Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail

by Bill Walker

  After eating ravenously with the Gang of 10 I went to the grocery store. There I ran into the renowned Sweet Sixteen. Her tantalizing trail name had, according to trail gossip, inspired all kinds of night hiking and “pinkblazing.” Pink-blazing refers to a hiker altering his or her hiking schedule to connect with a member of the opposite sex. Turbo Joe had reportedly become so obsessed from reading Sweet Sixteen’s journal entries in shelter registers, that he went into a three–day, souped-up frenzy of day and night pink-blazing to reach her. Upon finally arriving and greeting this matronly figure of no more than sixty-four or sixty-five years young, he had become so disillusioned that he quit the AT. Another hiker named Saxy Lady (saxophone player) reported a similar phenomenon of panting, sweating hikers arriving at campsites after dark, and discreetly inquiring if Saxy Lady was on hand.

  “What is the key to your success out here?” I asked Sweet Sixteen.

  “Opposites attract,” she said, “and I’ve found lots of opposites to hike with.” Indeed she was with a group of middle-aged males who seemed to enjoy her personality for no other reward than that. Pumpkin would have been shocked!

  “Are you planning to go the distance?” I asked her.

  “I negotiated six weeks on the trail with my husband before beginning,” she said. “At the end of that I negotiated a second six weeks. That’s on the verge of expiring and now I’m contemplating my negotiating strategy for a third six weeks.” She added, “One bargaining point in my favor is that I spend less money out here than at home.”

  I wished her the best and never saw her again. Apparently, she was out about another month and finally got off with plans to do the second half of the AT the following year, perhaps as Sweet Seventeen.

  I got my first really good night’s sleep since Fontana Dam, five hundred miles back. It was a hot, humid day, and the Gang of 10 was nowhere to be found. I had felt like an addendum to their group to begin with and was especially sensitive about becoming another unwanted presence to Vogue. So off I went, solo. It felt especially lonely at first, perhaps because I had been surrounded by so many friendly people lately.

  The trail was surrounded by thick, tall grass on each side, which effectively blocked out all breeze. Even for a hot weather aficionado such as myself it was very unpleasant. The romantic haze that gives the Blue Ridge its name is the product of plant transpiration and great humidity. But on this Sunday morning, as the trail began to ascend into the Blue Ridge Mountains, I was soon enveloped by a fresh mountain breeze that made for a perfect day to hike.

  Three miles later I ran into the Blue Ridge Parkway for the first time. The AT used to be exactly where the Parkway now runs, but after great debate and a power struggle the AT was expropriated to build it. The current AT runs up and down ridges, with frequent crossings of the Parkway. It is 469 miles long, bookended by Great Smoky Mountain National Park on the southern end and Shenandoah National Park on the northern end, and covers some of the east’s highest peaks. A total of twenty-six tunnels were blasted through hills and mountains to construct the parkway during the Great Depression. But the effort was worth it because its pristine condition is striking—trucks are not allowed on it—and with its many overlooks it’s one of the few roads worth driving purely for pleasure.

  I hadn’t seen any water in thirteen miles, when I took the steep drop-off from the AT to get to the Bobblet’s Gap Shelter. I got down to the shelter expectantly listening for the steady hum of flowing water. A mid-fifty-ish couple was there, and I said, “Please tell me there is some water.”

  “Well, you might be able to filter some out of a pool of water right behind us,” the lady said sympathetically in a rich, New England accent. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to go aways.”

  I went aways, bushwhacking farther and farther downstream, trusting I’d find my way back. I was sensitized for the sound of any trickle. Finally, after about a quarter mile of slashing through bushes and trees I finally found a little falloff to put my Nalgene bottle under and fill up. The upside of this kind of activity was that it actually made me feel a bit more like a real outdoorsman.

  The couple at the shelter were Buffet and Goat, from New Hampshire. They had been planning their thru-hike to the most-minute detail for two years. Further, they seemed totally disciplined and intent on executing their plan flawlessly.

  “What is it,” I wanted to know “that makes every single New Hampshirite such a good hiker?”

  “Take a look at a map.” Goat said chuckling.

  Goat was in trim form, but that night he exploded my theory that snoring was the exclusive domain of overweight people, as he practically blew the roof off the shelter. Not surprisingly, he and Buffet were up and out by 7 o’clock. That beat me by over an hour because once again I had to go slashing down the creek bed, even farther than the previous evening, in pursuit of water.

  At midday I stopped at the Cove Mountain Shelter and read Hump Master’s latest entry to Vogue. In it he worried that she was holding back and mused about the possibility of reverse-hiking to find her. I still hadn’t met him, but began to conjure up images of Robert DeNiro playing a deranged villain in Cape Fear.

  Cove Mountain Shelter—mile 734

  6-8-05: Vogue, Hump Master’s latest entry conjures up the dreadful possibility that he is morphing from a pink-blazer into an all-out stalker. Thus, it might be prudent for the Gang of 10 to consider altering their renowned single-file trail-marching formation in favor of a more protective, circular formation, with you in the middle.—Skywalker

  It had been so nice the last few days that at the first sound of distant rumbling I thought it was an airplane or even firecrackers. However, it soon became apparent that it was thunder and there was a twenty-two hundred foot climb ahead. Even though I was tired and the sky looked ominous I felt a compulsion to continue and reach my goal for the day, which was five more miles. I was in a Virginia mindset, feeling the need to go to full capacity each day for maximum miles. The idea was to give myself a cushion to avoid getting caught by early winter in New Hampshire and Maine.

  Thus, I started the long climb up Floyd Mountain and immediately the pyrotechnics started. I cursed myself for being so “mileage greedy.” Soon it began to pour and I took refuge under some bushes. But it turned out to be just the basic run-of-the-mill afternoon thunderstorm. These afternoon cloudbursts and electrical shows would be part of life over the next two or three months as heat and humidity reigned. And unlike the miserable early experiences in the southern Appalachians, it would now be possible to get warm and dry afterward.

  Just before dark Buffet and Goat trudged in, wet and weary, but happy. Since I considered myself a close call to make it all the way I figured their game effort would fall somewhere shy of the mark. Upon bidding them farewell the next morning I said, “See you down the road.”

  Buffet responded, “At the rate you’re going, probably not.”

  I demurred, but secretly agreed with them. But we were both wrong. The two denizens of the Granite State were tough as granite, and I would see them again, well up the road, when I least expected it.

  When I arrived at the bottom of Apple Orchard Mountain (forty-two hundred feet), the highest point on the AT between central Virginia and Massachusetts, a girl in her early twenties was sitting on the ground having lunch.

  Knowing the Sleazebags were somewhere up ahead, I asked, “Are you with that group of guys ahead?”

  She looked slightly scared, even hunted, and said, unconvincingly, “Oh, yes.”

  I remembered that the AT guidebook had suggested telling suspicious hikers you were with a group just ahead or just behind. Apparently, suspicious was the category into which I fell, and she wanted to avoid any betrayal of vulnerability. I had planned to take a break right there as well, but decided to hike on a mile or so to alleviate her concerns.

  Central Virginia was proving much more rugged than everybody had anticipated, with rocks and steady ups-and-downs day after day. Like many other hik
ers, my feet were throbbing from the daily pounding. As the trail wound down the mountain along a stream toward the James River, I decided to try soaking them in the cold, running water. The numbing effect was as magical as several hikers had promised. Unfortunately, another black snake appeared after a few minutes and my comfort level plummeted. Nonetheless, the frigid torrents had numbed and freshened my feet and the effect lasted for hours.

  The quiet, apprehensive girl I had passed a few miles back wandered up while I was taking a break. “For once the data book is right,” she said positively. “The water source mentioned in it actually contains water.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “I not only drank it, but soaked my feet in it. Fabulous therapy.”

  She seemed interested, then said, “We haven’t met. My name is Seeker.”

  She had a demure, mild-mannered look, but I was just glad she seemed to no longer think I was a predator. After chatting amiably for a few minutes, I asked, “Are you going into Glasgow to re-supply?” But my question made her cagy again. I took that as my cue and headed on.

  The trail wandered for miles in close, humid air along the historic James River. The James is notable to hikers because it flows east into the Atlantic. Every river and waterway south of it flows south and west to the Gulf of Mexico. I kept a close eye out for my new bogeyman—snakes—and was glad when a bridge crossing the James came into view. It is the longest foot-use-only bridge in the entire national park system.

  A highway with a parking lot lies on the other side of the river. An elderly gentleman jumped out of his car as I approached and said cheerfully, “Would a cold soda do you any good on this hot day?”

  “Mentally as much as physically,” I replied lustily.

  His eyes then lit up and he said, “I just witnessed the damndest thing. A big group of hikers (the Sleazebags, no doubt) was crossing the bridge, but guess what. One of them swam the whole way!”

  “Well, I hope you were impressed,” I laughed.

  “I felt like asking him why he didn’t walk across the water,” he chortled.

  “What in the world does it cost to build a bridge like that?” I wanted to know. “Two-hundred thousand?” “Try $1.25 million,” he responded.

  “Who paid for it,” I asked, “the ATC?”

  “A former thru-hiker named Happy Feet spent years arranging it with various agencies. It saves the hikers a 3.2-mile boring walk, much of which used to be on the highway.”

  He then shuttled me into Glasgow to re-supply. Summer was now evident enough that even a hypothermia freak like me felt secure enough to send my winter clothes home through the town post office.

  Chapter 11

  The skies had looked threatening all day, and within sixty seconds of reaching the Punch Bowl Shelter, the bottom dropped out in a full-fledged downpour. I counted my blessings that for once I had missed a rainstorm. I counted them even more thirty seconds later, when an attractive, middle-aged woman came running completely naked from the stream down below.

  “Oh my God,” she screamed when she saw me. “Somebody is in here. I’m so sorry.”

  She continued apologizing profusely (“No, no, really, it’s okay”) as she dressed behind me. Then a minute later a muscle-bound fellow in a pair of shorts came up much more calmly in the rain and said quietly, “We didn’t know anybody was here. We were bathing in the stream.”

  He was Rambler, from New Hampshire, and she was just Doris, from Ohio. Despite the extremely fortuitous beginning at this shelter the night ended up being a nightmare. Bullfrogs from the pond, which lies just fifty yards away, croaked at the top of their lungs all night. That, along with insatiable mosquitoes, left everybody lying there in anger all night. It’s the only place on the entire AT I would never, ever want to see again. There was nothing to do but get up blurry-eyed and get the hell out of there.

  Rambler, Doris, and I crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway again that morning. A couple Gang of 10 members were standing next to a car doing “trail magic” (giving food, drinks, and rides to hikers). Not wanting to ask the obvious question, I politely accepted a cold drink out of the cooler in their trunk.

  “We’re down to less than one hundred dollars,” Southpaw quietly said. “We can’t make it to Maine on that.”

  “Well, you can feel good you’re not doing what others have done—stay on the trail and welch off other hikers,” I responded.

  “We want to hike to Maine so bad,” Nitmuck said poignantly.

  All we could do was discreetly leave them a couple dollars in their car and slowly trudge off. They left the trail, went home and got jobs, and a couple months later they had saved enough money to get back on and do the tough northern New England states.

  Finally, I came upon the infamous Sleazebags. They were milling around Brown Mountain Creek Shelter, girding for the climb that lay ahead. Sure enough there were nine males, just as advertised. They had picked up the Sleazebags moniker because of the extra-short shorts they wore and because of their cavalier attitude toward women. One trail wit had even described them as “a posse of hikers.”

  Bear, a rock solid early-twentyish hiker, started engaging me with standard hiker banter, and others joined in. While the language was coarse, with F-bombs dropping all around, it quickly became clear that most of them were pretty nice guys. Then I asked, “Which one is Hump Master?”

  They pointed to a freckled, red-headed fella’ sitting behind me, smoking a cigarette. I turned around and we looked at each other; it was a bit awkward. Neither of us said a word as he continued smoking.

  We all departed, despite clouds welling up for what looked like a standard summer afternoon thunderstorm. A two thousand-foot climb lay ahead and the Sleazebags ardently denounced Virginia in a spate of three- and four-letter words.

  When we crossed U.S. Highway 60 it had begun drizzling. Some of the Sleazebags decided to hitch ten miles down to a Subway restaurant in a small town to the west. Meanwhile, it started pouring steadily and Camel, a nice nineteen-year-old kid from Atlanta, set up his tarp right by the highway.

  “Feel free to get under, Skywalker,” he offered to me.

  “Thanks,” I said. But before I could get under there Hump Master quickly positioned himself right in the middle of the sheltered area and puffed away on his cigarettes while reading a paperback. I contorted my body to get it all under the tarp. But he didn’t respond to my non-verbal communication by scooting over and the rain squall soaked my right side as his smoke wafted into my face.

  The rain temporarily stopped and we got out from under the tarp, which Camel then pulled up. But a couple minutes later it started to downpour heavily and Camel quickly erected his tarp again. Hump Master once again beat me to spread-eagle himself in the center. And once again smoke hit me from the left side and rain from the right. I tried to rationalize it by thinking just how few truly annoying people I had met thus far on the trail. Finally, it quit raining again and the other Sleazebags arrived from the Subway.

  Bounding out of the car, one Sleazebag shouted, “Dude, you completely fucking blew it. The chick at the Subway had a total knockout body. Better than that waitress in Hot Springs and a dead heat with the chick in Damascus.” But another Sleazebag dissented, “Yeah, but her face sucked.”

  “Fuck her face,” the first Sleazebag countered. “Who gives a shit about a fucking face out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  As they munched on their sandwiches, George and Ray, two nice section hikers I had chatted with earlier, were searching for their food box. These two were doing their annual two hundred-mile section hike. Their method is to bury food boxes in various places near roads to pick up when they pass by. That saves them re-supply trips into town and helps them maximize the distance they can cover in their annual two-week section hike.

  One Sleazebag opined, “I saw those two guys earlier today and I guaran-fucking-tee you they’re a bunch of faggots. They’re probably just using looking for a food bag as an excuse to go wear each other out in the wo
ods.”

  “Hell yeah,” another Sleazebag responded. “Look at ’em out there with no fucking shirts on, preening around,” ignoring the fact that most of the Sleazebags also were shirtless.

  We all started the big climb up Bald Knob, and I chatted pleasantly with Sandy and Camel, between gasps. However, when we got to the top it started raining again and everybody took the disheartening half-mile side trail to the Cow Gamp Shelter. I hurried to claim a spot in the shelter. But when the shelter filled up, lo and behold, Hump Man was right next to me. Fuck!

  Then the skies opened up again and we were confined to the shelter. For the next two hours I raged within as Hump Master blithely smoked, with the prevailing wind blowing right into my face.

  Hanging out with the Sleazebags was like a modern-day rendition of Hemingway’s famous short stories, Men Without Women. All night I felt like I was in a junior high school locker room. Every girl on the trail was analyzed from head to toe. Speaking of one girl, Pocohantas—who had the courage to hike with them—Moonwalker said, “It’s the strangest thing. The legs, the tits, the ass all look okay. But trust me, dude, the whole package together just doesn’t work.” Then he felt compelled to add, “Sometimes when I see her early in the morning in a shelter I head straight to the privy.”

  Camel had the audacity to throw in some mild dissent saying, “Come on, now. Pocohantas is pretty cool.” It was a good thing he mounted that minor defense because he and Pocohantas became an item for the last thousand miles on the trail. And unlike most trail romances, it apparently continued.

  But there was one name that apparently was far too sacred to even mention: Vogue.

  However, at nightfall as the rain slacked off, a former Sleazebag who had fallen behind arrived at the shelter with his headlight on. Immediately, he was debriefed on every detail of the Gang of 10 and specifically, Vogue. “They act like we (Sleazebags) are crazy,” he said. “But, let me tell you, the minute they get to a shelter Vogue goes straight to your entries, Hump Master.” This generated excitement all over the shelter. And Hump Man got up and walked around like a matinee idol as a knowing smile and “gotcha” look came across his face.