ratchet. “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  “Erin’s (Nurse Ratchet) hurting,” Whitewater said softly about his wife.

  “Is there anything I can help with,” I asked. But, of course, there wasn’t. I tried with little success to get back to sleep.

  I was up at first light because my goal for the day was to hike 22.8 miles over mountainous terrain and get to the Pickle Branch Shelter. I went through the usual, glum morning routine of eating cold food, visiting the privy, retrieving water, and packing. My goal was to be off by seven o’clock. I was ready five minutes ahead of that.

  But while I had been putting the finishing touch on things I heard increasing moans and anguished discussions from Nurse Ratchet’s corner of the shelter.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “She’s hurting again,” Whitewater said glumly. “It’s coming from her stomach or kidneys.”

  “You know, that couple out back are both doctors,” I mentioned. “They’re stirring around. Let’s ask them.” I went over to them and mentioned what was happening. They walked dutifully, if warily, toward Nurse Ratchet.

  The wife, who was the spunkier one, asked, “Would you like me to get involved?”

  “We would appreciate that greatly,” Whitewater said meaningfully. Then addressing the obvious question, he said, “And there isn’t a one in ten billion chance we’d ever sue you.”

  The female doctor then jumped into the shelter with Nurse Ratchet and did what appeared to be a routine checkup, sans instruments. Finally, she said to Nurse Ratchet, “It could be that you’re pregnant, or it could be kidney stones. But I highly advise you to get it checked out soon.”

  Her husband, who as fate would have it was a urologist, said, “I can pretty well assure you it isn’t kidney stones.”

  But his wife quickly interjected, “You need to have it looked at.”

  I was sitting there quietly digesting this, wondering whether to head off as planned, or what. I looked at the data book and saw that the trail crossed Virginia Highway 30 in four miles. I suggested, “I can carry your backpack down to the road and ya’ll can hitchhike from there.”

  Finally, Nurse Ratchet unconvincingly said, “I’m feeling a little better. Don’t worry about me.”

  I asked a couple more times if there was anything I could do and again offered to carry her backpack, but Nurse Ratchet quietly said, “No, go ahead, Skywalker.” She had a fiercely competitive side that hated to see a peer like me get ahead of her. For my part I reasoned that she had her husband and two doctors there, and there was nothing I could possibly do other than carry her backpack four miles to the road (which wouldn’t have been easy). I needed to leave to have any chance of making 22.8 miles in undulating topography. So, off I went.

  My conscience gnawed at me all morning. I got down to the road, which was paved, but there weren’t any cars. Hitchhiking could be a problem for them.

  At this point there was nothing to do but continue hiking and try to forget it. We were now in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the trail went steadily up and down. I hadn’t heard a weather report in a few days so I asked the first southbounder that looked like a day hiker if he had any updated weather information. “Oh, boy,” he sighed. “Done heard dis’ mornin’ there is a big weather system comin’.” The early morning sun had indeed given way to an overcast sky with high-hanging clouds. I subconsciously quickened my pace and was glad to see the Niday Shelter, which marked twelve miles for the day.

  The ten hikers from the motel parking in Pearisburg were there. They were all having a laugh at the shelter register. The entry that garnered their attention was from a hiker provocatively named Hump Master. He was apparently quite infatuated with Vogue, the girl in the white University of Michigan hat.

  I told them about Nurse Ratchet and what I had done (and not done), looking for some comfort.

  “Well you offered to help, and they said no. What else can you do?” Vogue responded.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” (Over the next few weeks I repeatedly asked people for information about Nurse Ratchet but got only vague reports.)

  This group gave off good vibes so I hurried lunch and caught up with them. Frugal, a squirrelly, blonde-headed twenty-one-year-old male seemed to be involved in much of the group revelry. On the subject of the Boy Scouts Frugal said, “Ninety-nine percent of my bad habits, I learned from the Boy Scouts.”

  “Don’t worry, Frugal,” Mother quickly replied, “it’s still not too late for you to become a heterosexual.”

  The group was close knit, but finally they spilled one of their group secrets to me. “Did you ever meet a hiker named Drama?” Mother asked me.

  “Yes,” I replied, raising my eyebrows at the mention of the “S&M” dominatrix.

  “Back in Franklin, Drama took Frugal into a motel room for a ‘spanking’,” Mother recounted deliciously. “I guarantee you Frugal was a changed man from the time he went in there to when he walked out fifteen minutes later.”

  The weather forecast was beginning to look on target as a slow-but-steady drizzle set in. Something about the absence of visible clouds in combination with a da
rkening sky said this storm was for real.

  When the group stopped to look at the Audie Murphy memorial, I half-apologetically responded, “I’m trying to get to the shelter before getting too soaked.” But I had an embarrassing and selfish reason to hurry to the shelter: I still had no confidence in my ability to set up my tarp on a rainy night, and wanted to secure a shelter spot. This was my Achilles Heel—one of them.

  So I got to the shelter after 22.8 miles of rugged terrain, some of it in bad weather. Had I stuck around longer and waited on Nurse Ratchet that morning I likely would have had to stop 10 miles back. Had I made the right decision or did I make a Faustian bargain?

  Looking back on it, my conscience dictates I should have stuck around. Whitewater and Nurse Ratchet were my best friends on the trail, and a better sense of outdoor ethics dictates that I should have hung around, even if it wasn’t clear what I would have done. No, the case isn’t in league with that of David Sharp on Mount Everest, but it conceivably could have been.

  Chapter 10

  Once safely ensconced in the shelter it was a pleasure listening to the rain pounding on the metal roof after having hiked for more than twelve hours. The sound of pounding rain continued all evening. The only disturbance came in the middle of the night as Frugal, snoring away lustily, was interrupted by a rodent visiting his forehead. He awoke in horror and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Holy fuck! What the hell is that?” This sent a shelter full of hikers in the middle of nowhere on a rainy night into uncontrollable spasms of laughter.

  The reverie of the evening rain gave way the next morning to the reality of some truly nasty hiking conditions. The rain was steady, the wind was whipping, the trail would be muddy, and there wasn’t another place to seek shelter for fourteen miles. I briefly considered taking a zero day in the shelter, but figured I would get cold—not to mention bored—lying around in there all day long.

  Finally, after exhausting all other options, including reading the trail register from cover to cover, I departed mid-morning. Within a half-hour I was soaked through and my mood was grim.

  Warren Doyle had described this stretch as particularly steep and rugged. The trail ascended Cove Mountain before reaching an infamous section called “Dragon’s Tooth.” It was slick, rocky, and had a steep drop-off. Throw in the nasty weather and being alone, and it was quickly becoming a nightmare.

  At the top of Cove Mountain the trail cut sharply to the left and went down the mountain. I could only see twenty yards ahead, but what I did see looked like a sick joke. It wasn’t clear where the trail went, but there were metal rungs going down what looked like a cliff off the mountainside. I took to all fours and slowly lowered myself in the whipping wind and pouring rain. Is this hiking or is it mountain climbing?

  After slowly descending the steepest part I finally saw a blaze, which, always an affirmation, was especially so here. And once again, I noticed that characteristic I mentioned before. Just when the trail appeared to be getting beyond the average person’s capacity, it eased.

  At the bottom of the mountain the trail crossed a state road, and I considered bailing out right there, but God knows where to. Another state road crossed the trail in six miles. The more detailed “Wingfoot” (seven-time thru-hiker) data book didn’t list any significant climbs between here and there.

  So, soaked to the bone, I bounded up an open field the trail ran through, waiting for it to flatten as sheets of rain deluged me. Finally, the trail leveled out and started downhill. At this point I figured it would be an easy glide to the next road. But then the trail started climbing again and continued climbing some unlisted mountain. I was exhausted and hadn’t taken a break in eight miles of rough hiking. Wingfoot’s data book had become the source of great controversy on the trail—as well as occasional angry promises by cuckolded hikers to put him out of business with a more accurate data book. For starters, he reportedly hadn’t hiked the AT in thirteen years, and there had been changes in the trail he simply wasn’t familiar with. This must have been one of them.

  Finally, I dropped my pack in exhaustion halfway up a hillside and sought some bushes for cover while gobbling some GORP. It was impossible to relax long while being pelted by the cold rain, so I got back up and started climbing the mountain again. In these conditions, I always feared losing the trail. It would be difficult to relocate it with such poor visibility. On another seemingly endless climb I noticed that I didn’t seem to be on a clear path. I panicked and turned around and ran back in the direction I had come from. A hundred yards down the mountain I finally located the AT and resumed climbing.

  Almost all road crossings come after descents. This thought deepened my paranoia because I was still climbing, which meant the road must not be close. Then suddenly the road appeared after a climb, a rare event. Better yet, an elderly lady in the trail parking lot rolled down her window and asked, “Would you like a ride to the restaurant in Catawba? It’s the best on the entire AT.” I stuffed my wet belongings and my wet self into her car and off we went.

  Within five minutes she had dropped me off in front of a big, white house with two gazebos in front. After effusively thanking this trail angel, I walked into “the best restaurant on the trail” where some members of the Gang of 10 were already present. Tables groaned with enough food to feed not only every hiker in Virginia, but half the bears as well. Things had gone from very grim—bordering on dangerous—to perfect, just like that.

  One way or another, the big investment of time and money—along with the huge energy and emotional investment—makes an AT thru-hike attempt a big part of anybody’s life. When I chatted with another Gang of 10 member, Pumpkin, she mentioned she was getting married on August 14.

  “Oh really,” I responded. “You must not be planning on thru-hiking.”

  “To the contrary,” she said firmly. “The wedding is in Vermont. I should be somewhere near there at that point. After a few days’ honeymoon I’m going to return to wherever I got off the trail.”

  “With your husband?” I presumed.

  “No, alone,” she said in a logical tone. “This might be my last chance ever to thru-hike.”

  Even though I was only a peripheral member of the Gang of 10, I started hiking with them the following day. After the previous day’s grueling hike we were braced for the worst going up McAfee’s Knob, which is advertised as the best view in Virginia.

  McAfee’s Knob is a ledge running several hundred yards, with a steep drop and a clear, open view to the mountains to the west. It ended up being a surprisingly easy hike, and soon the entire group hovered over the steep ledges in rapt contemplation of the gorgeous landscape. It became clear that the Gang of 10 had a more leisurely approach to hiking, frequently stopping for photographs along the way. Having focused so intently on mileage for so far, a change of pace was nice.

  “Are ya’ll aware of the rumors flying around the trail about the ‘Gang of 10’?”

  “No, what are people saying?” Vogue asked.

  “Oh, where do I begin?” I responded. “The general story is of a cult-like secrecy, Omerta code, group chants on the march, a secret handshake, and much more.”

  Vogue laughed and said, “That had better not be true.”

  I soon learned one reason the gang wasn’t hurrying was that none of them wanted to catch up with the “Sleazebags.” The Sleazebags were a group of nine males, each in their early to mid-twenties. One member of the Gang of 10 described the Sleazebags as “testosterone-laden, to the point of steroids.”

  In the Catawba Mountain Shelter register Hump Master, a Sleazebag, had written a long reverie of Vogue as Princess Leia to his Hans Solo.

  Vogue had read it first and responded, “Man, what is this guy’s problem? That’s why I don’t want to speed up; so I don’t run into him.”

  After reading it myself I asked her, “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve talked to him a couple times in passing at shelters,” she replied.

  “Well what d
id you do,” I asked, “quote Romeo and Juliet?”

  “No, I talked to him about my boyfriend,” she said intently. “But he just kept chain smoking and giving me this cool-hand-Luke look.” Pumpkin then entered the conversation in a slightly spooked tone. “I had no idea before coming out here,” she paused with a slightly haunted gaze, “that almost every guy hits on every girl almost every time. I’m blown away by the whole thing. From here on out I’m going to view men in a different light.” A dark side of male human sexuality had apparently been revealed to her.

  Mother, perhaps feeling the burden of defending the entire male gender calmly said, “Back when we were cavemen, we wore skin suits and carried clubs. Nowadays, we at least make a pretense of being civilized.” “Barely,” Pumpkin muttered.

  One thing that seemed to magnify the differences between the genders in the wilderness is that male’s appearances, hygiene, and body shape, seemed to go into a freefall. Females, meanwhile, often became fitter and more shapely. One hiker, Knees, had adamantly said, “I haven’t seen many ugly women on the AT.” He had a point.

  It was a pretty interesting discussion, but I made a mental note to be careful while around hikers of the female persuasion, and Vogue, especially. I hadn’t exactly been hitting on her, but I wasn’t blind. She was quite pleasing to the eye, and I may have been paying her undue attention. And it’s embarrassing to admit this, even now, but I was a bit jealous of this Hump Master fella’ who was so keen on her.

  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.