As I made my way out of the Smokies, I settled in the only shelter in the park to still have chicken wire around the front. It was getting dark. I opened the metal door with a screech and felt like I was walking into jail. There was no one else there. I was hoping that I wouldn't have to spend my first night alone in that particular shelter, when a father and son from Louisiana walked in. They introduced themselves as Whitey and Red Headed Stranger. They were headed to Damascus, Virginia by July 5th. We made dinner and small talk and got an early start the next morning. I was glad to see them on the trail and at shelters over the next few days.
Hiking alone can be a wonderful thing. But sometimes, seeing a great view is bittersweet. There were moments that I wanted to share with someone. As I walked along the North Carolina/Tennessee border, I was able to relish the view with new friends. After a stunning day on Max Patch, they left me a note in the next shelter (next to a 6 inch, plastic shovel) that made me laugh out loud:
"We have died of thirst. Triscuit, please bury our bodies behind the shelter. You can use the poo shovel."
I decided to walk through the rain to the next shelter to catch up with them and pretended to be angry when I saw them. "Y'all aren't dead? I dug for hours with that tiny shovel and then couldn't find you!" We laughed and made dinner, and talked excitedly about the trail ahead.
After Hot Springs I fell behind, but I always read their log entries at every shelter. At one point I was going to hike through the night to catch up to them, but a few Southbounders told me a night hike over Laurel Falls wasn't wise, so I kept a slower pace. As I climbed over the rocky trail the next day, I looked forward to meeting my parents at the end of the day and didn't stop for a dip in the falls.
My dad joined me and we hiked on. I looked at the log book at a shelter we passed and was glad to see a few familiar signatures, but nothing from Red and White. It was the first time they hadn't written. Later that day we met some folks that told us a father and son had drowned in the falls. I paused. "Do you know where they're from?" And the next word fell like a rock in my gut.
"Louisiana."
Please, please, please, if you are by Laurel Falls outside Dennis Cove, TN, don't swim there. It is beautiful, and looks benign, but apparently there is an undertow and drownings are not uncommon.
Red and White were strong hikers, with good heads on their shoulders. Most of the risks associated with the trail are small, but sometimes we fall victim to chance. I can only guess what happened, and I've tried to put their last hours out of my head. I can only take this as a reminder to continue to be careful, and to be grateful for the people I still have in my life. I'm glad Dad was here when I found out.
The trail has a way of creating strong bonds with people that we don't know for very long. My friends, my good friends, won't easily be forgotten. I walked the last forty miles to Damascus in their honor.
Please send a prayer or positive thought in their family's direction.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Trail angels
It must have been obvious that I had never hitch hiked before.
I was walking out of the Smokies and toward Gatlinburg, a good 15 miles away. The shuttles listed in my guide weren't running, and I didn't want to pay $40 for a taxi. So I picked up my bag, said goodbye to my trail friends, and walked along the newly paved road. I was told it was an easy hitch, so I stuck my thumb above my head as I walked down the highway. A string of cars sped past me as I wobbled along the shoulder of the road.
The minutes went by. I continued walking as car after car sped within feet of where I was walking. As they passed, every driver looked at me, every passenger craned their neck to stare. No? No one? I remembered that I used to sit in a car often as I drove past hitch hikers. I never thought I'd need a ride. But surely someone would see my backpack and stop. The string of cars continued. People stared like I was a mildly interesting animal at the zoo. Wow, a hiker in its natural habitat. Don't get too close, dear.
The sun was out in full force that day, and I felt the heat of the pavement through my heavy boots. A truck going the opposite way slowly rolled by, with three of my friends in back. "Triscuit!" they yelled. "Stick yer thumb out!"
"You're going the wrong way!" I yelled.
They assured me I'd find a ride as the truck picked up speed, then one of them yelled, "Put that knife away, dude!" Damn. I looked down at my shorts pocket and realized it was obvious that my 8 inch knife was there. That probably didn't help my chances.
Another person rolled by and told me I looked like I was giving everyone a thumbs up. My arm was straight up in the air. I felt like an idiot but quickly lowered my hand as I walked. A police car passed me. Is hitching illegal here? After walking four miles along the road I stopped walking and held out my hand, defiantly looking at the new string of cars making its way toward me. Suddenly, a truck slowed and pulled over. I ran toward it. For a second I thought, Shit, what if it's The Gatlinburg Creep my friends told me about? But I was happy to meet Terry and Jennifer, who offered me a ride into town.
I hopped in the back and felt sweet wind against my sunburnt face and greasy hair as we sped down the road. They pulled over halfway through the ride and gave me a cold V8, water, an apple, and banana. I didn't know what to do with it all. I sat in the back of the truck, grinning, as I held the sloshing drink in one hand and the apple in the other. This was a feast. In town, they dropped me off, gave me a few dollars cash, and told me to be safe. After thanking them profusely they were gone.
I'm not sure they knew how much I appreciated the ride, but that's part of the magic. Along the way, there have been so many people who have helped my friends and I make a few more miles or a few more meals. They have been strangers, locals, fellow hikers, or people just passing by. They might not know how much we appreciate them. But we remember.
We remember people like Lynn, who gave Owen and me a twenty dollar bill in a restaurant. We remember people like Will, Mazie, and Liam, who kept me company and shared their stories, jokes, and food. I remember Apple, who gave out water and cold soda at a dry intersection of the trail. Charles, who gave me water and sandwiches while he was doing trail work. Grasshopper, who talked about what to expect on the trail ahead and helped me finish my first 19 mile day. Anne and Whit, who gave me sunscreen before I was about to go over a series of balds. And Bob, the caretaker of Kincora hostel, who kept me company when I was lonely, with his wide wrinkles and wild stories.
Trail magic somehow seems to happen when you need it most. A stranger crosses your path when you're thirsty, exhausted, or lonely. And a small kindness becomes the best part of your day.
On Wednesday I walked 9 miles to a beach where I'd be meeting my parents. I was looking forward to it, as I had been dreaming about water all week, though I didn't know how hot it would be and I was worried I wouldn't have anyone to watch my bag while I swam. As I walked onto the sand, I smiled at a family and they said hi. They started a conversation, asking me questions about my bag, how far I had walked, and they said, "are you hungry?"
I'm always hungry.
They invited me to sit down while the food finished cooking on the grill, and I enjoyed talking with them. Berta, Alfredo, and their extended family sat on the beach enjoying the weather as they told me stories and chopped up vegetables for pico de gallo. At times they spoke Spanish and laughed with one another, and I still felt included and welcomed. They served me first, telling me to take more, and when I was done I felt safe leaving all of my possessions with them while I dipped into the gloriously cool lake. What a wonderful end to the day.
We're encouraged not to trust strangers. I think a lot of people would have been hesitant to trust Berta and Alfredo's family because of their ethnicity. Apparently they had been getting dirty looks on the beach that day. But the people I may have been told not to trust along the way have been my trail angels.
After an afternoon of food, laughter, and sun, I thanked them, got a photo, and went on my way. They probably won't see this. We won't be friends on facebook. My only connection left to these folks are the words and time shared between us. It forces me to be more present on the trail. Grateful. So that maybe in the future, when I have my own pickup truck, I'll pull over when I see an exhuasted hiker, and I'll ask if they want a drink.
I was walking out of the Smokies and toward Gatlinburg, a good 15 miles away. The shuttles listed in my guide weren't running, and I didn't want to pay $40 for a taxi. So I picked up my bag, said goodbye to my trail friends, and walked along the newly paved road. I was told it was an easy hitch, so I stuck my thumb above my head as I walked down the highway. A string of cars sped past me as I wobbled along the shoulder of the road.
The minutes went by. I continued walking as car after car sped within feet of where I was walking. As they passed, every driver looked at me, every passenger craned their neck to stare. No? No one? I remembered that I used to sit in a car often as I drove past hitch hikers. I never thought I'd need a ride. But surely someone would see my backpack and stop. The string of cars continued. People stared like I was a mildly interesting animal at the zoo. Wow, a hiker in its natural habitat. Don't get too close, dear.
The sun was out in full force that day, and I felt the heat of the pavement through my heavy boots. A truck going the opposite way slowly rolled by, with three of my friends in back. "Triscuit!" they yelled. "Stick yer thumb out!"
"You're going the wrong way!" I yelled.
They assured me I'd find a ride as the truck picked up speed, then one of them yelled, "Put that knife away, dude!" Damn. I looked down at my shorts pocket and realized it was obvious that my 8 inch knife was there. That probably didn't help my chances.
Another person rolled by and told me I looked like I was giving everyone a thumbs up. My arm was straight up in the air. I felt like an idiot but quickly lowered my hand as I walked. A police car passed me. Is hitching illegal here? After walking four miles along the road I stopped walking and held out my hand, defiantly looking at the new string of cars making its way toward me. Suddenly, a truck slowed and pulled over. I ran toward it. For a second I thought, Shit, what if it's The Gatlinburg Creep my friends told me about? But I was happy to meet Terry and Jennifer, who offered me a ride into town.
I hopped in the back and felt sweet wind against my sunburnt face and greasy hair as we sped down the road. They pulled over halfway through the ride and gave me a cold V8, water, an apple, and banana. I didn't know what to do with it all. I sat in the back of the truck, grinning, as I held the sloshing drink in one hand and the apple in the other. This was a feast. In town, they dropped me off, gave me a few dollars cash, and told me to be safe. After thanking them profusely they were gone.
I'm not sure they knew how much I appreciated the ride, but that's part of the magic. Along the way, there have been so many people who have helped my friends and I make a few more miles or a few more meals. They have been strangers, locals, fellow hikers, or people just passing by. They might not know how much we appreciate them. But we remember.
We remember people like Lynn, who gave Owen and me a twenty dollar bill in a restaurant. We remember people like Will, Mazie, and Liam, who kept me company and shared their stories, jokes, and food. I remember Apple, who gave out water and cold soda at a dry intersection of the trail. Charles, who gave me water and sandwiches while he was doing trail work. Grasshopper, who talked about what to expect on the trail ahead and helped me finish my first 19 mile day. Anne and Whit, who gave me sunscreen before I was about to go over a series of balds. And Bob, the caretaker of Kincora hostel, who kept me company when I was lonely, with his wide wrinkles and wild stories.
Trail magic somehow seems to happen when you need it most. A stranger crosses your path when you're thirsty, exhausted, or lonely. And a small kindness becomes the best part of your day.
On Wednesday I walked 9 miles to a beach where I'd be meeting my parents. I was looking forward to it, as I had been dreaming about water all week, though I didn't know how hot it would be and I was worried I wouldn't have anyone to watch my bag while I swam. As I walked onto the sand, I smiled at a family and they said hi. They started a conversation, asking me questions about my bag, how far I had walked, and they said, "are you hungry?"
I'm always hungry.
They invited me to sit down while the food finished cooking on the grill, and I enjoyed talking with them. Berta, Alfredo, and their extended family sat on the beach enjoying the weather as they told me stories and chopped up vegetables for pico de gallo. At times they spoke Spanish and laughed with one another, and I still felt included and welcomed. They served me first, telling me to take more, and when I was done I felt safe leaving all of my possessions with them while I dipped into the gloriously cool lake. What a wonderful end to the day.
We're encouraged not to trust strangers. I think a lot of people would have been hesitant to trust Berta and Alfredo's family because of their ethnicity. Apparently they had been getting dirty looks on the beach that day. But the people I may have been told not to trust along the way have been my trail angels.
After an afternoon of food, laughter, and sun, I thanked them, got a photo, and went on my way. They probably won't see this. We won't be friends on facebook. My only connection left to these folks are the words and time shared between us. It forces me to be more present on the trail. Grateful. So that maybe in the future, when I have my own pickup truck, I'll pull over when I see an exhuasted hiker, and I'll ask if they want a drink.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Poop and water should not mix
"How do you poop in the woods?"
This is one of the most common questions I get asked. And the answer? You just do it. Some people have to have toilet paper with them, other people use leaves or rocks or whatever they find. My favorite brand of tp is the striped maple leaf. The leaves are big, soft, and common. I feel better about leaving them behind, anyway.
What frustrates me most about this process is seeing other people's sodden paper draped over tree roots and sticking out of the dirt. Leave No Trace ethics suggest going 200 feet from water sources and trails, digging a hole at least 6 inches deep, then packing out or burying your toilet paper. It's a matter of keeping the trails looking nice, but more importantly it's keeping the water safe to drink. As much as I loved the Smokies, there were times when I was extra careful about my water because of the piles of horse poop that I'd find near the shelters' water sources.
Yesterday I was frustrated with trash and paper I saw near a campsite, and started singing about Leave No Trace ethics. After a few miles I ended up with a song, "Don't be an ass, just dig a hole." It's pretty dumb, but it kept me entertained. One of the lines was, "please don't go near the water, I must drink from there too. Acquiring Giardia would stink worse than your poo."
If you do it right, pooping in the woods can be a really great thing. Pick a spot behind a nice tree, maybe find something to sit on if you'd like, and enjoy the view. Cover it all up with dirt and leaves when you're done, mark it with a stick, and walk away. It'll decompose and everyone's happy. It's a great thigh strengthener and actually an ideal position for your body to get rid of that burger you enjoyed in town.
In the woods, everything balances out. My hair is greasy but stays untangled, my skin sweats but doesn't smell among the trees and open air. My food ends up going back to the ground where it came from. In town, suddenly I'm aware of all of these things, and aware that it's not socially acceptable to smell and look like I do. So when I stayed at a hostel last night, I showered and changed into clean clothes, and made my way to the toilet.
It was strange. I sat there and momentarily panicked when I felt water splash back up onto my skin. I'M POOPING IN MY WATER SOURCE! Of course, as soon as the thought entered my mind, I knew it wasn't true. Yet, as the water droplets dribbled down my butt, I was horrified at the realization that every day we flush gallons and gallons of drinkable, beautiful water down with our poop. I'll be thinking of that the next time I run out of water.
I understand that waste disposal is a human health concern, and modern plumbing is a godsend. Not everyone can hang out in the woods, and the ground couldn't handle it if they did. But can't we find a more efficient way to get rid of our waste?
Maybe I'm just a nasty, smelly hiker. But I have to go, and the library is about to close.
I'm off to the woods.
This is one of the most common questions I get asked. And the answer? You just do it. Some people have to have toilet paper with them, other people use leaves or rocks or whatever they find. My favorite brand of tp is the striped maple leaf. The leaves are big, soft, and common. I feel better about leaving them behind, anyway.
What frustrates me most about this process is seeing other people's sodden paper draped over tree roots and sticking out of the dirt. Leave No Trace ethics suggest going 200 feet from water sources and trails, digging a hole at least 6 inches deep, then packing out or burying your toilet paper. It's a matter of keeping the trails looking nice, but more importantly it's keeping the water safe to drink. As much as I loved the Smokies, there were times when I was extra careful about my water because of the piles of horse poop that I'd find near the shelters' water sources.
Yesterday I was frustrated with trash and paper I saw near a campsite, and started singing about Leave No Trace ethics. After a few miles I ended up with a song, "Don't be an ass, just dig a hole." It's pretty dumb, but it kept me entertained. One of the lines was, "please don't go near the water, I must drink from there too. Acquiring Giardia would stink worse than your poo."
If you do it right, pooping in the woods can be a really great thing. Pick a spot behind a nice tree, maybe find something to sit on if you'd like, and enjoy the view. Cover it all up with dirt and leaves when you're done, mark it with a stick, and walk away. It'll decompose and everyone's happy. It's a great thigh strengthener and actually an ideal position for your body to get rid of that burger you enjoyed in town.
In the woods, everything balances out. My hair is greasy but stays untangled, my skin sweats but doesn't smell among the trees and open air. My food ends up going back to the ground where it came from. In town, suddenly I'm aware of all of these things, and aware that it's not socially acceptable to smell and look like I do. So when I stayed at a hostel last night, I showered and changed into clean clothes, and made my way to the toilet.
It was strange. I sat there and momentarily panicked when I felt water splash back up onto my skin. I'M POOPING IN MY WATER SOURCE! Of course, as soon as the thought entered my mind, I knew it wasn't true. Yet, as the water droplets dribbled down my butt, I was horrified at the realization that every day we flush gallons and gallons of drinkable, beautiful water down with our poop. I'll be thinking of that the next time I run out of water.
I understand that waste disposal is a human health concern, and modern plumbing is a godsend. Not everyone can hang out in the woods, and the ground couldn't handle it if they did. But can't we find a more efficient way to get rid of our waste?
Maybe I'm just a nasty, smelly hiker. But I have to go, and the library is about to close.
I'm off to the woods.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Wildlife
 |
| Mountain Laurel |
Having Owen around is great for plant identification. We both have some plant knowledge and have been able to identify over 70 plants. They include blood root, partridge pea, poison ivy, striped maple (great for toilet paper), and a bunch of oaks. There are still a ton of plants that we have no idea how to identify.
We see a lot of mice and chipmunks around the shelters, songbirds, turkey, deer, and a good amount of small snakes. One day we almost stepped on a three and a half foot, beige snake that we're pretty sure was venomous. A lot of folks we run into have seen rattlesnakes, especially at some of the lower elevations (3 or 4 thousand feet). So far we've seen one bear cub.
My interests are in the smaller organisms. I love seeing brightly colored fungi pop out of the dirt, or yellow slime molds that cling to rotting logs. Some of the lichen out here is incredible-- large and leafy, textured and undisturbed.
Owen's favorite:
Getting lost
When I had to carry all of my possessions up mountains, I quickly learned what was and wasn't worth the weight. I thought about buying a different hammock -- one that is less bulky, lighter, and easier to set up. I tried out Owen's hammock with my rain fly, planning to send my Hennessy hammock home at the next town. I climbed in, glad to be away from the spiders (was that a brown recluse?) and the wooden floors of the shelter.
I woke when I felt water on my face. Rain pelted the tarp that was whipping in the wind. Raindrops attacked my sleeping bag from all directions. I pinched the edge of the hammock to the fly, then realized I had no way to keep them together against the force of the wind. This wouldn't have happened with my Hennessy. I drew the hammock more tightly around myself and attempted sleep despite the spattering of droplets partying on my face. My outside of my bag was wet. I decided to run for the shelter.
I shoved my sleeping bag inside my shirt, crouched under my tarp, and adjusted my headlamp. I ran. Immediately I was soaked. The rain violently contacted the earth, pelting my neck and roaring in my ears. I could only see a few feet in front of me through the solid sheets of water. I didn't see the shelter. I ran in a different direction and still didn't see it. Is my bag going to stay dry? I continued running, occasionally seeing a tree trunk. They all looked the same. My light caught the reflective strips on Dan and Jess's trekking poles. I was going the wrong way. If worse comes to worse, I thought, I could crouch under their tarp. Maybe I could ask for help. Later I would laugh at the thought of knocking on their hammock. "Hey, umm could you give me directions?" I decided against it and continued running.
My hair was plastered to my face and I was sure my bag had soaked through. I tripped over something -- Ian's hammock. Damn. Wrong again. I ran and thought of being out here all night in the cold, lost in an unfamiliar woods. Could I get hypothermia? What would happen if my headlamp went out? When I felt myself panic I stopped. I was still in the campsite. That was good. I walked to where I thought Dan and Jess's hammock was. I found it. I faced the direction the shelter should have been in and counted my steps. One. Two. Three. Before I reached twenty my light caught the wooden beams three feet in front of me. Thank God.
My feet crunched on the gravel floor and I birthed my sleeping bag onto the wooden platform. I grabbed my pack from the wall and found the spare outfit I had been ready to send home. I flung my sodden clothes on the ground as headlamps went on and I shakily got into dry clothes. When I turned around I found that the boys had unfolded my (dry!) bag out onto a sleeping pad. That small gesture would have made me emotional had I not had just one thought in my mind: getting in that bag. I climbed in and pulled on some socks. Sweet, sweet, glorious dirty smelly warm woolen socks. I was dry. No longer lost. Among friends.
I curled up on my side and put my wet hair outside of my bag. My shoulder and hip dug into the wooden floor and my full bladder squirmed as I lay there in blissful comfort. My heart beat furiously against my ribs. The rain continued, so loudly at points that it masked the sound of thunder that shook the shelter floor. If I hadn't woken everyone up, this would have. I was grateful to be there, even among the spiders, mouse turds, and snoring men.
Maybe my pack was worth its weight after all.
I woke when I felt water on my face. Rain pelted the tarp that was whipping in the wind. Raindrops attacked my sleeping bag from all directions. I pinched the edge of the hammock to the fly, then realized I had no way to keep them together against the force of the wind. This wouldn't have happened with my Hennessy. I drew the hammock more tightly around myself and attempted sleep despite the spattering of droplets partying on my face. My outside of my bag was wet. I decided to run for the shelter.
I shoved my sleeping bag inside my shirt, crouched under my tarp, and adjusted my headlamp. I ran. Immediately I was soaked. The rain violently contacted the earth, pelting my neck and roaring in my ears. I could only see a few feet in front of me through the solid sheets of water. I didn't see the shelter. I ran in a different direction and still didn't see it. Is my bag going to stay dry? I continued running, occasionally seeing a tree trunk. They all looked the same. My light caught the reflective strips on Dan and Jess's trekking poles. I was going the wrong way. If worse comes to worse, I thought, I could crouch under their tarp. Maybe I could ask for help. Later I would laugh at the thought of knocking on their hammock. "Hey, umm could you give me directions?" I decided against it and continued running.
My hair was plastered to my face and I was sure my bag had soaked through. I tripped over something -- Ian's hammock. Damn. Wrong again. I ran and thought of being out here all night in the cold, lost in an unfamiliar woods. Could I get hypothermia? What would happen if my headlamp went out? When I felt myself panic I stopped. I was still in the campsite. That was good. I walked to where I thought Dan and Jess's hammock was. I found it. I faced the direction the shelter should have been in and counted my steps. One. Two. Three. Before I reached twenty my light caught the wooden beams three feet in front of me. Thank God.
My feet crunched on the gravel floor and I birthed my sleeping bag onto the wooden platform. I grabbed my pack from the wall and found the spare outfit I had been ready to send home. I flung my sodden clothes on the ground as headlamps went on and I shakily got into dry clothes. When I turned around I found that the boys had unfolded my (dry!) bag out onto a sleeping pad. That small gesture would have made me emotional had I not had just one thought in my mind: getting in that bag. I climbed in and pulled on some socks. Sweet, sweet, glorious dirty smelly warm woolen socks. I was dry. No longer lost. Among friends.
I curled up on my side and put my wet hair outside of my bag. My shoulder and hip dug into the wooden floor and my full bladder squirmed as I lay there in blissful comfort. My heart beat furiously against my ribs. The rain continued, so loudly at points that it masked the sound of thunder that shook the shelter floor. If I hadn't woken everyone up, this would have. I was grateful to be there, even among the spiders, mouse turds, and snoring men.
Maybe my pack was worth its weight after all.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
70 miles in 7 days
I made it past week one. My clothes smell pretty rank but it's a small price to pay for all these beautiful mountains.
Owen and I hiked with Mad Patter for three days, and we already miss him. It's amazing to me how fast you can bond with someone who is struggling through and loving the same things you are. He's trying to get to Maine, so he's pulled ahead of us, but I suspect I'll hike with him again before I'm done. Right now we're moving at the same pace as a family of 6, dubbed the Care Bear family. They did a whopping 18 miles just in one day. I keep reading about other hikers in the shelter logs who are a day or two ahead of us. Part of me wants to have the trail to myself, and part of me wants to meet whoever I can. Now that memorial day is over the weekend hikers have thinned out and we've got a bit more peace in the woods.
I don't have a trail name yet, though Owen and Mad Patter have been trying. For some reason they wanted to call me Girly Q, or Lavendar Farts, or even Sock Sniffer (I have a fascination with how horrible my socks smell... somehow they make it up to my nose at the end of the day. It's always bad.) Thankfully none of their names for me have stuck.
Owen and I have been coming up with a rap for y'all. It's not ready yet, but I discovered a video setting on my camera, so I suspect you'll be seeing it. We also have stupid sayings we come up with while we're walking, like "serious miles, serious smiles," or "underwear free since day three." He's a good hiking partner. We like singing the blues and some soul. I often find myself laughing as I struggle up an incline. Keeps the bears away.
We're definitely getting into a good routine. Already I get tired when its dark and wake up after the sun's up for a bit, usually 7:30. It's great that I don't need an alarm and my body knows exactly what to do. In general, its a lot easier to take care of myself out here.
I had a few pictures I was going to share, but the computer's giving me trouble. My internet time is about to run out anyway, and the girl next to me is giving me dirty looks. I must smell worse than I think.
I'm off to resupply my food and send a few postcards. I'm looking forward to buying some greek yogurt, raspberries, and a head of lettuce for lunch. Once we're done in town we'll do another 4 miles on the trail today. Then tomorrow we'll make it to our first state border!
Thanks for all your comments. It was awesome hearing from you guys.
I'll be in town again in about 5 days.
Owen and I hiked with Mad Patter for three days, and we already miss him. It's amazing to me how fast you can bond with someone who is struggling through and loving the same things you are. He's trying to get to Maine, so he's pulled ahead of us, but I suspect I'll hike with him again before I'm done. Right now we're moving at the same pace as a family of 6, dubbed the Care Bear family. They did a whopping 18 miles just in one day. I keep reading about other hikers in the shelter logs who are a day or two ahead of us. Part of me wants to have the trail to myself, and part of me wants to meet whoever I can. Now that memorial day is over the weekend hikers have thinned out and we've got a bit more peace in the woods.
I don't have a trail name yet, though Owen and Mad Patter have been trying. For some reason they wanted to call me Girly Q, or Lavendar Farts, or even Sock Sniffer (I have a fascination with how horrible my socks smell... somehow they make it up to my nose at the end of the day. It's always bad.) Thankfully none of their names for me have stuck.
Owen and I have been coming up with a rap for y'all. It's not ready yet, but I discovered a video setting on my camera, so I suspect you'll be seeing it. We also have stupid sayings we come up with while we're walking, like "serious miles, serious smiles," or "underwear free since day three." He's a good hiking partner. We like singing the blues and some soul. I often find myself laughing as I struggle up an incline. Keeps the bears away.
We're definitely getting into a good routine. Already I get tired when its dark and wake up after the sun's up for a bit, usually 7:30. It's great that I don't need an alarm and my body knows exactly what to do. In general, its a lot easier to take care of myself out here.
I had a few pictures I was going to share, but the computer's giving me trouble. My internet time is about to run out anyway, and the girl next to me is giving me dirty looks. I must smell worse than I think.
I'm off to resupply my food and send a few postcards. I'm looking forward to buying some greek yogurt, raspberries, and a head of lettuce for lunch. Once we're done in town we'll do another 4 miles on the trail today. Then tomorrow we'll make it to our first state border!
Thanks for all your comments. It was awesome hearing from you guys.
I'll be in town again in about 5 days.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Blisters and rain and bear hangs
We drove up a winding, one-lane Forest Service road for half hour to an hour, curving along a mountain and trying not to look over the edge. The road was dirt and gravel, and at times it seemed the car didn't want to climb as much as we were making it. Tami said, "this proves how much we love you," and immediately the tires spun and the engine slowed. Dad tried to move again up the steep incline but the tires just spun, the car rolled back a little, and the oil and battery lights went on. The car started to smell. He tried again. We sat in panicked silence.
I was grateful to see a bold black plus painted on the front of an army truck that came bumbling down the road toward us. They checked the engine of our car, but really we just needed to get into a different position so all four of our tires could grip the road. We continued to the top of the mountain and finally found our first white blaze of the AT.
The first day went well. I've been so overstimulated in the past few months that it was hard to register what I was doing. The trail was beautiful and I was overly excited and sometimes thinking, wait, what am I doing? We purified water we got from a stream by a shelter and decided to keep moving. Our initial goal was to take it easy and do about 8 miles a day, but we decided to move farther before making camp.
In order for bears to not "lick your toes while you're sleeping," as fellow hiker Catfish says, hikers set up a bear hang. All of our food was hoisted up onto a branch with a rope that we then tied to the base of the tree. That was the most frustrating part of the day for me. I had expected that setting a line for a bear hang would come easy, as it's similar to setting a climbing line for arborist work, which I did at school. Then I remember that I never was good at setting lines. Rain spattered on us just as I finished tying the knot around the tree, and Owen and I ran toward our hammocks. "See you tomorrow!" he yelled.
I dove in my hammock and squirmed around until I was in a semi-comfortable position and listened to the rain beat on my rain fly. I looked at my watch. It was only 6:30. Suddenly I felt uneasy. What was I going to do for the next three hours? I had paper and pen, but somehow three hours seemed like an enormous amount of time. I had no obligations, no deadlines, no papers to write. I had the basics: I was full, hydrated, well rested, and dry. Now what? Suddenly I felt anxious and lonely, sitting in my hammock with nothing to do but think and wait as the rain continued.
Day two we woke up after getting a solid ten hours of sleep, made oatmeal, and continued on. We got our first view overlooking the mountains. We met up with Mad Patter and hiked with him for most of the day. We were all looking forward to our next water source, which my trail guide said was about four miles ahead. Our bottles were getting low and for the first time I was worried about having enough water. We turned a corner and where the trail crossed a Forest Service road was a 400-gallon army tank that said POTABLE WATER. This was the second time in two days I was happy to see camo. We yelled, but no one was around, so we filled our bottles and happily continued hiking. (Apparently the army trains near one of the shelters we had passed. It explains the helicopters we heard the first night.)
We stopped at the creek. I had a fabulous lunch of tuna and cheese on bagels topped with raisins. Everything tastes good. Again we decided to push on past our mileage and shelter goal so we could get into town early the next day. With a few miles to go, it started raining. I pulled on my jacket and trusted that the plastic bags in my pack would keep everything dry, but when it poured and continued pouring, I had my doubts. Owen went on ahead of me, Mad Patter fell back. Occasionally I'd see a swatch of red or blue in the trees, and then I didn't see either of them for at least a half hour. Rivulets of water raced down the trail and puddles formed in flat spots. Soon the entire trail was filled with rushing water. My shorts and boots soaked through. I didn't care that I was wet; it was warm enough that I wasn't cold. But if my extra pair of clothes and sleeping bag were soaked, I was in for a very cold night. At least I had my rain fly I could use as a tarp. I decided there was nothing I could do and splashed through puddles and enjoyed the feel of the water on my dirty skin. After an hour of telling my feet to move, the rain slowed. I looked in my bag and found my stuff was dry. Eventually we met up at the gap and danced in the street when we realized we had a ride to a hotel in town.
Oh, the luxury of a cheap hotel. We dove in the pool after checking in. We had towels! We ate at a Mexican restaurant and I got a chicken and bacon quesadilla with bell peppers and chipotle ranch and lettuce. I said to Owen, "this is the best thing I've ever eaten." Haahaha. We've only been hiking for two days.
So far I've only got a few blisters and my calves are less sore after sleep. Today we're going to hit the trail and climb the highest peak in the state and then take a fairly easy day after that. We'll probably be in town again on Tuesday or Wednesday. After that I think we'll go into town about once a week to resupply our food.
I'm anxious to get back. It's beautiful out there.
I was grateful to see a bold black plus painted on the front of an army truck that came bumbling down the road toward us. They checked the engine of our car, but really we just needed to get into a different position so all four of our tires could grip the road. We continued to the top of the mountain and finally found our first white blaze of the AT.
The first day went well. I've been so overstimulated in the past few months that it was hard to register what I was doing. The trail was beautiful and I was overly excited and sometimes thinking, wait, what am I doing? We purified water we got from a stream by a shelter and decided to keep moving. Our initial goal was to take it easy and do about 8 miles a day, but we decided to move farther before making camp.
In order for bears to not "lick your toes while you're sleeping," as fellow hiker Catfish says, hikers set up a bear hang. All of our food was hoisted up onto a branch with a rope that we then tied to the base of the tree. That was the most frustrating part of the day for me. I had expected that setting a line for a bear hang would come easy, as it's similar to setting a climbing line for arborist work, which I did at school. Then I remember that I never was good at setting lines. Rain spattered on us just as I finished tying the knot around the tree, and Owen and I ran toward our hammocks. "See you tomorrow!" he yelled.
I dove in my hammock and squirmed around until I was in a semi-comfortable position and listened to the rain beat on my rain fly. I looked at my watch. It was only 6:30. Suddenly I felt uneasy. What was I going to do for the next three hours? I had paper and pen, but somehow three hours seemed like an enormous amount of time. I had no obligations, no deadlines, no papers to write. I had the basics: I was full, hydrated, well rested, and dry. Now what? Suddenly I felt anxious and lonely, sitting in my hammock with nothing to do but think and wait as the rain continued.
Day two we woke up after getting a solid ten hours of sleep, made oatmeal, and continued on. We got our first view overlooking the mountains. We met up with Mad Patter and hiked with him for most of the day. We were all looking forward to our next water source, which my trail guide said was about four miles ahead. Our bottles were getting low and for the first time I was worried about having enough water. We turned a corner and where the trail crossed a Forest Service road was a 400-gallon army tank that said POTABLE WATER. This was the second time in two days I was happy to see camo. We yelled, but no one was around, so we filled our bottles and happily continued hiking. (Apparently the army trains near one of the shelters we had passed. It explains the helicopters we heard the first night.)
We stopped at the creek. I had a fabulous lunch of tuna and cheese on bagels topped with raisins. Everything tastes good. Again we decided to push on past our mileage and shelter goal so we could get into town early the next day. With a few miles to go, it started raining. I pulled on my jacket and trusted that the plastic bags in my pack would keep everything dry, but when it poured and continued pouring, I had my doubts. Owen went on ahead of me, Mad Patter fell back. Occasionally I'd see a swatch of red or blue in the trees, and then I didn't see either of them for at least a half hour. Rivulets of water raced down the trail and puddles formed in flat spots. Soon the entire trail was filled with rushing water. My shorts and boots soaked through. I didn't care that I was wet; it was warm enough that I wasn't cold. But if my extra pair of clothes and sleeping bag were soaked, I was in for a very cold night. At least I had my rain fly I could use as a tarp. I decided there was nothing I could do and splashed through puddles and enjoyed the feel of the water on my dirty skin. After an hour of telling my feet to move, the rain slowed. I looked in my bag and found my stuff was dry. Eventually we met up at the gap and danced in the street when we realized we had a ride to a hotel in town.
Oh, the luxury of a cheap hotel. We dove in the pool after checking in. We had towels! We ate at a Mexican restaurant and I got a chicken and bacon quesadilla with bell peppers and chipotle ranch and lettuce. I said to Owen, "this is the best thing I've ever eaten." Haahaha. We've only been hiking for two days.
So far I've only got a few blisters and my calves are less sore after sleep. Today we're going to hit the trail and climb the highest peak in the state and then take a fairly easy day after that. We'll probably be in town again on Tuesday or Wednesday. After that I think we'll go into town about once a week to resupply our food.
I'm anxious to get back. It's beautiful out there.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)