Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail Read online

  “Skywalker,” Sal asked me. “Do we have a claim on the bathroom if it was our idea first?”

  “At that altitude I’m not being denied,” I declared.

  Stories abounded on the trail of shelters so densely packed that everybody has to sleep sideways. When somebody needs to shift sides, there is a countdown, one-two-three, and all twenty or thirty bodies shift in unison. I never got in one that completely crowded, but this evening was the closest thing to it. We looked like circus clowns we were so packed in, with the hoods of our sleeping bags cinched in the cold.

  Derrick Knob Shelter—mile 191

  4-28-05: Muslims kneel with their heads on the ground pointed towards Mecca. We hikers should do the same for several hours per day, but with our heads aimed at Mount Katahdin.—SkyWalker

  Again, I was up at first light. But there was more company this morning because with the higher elevation it had been even colder than the previous evening. And unlike the previous day, this day didn’t even start out nice as the wind, fog, and periodic sleet predominated.

  The worrisome thing was that the group that had been joking about sleeping in the bathroom was preparing to leave with uncharacteristic dispatch. When they filed out of the shelter and disappeared into the fog Sal, Scavenger, and I looked at each other thinking the same thing.

  “Bastards,” Scavenger yelled in their direction.

  The trail was a quagmire from the steady precipitation and heavy use. Whereas I had only fallen once in the first two hundred miles, my legs came out from under me several times in the next ten miles. Inevitably, many hikers, including me, tried walking off to the side of the trail or even to straddle it.

  When Sal, Scavenger, and I got to Siler’s Bald Shelter at 5,460 feet the drizzle had turned into a steady rain and the visibility was now reduced to about fifty feet. We were getting ready to head up to Clingman’s Dome, the highest point on the AT, where things could only be worse.

  Renewing my concerns about hypothermia, I was reduced to muttering, “God, all that physical conditioning and weight-gaining I did for months to get ready for the AT and it all goes out the window in nineteen days. I can feel myself hemorrhaging weight. And that makes you more vulnerable to hypothermia. I’m back to pissing a lot. It all weakens you.”

  “Skywalker, you exaggerate,” Scavenger jumped in, protesting. “We’re all in the same damn situation; cold as shit. You don’t look like you’re about to die and you’re keeping up with us.”

  Scavenger was iconoclastic, but not egocentric. So despite the irony of a nineteen-year old lecturing a forty-four-year-old, I said, “I apologize. And you can bet your bottom dollar when the weather finally turns warm, you won’t hear a single word of bitching out of me.” It was a promise I was to keep.

  I pulled out my sleeping bag and lay inside it to retain body heat, with my backpack as a pillow. An air of indecisiveness pervaded the shelter. Finally, Sal Paradise got up very purposefully, strapped on his backpack, said, “Love it or leave it,” and disappeared up the mountain and into the fog. I got up and followed him by a few minutes.

  I continued trying to straddle and walk to the side of the trail in order to avoid wallowing or falling in the mud. Sal and I were turning one corner and I took an especially wide turn away from the muddy trail when I heard somebody screaming at me from the opposite direction. “You’re not hiking on the Appalachian Trail,” the voice berated me. “I don’t know what trail it is, but it’s not the Appalachian Trail.”

  A late twenty-ish fellow with a patch on his jacket that said “Ridge Runner” came right up to me and yelled, “Why are you off the trail?” I filibustered a bit that I was falling a lot and the trail was dysfunctional. Sal looked on amused. He had been doing the same thing, if not in the serial fashion I was. But a tongue lashing was the least of my concerns; being cold was the foremost.

  “Is there a public bathroom at Clingman’s Dome?” I asked him.

  “Yes, but don’t sleep in there,” he immediately shot back. “A group ahead of you just asked me the same thing.” Sal and I looked knowingly at each other (“those slimebags.”)

  When I started to head off he renewed his magisterial tone, “Now let me see you stay on the trail.”

  “But look at the damn trail,” I said, exasperated.

  “That’s what you bought those expensive boots for,” he answered with certainty. “Plant them in the mud and put one foot after another. That way you will avoid a two-hudred-dollar citation.”

  The part about one foot in front of another proved prophetic. The trail soon turned up a narrow ledge that didn’t allow any more lateral dodges. Two guys who had been at the shelter the previous evening came up and I ended up between them, silently marching one foot after another in the mountain’s deep mud. I felt like a pack mule.

  We were nearing the highest point on the AT, as evidenced by the falling temperature. The high altitude and Fraser fir trees lent the area an alpine setting belying its comparatively southern geographical location. It was a pristine setting and gave impetus for a tired person to keep on humping.

  Finally, the sign appeared pointing to Clingman’s Dome Observatory Tower. Sal was waiting there, and Scavenger soon arrived from behind. We were now at the highest point on the entire Appalachian Trail and very close to the highest point in the eastern United States.

  A U.S. Senator from Tennessee, named Clingman, had maintained a long-running dispute with a professor from North Carolina, named Mitchell, over which state had the highest peak. Finally, both mountains were surveyed and the mountain in North Carolina was forty feet higher than Clingman’s Dome. So Professor Mitchell had won, but, lo and behold, fell to his death from a cliff on the mountain bearing his name.

  Desperate is desperate. We started the half-mile trek to the Clingman’s Dome bathroom. All along the way we engaged in false bravado about what we’d do if we arrived and the group from last night’s shelter already had it fully occupied. “With ten million visitors per year in this park they ought to have a half-decent place to take a crap,” I said hopefully.

  “The women’s bathroom might make more sense from the standpoint of hygiene,” Sal noted dryly.

  “No, let’s do this right, dammit,” I said insistently.

  Suddenly, two barracks-like buildings appeared out of the fog to the left. We entered the bathroom which was empty, but the first impression was uninviting. It was dingy and somewhat cramped quarters. The ceiling was low, and it would be a stretch to fit three people unless one of us slept with his head under a urinal. Worse yet, the floor was covered with a cleaning solution that would get our sleeping bags wet.

  “Skywalker,” Scavenger said loudly, “I can see my breath. It’s cold as shit in here.”

  “Well, it’s warmer than a damn shelter,” I said defensively

  “Look at all this steam rising off my urine,” Sal exclaimed. “What temperature is it in here?”

  Irked, I said, “Well, let’s see what the women’s restroom is like.” But a quick tour revealed that the fundamentals were essentially the same. We had to decide what to do, and quickly.

  We were on a ridge, well above six thousand feet, and exposed to howling winds. Downhill from the bathrooms was a parking lot for the Clingman’s Dome Observatory. Not surprisingly, it was practically abandoned. Further, it was twenty-two miles down winding mountain roads to the resort town of Gatlinburg. It was obvious we couldn’t stay out here exposed for long.

  Another hiker we recognized from the previous night’s shelter, Snackman, appeared in the distance.

  “There’s a couple without a backpack behind me,” he reported.

  Presuming they owned one of the three remaining vehicles in the lot, I said, “Sal, use your diplomatic skills on them.” Sal walked over to them and, after a quiet conversation, he came back and flashed the thumbs-up sign.

  We loaded up our backpacks and started down the cold, windy trek down a snake of a road. Then suddenly I screamed to Sal, “Where the
hell is Scavenger?”

  He looked around alarmed. Three of us were in the back of the pickup truck. But Snack Man, the new arrival, was the third.

  “Oh, my God! What should I do?” Sal panicked. He started beating on the window at the driver and signaling back up the mountain, but to no avail.

  “We’ve been together since the second day on the trail,” he moaned disconsolately.

  The steep road to Gatlinburg offered some of the finest scenery I’ve ever witnessed. Lush green forests, sharp, jagged mountains, and rushing water abounded. The temperature and visibility increased steadily as we descended. By the time the driver dropped us off in Gatlinburg I was in disbelief.

  “It’s twenty or thirty degrees warmer down here than up on the mountain,” I said exuberantly.

  “Oh yeah,” Sal said. “Weather forecasts in town are utterly useless to hikers.”

  I was even more cheerful as we checked in at the one motel in town, which was known as “hiker friendly.” Some didn’t even allow such vermin on their grounds. While I sat there savoring the comforts of this downmarket motel, Sal said, “I’ve got to go back out and see if I can’t find Scavenger.”

  An hour later, Scavenger and Sal walked in and Scavenger yelled out, “Bastards.”

  After some heated explaining on our part he lashed out again. “None of those assholes in their fancy cars would pick me up once I got to the main road. Finally, some hippies came along in an old car and were decent enough to give me a lift.”

  I had known Sal Paradise and Scavenger for six days and Snack Man for two hours, but we laughed and clowned it up that night at dinner as if we were all best friends. The grim conditions of the past three days had given us that elusive sense of shared ordeal. All things considered I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be, or anything I’d rather be doing. Not even a phone call to my mother dampened my mood. She expressed disbelief that I had made just fifty miles of forward progress in the last week. “Bill, you had better start thinking of making it to New Jersey,” she advised.

  Chapter 6

  The Appalachians have had a tremendous effect on the country’s development. It’s a 2,500-mile chain of more or less continuous mountain ridges and valleys. They span three hundred to 350 miles in width in the southern Appalachians, and eighty to one hundred miles of width in the northern regions, and are consistently more steeply inclined and jagged than the Rockies and Sierras. In fact, this inhospitable terrain had the effect of restricting the British settlement of the Americas to thirteen seaside colonies. And to this day there are still only a handful of roads that pierce the hills to link the east coast with the heartland.

  Looking over the craggy, rugged landscape, another thought occurred as well: No wonder people living in terrain like this tend to be more provincial and less cosmopolitan than somebody living in Manhattan or Boston. These two seaboard cities have easy waterway access to ships from all over the world. What’s more, as major entry ports for immigrants, they’re regularly exposed to diverse cultures and ideas. Compare that to people living in these parts. It was often said they live so far in the “hollers” they have to pipe in the daylight. Of course, in popular culture this has all spawned multitudes of yarns about incestuous hillbillies.

  But the hardworking, pleasant nature of the denizens of these parts has won over many an unsuspecting soul from other parts. Thomas Jefferson, a Virginian, believed virtue and character came directly from rootedness and attachment to the land. This set him in direct opposition to rival Alexander Hamilton, a New York central banker, who extolled the virtues of large cities. Needless to say, the AT is an overwhelmingly Jeffersonian experience.

  Miraculously, the weather had cleared and we were afforded some of the breathtaking views the Smokies are known for. We passed an area known as “Charlie’s Bunion,” a rocky outcropping that stuck out like a bunion on a hiker’s foot. Then the trail traipsed a chillingly narrow shelf called “the Sawteeth,” which features steep cliffs on both sides, poised above scenes of incredible mountain grandeur. This exposed ridge would have been nigh impossible to do in the wet, windy weather of a few days before. But despite the often miserable weather and rugged terrain the Smokies are a must-see destination.

  Finally, the trail finally left the ridgeline and descended several miles into a forest bursting with spring flowers and watery coves. The northeastern boundary of Smoky Mountain National Park is at Davenport Gap. Standing Bear, a new hostel, had just opened near there. The owner, Curtis, showed me around his newly constructed bunk house, but as usual, the bunks weren’t nearly long enough. He asked if I minded sharing the guesthouse with another hiker.

  The hiker, named “Drama,” was doing “work for stay,” an arrangement in which a hiker does various tasks around the hostel in return for free stay. It wasn’t clear whether Drama was male or female, a mystery that created a stir among other hikers. When Curtis noted my apparent reluctance he said, “What have you got to lose if it’s a he-she or she-he? You’ve got a bed to sleep in.” His reasoning was ineluctable, and I nodded my assent.

  Around the campfire that night Drama regaled us with her trials and tribulations. “I was a sex worker for several years,” Drama intoned. “I specialized in S&M.”

  “What is S&M?” I meekly asked. It must have been a stupid question the way everyone looked at me—not Drama—strangely.

  “Sado-masochism,” Drama solemnly said. “I was a dominatrix in several films.”

  “I’m sorry,” I again interrupted reluctantly. “I’ve heard the word ‘dominatrix,’ but could you define it for me.”

  “Sure,” Drama replied helpfully. “A dominatrix is someone who takes the upper hand over a man during sex, usually with a combination of toys and weapons.” Again I seemed to be the person getting the most odd looks and finally decided to go to bed.

  When I pulled my clothing bag out I looked all around for both sets of longs johns. Thrashing around frantically everywhere in the backpack it soon became obvious they weren’t there. The thought immediately occurred that perhaps Drama thought some XXL long-johns might jazz up her wardrobe in her other career. But the more likely explanation was that while shivering this morning at six thousand feet—as I hurriedly packed up in the maze of clothing and equipment hanging off various hooks in the Tri-Corner Knob Shelter—I hadn’t packed them.

  Without long-johns I shivered, tossed, and turned again for the second straight night, and wondered if I hadn’t spent more energy trying to stay warm that night than in the day’s hike. Also, I had gone to bed wondering when Drama was going to return to the room we were sharing, and whether I needed to be on alert. But Drama never arrived, and in the morning I noticed Drama had tented out. Perhaps Drama was just as afraid of me as I was of Drama. If so, that was a well-needed ego boost for an insecure, rookie hiker!

  It is often a great relief to emerge from extended deep immersion in the woods and confront civilization. And it’s especially cool in a town like Hot Springs where hikers follow the white AT blazes on the telephone poles right down the main street. This town’s mineral baths had so mesmerized German prisoners of war during World War II that many chose to stay there. One of its main industries now is hikers, and a center of hiker activity is Elmer Hall’s Sunnybank Inn.

  Elmer had hiked about eighty percent of the trail in 1976. He was so captivated by the experience that he purchased a two-story Victorian edifice in Hot Springs—that is a state historical site—to put up hikers. When I entered he made it clear this was no ordinary business. “You are a guest in my house,” he plainly stated. “You are expected to follow my guidelines.” He handed me a rules sheet.

  “For sure,” I replied and ambled upstairs with my backpack.

  I wandered down the main street where hikers were making rounds of the usual places (outfitter, grocery store, Laundromat, Post Office).

  I passed a motel where a tall, leggy brunette was pulling something out of a red Volkswagen. Our eyes met and she came over to ask,
“We saw you walking into town and were making bets. Just how tall do you happen to be anyway?”

  “Almost as tall as my little sister,” I replied to her horror. (My sister is actually 5’10”).

  “Are you a hiker?” I wanted to know.

  “Not only am I a hiker,” she replied, “but I hiked the entire width of the Appalachian Trail just today.” This seemed like a pretty good line, but it unfortunately ended up being the first of approximately sixty-three times I would hear it from her over the next several hours.

  “Do you want to see my home?” she asked. “My name is Tanya, by the way.” No other hiker, or any female on the trail, had invited me to see her home, so I readily accepted.

  When we got over to the red Volkswagen, brimming to the top with clothes, she cheerfully said, “Welcome to my home.”

  “Do you sleep at this motel?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she replied, “and I’ve got a big king-size bed you could probably fit in. Come take a look.” Entranced, I dutifully followed her as she pulled out the key to her “big” private room.

  Upon entering the room she said, “Look at this bed.” She jumped into it and lay down as if exhibiting a toy, as I looked on in amazement. “Here, try it,” she slapped on the mattress right next to her. “If you have to, you can lie diagonally.” This was surreal on the face of it. But there was something about this girl’s modus operandi that said she wasn’t the genie out of a bottle that she might seem on the surface.

  I went to the post office to check on the long-johns I had ordered. When I returned to Tanya’s hotel she was engaged in an animated discussion outside her “room” with G.I. Joe, a big, red-headed hiker of about thirty. He trained his total attention on her to the exclusion of me, and I didn’t feel compelled or able to outlast him. I moved off to the grocery store to re-supply.