TRAIL DAY 38
Tue, Mar 29, 2016 It was a good, kind and informative group at the Groundhog Creek Shelter, if one there seemed excessively busy and reminiscent of the vast load of responsibilities we all carry in the daily crush of what can be the overwhelming society in which we participate.
Pictures tell me that I was up and out ahead of the others that morning as they all waved a friendly farewell. I was aware the parting would be temporary for, in their youth, they would bear down upon me in time.
For some reason, I have an uncanny memory for numbers. I can remember a bill down to the penny and I remember many distances and times on the trail. They’re just stuck in my mind like the cornerstone of a building.
After Groundhog Shelter, I hiked 5.4 miles nonstop!
I just had a drive on. I was all go. Climb after climb non-stop. It hadn’t happened before and it wouldn’t happen after. I wondered if there’d been something in the tapioca at Standing Bear. Maybe my biorhythms were simply in blast-off mode on another nice, dry, sunny day with all systems “go!” I was at home, in my element, like an expert skier shushing through deep powder on a double black diamond slope. . . .
Oh, maybe now’s the time to catch the spirit in the West gene. It’s something that takes the deep dive, jumps from high cliffs, drops off a precipice into plumes of white, digs into the gut and leaps into air. Catch it in my poem for my brother who skied over a 100 days per year when he could until he died. I remembered him this way at his memorial service:
Feel that wind in your face
Feel your hair blown back
The crisp bite on your forehead
The crystals in your nose
The burning in your lungs
The strength in your legs
Look out in space –
Your body knows the land
Headlong take it now
No need for careful plan
Take it bold and take it strong
Take it like the wind
Take the drop without a care
Sing your freedom hymn
Snow tunnels forming
In the rush of timber
Through powder
Spirit high – adrift
Pressed down – then soaring
Is ever wind so swift?
Come winter day
Where land falls off
Come white and pure and deep and new
Come pathway to the clouds
Travelers there are few
Stand tall and lofty pines
All bearded deep in white
Stand and watch your kin aloft
For he’ll soon again take flight
Whistle wind
Blown white in wisps
And catch him if you can
For few there are
Who know such speed –
Few who understand
Blow gentle, breeze
As he passes by
Blow gentle if you will
For the one you thought you’d catch
Stands yet again atop the hill
Your breath is his and he is yours
As long as snow does fall
And when it rustles through the trees
You’ll hear my brother call. . . .
He’s the tallest timber
In the wood
He’s a mountain of a man
He’s the snow that sweeps ‘cross the field
The sun that splinters at the crest
That’s my brother standing there
That’s my brother – now at rest
Oh, the trail is not just boots on the ground. It is not just an excursion into the space that surrounds you. Yes, it is that – and thank God: Earth, like a stage. And the actors aren’t just figures standing in place. They stand, move and act to impart some truth about our existence here, about this place we share, about the inner cosmos of our lives, the unseen, bigger truths of being, like a hand reaching skyward.
I can’t help but pour myself into my tale of the trail. I hope some little glimmer of light shines through my musings and that the reader will want to stay with me, walking forward into the sunbeams leading us on our way north.
Shortly after my 5.4-mile “Marathon” I came upon Trail Magic where a gal had driven her white sedan along a dirt road to its intersection with the trail. The “Magic” in Trail Magic surely relates to the fact that it shows up when you least expect it – in fact, you never expect it. Like a breaching whale, it just rises up out of the deep woods – like Magic!
We would soon come to a treeless mountain, Max Patch, the first genuine bald. The woods had been grey, brown, tan and dry. Emerging from them onto green grass mounding into a blue sky was like water for the thirsty – an oasis in the desert. From the top of Max Patch there was a sweep of 360̊ completely uninterrupted. Someone offered to take a picture of me and Theo and I took several pictures of the views. One person I spoke with told me it was his fourth time on the bald and the first time he had a view. It did seem God was smiling on me.
I didn’t stay long on the bald before heading north again. I can picture the trail and the short descent to the tree line where I stopped in the shade for lunch. I can almost taste what I had. Some southbound ladies came along and we chatted for a bit before they moved on leaving ever-so-slight a residue of “I should get going” which I managed to ignore for a little longer as a troop of young hikers soon made their way northbound.
When it was time to go, I took one last picture of the barren hill and entered the woods soon arriving at the first of countless rhododendron tunnels. At the far end, I came upon a heavily bearded hiker stopped in the trail as if waiting for a companion. We chatted a bit and I moved on.
The tunnel and surrounding fields must have been used for grazing because we came to an angled gate requiring a zigzag course to get through – something cattle can’t do. On one of the posts were two offset blazes indicating a left turn. I took the left and kept walking along a dirt road. After a half mile I realized I wasn’t seeing any more blazes nor the common indicia of the trail. I opted to turn around and when I got back to the gate I saw Disco and Teach again, both looking fit for hiking. They weren’t thru-hiking – just out for a week or so. Together we noted that immediately after the left, the trail turned off the road to the right back into the woods. They led and were gone.
I was back on track.
As evening came on, I approached another “bald” described by AWOL as “Walnut Mountain, grassy clearing.” Over the summit past the clearing and down into the woods was the Walnut Mountain Shelter, the first of many spots where I would forget to send my GPS signal, perhaps because I was enjoying the company of a goodly group of fellow hikers.
There was “Happy” in his late 60s; newly married; he and his wife were headed for the Alps in a few weeks and he was getting ready. He was, indeed, happy and had a good sense of humor.
Then there were “Zero,” “No zip” and “Rookie” (a sobo).
There were Tim and his two sons, Jerrod and Courtney and then “Ziggy-Doo” from Quebec, “Scuba,” “Gadgets,” “Soto,” and “Rocky.” Tim and his sons were from Sheffield Village, Ohio. They were the first of several people I would meet in the south who came from that state to hike a portion of the AT. It was probably Courtney who pointed out that Jerrod was the last in his family to make it to the shelter. Jerrod was quick to add that he was carrying all the food and had the heaviest pack by far.
We talked about stoves, electronics and places of origin. Someone mentioned “wevideo” and a Google search tells me its an online video editing program! I could be very interested.
It was a cold night and we huddled around our stoves to keep warm. Tim and his sons had built a fire but it was hard to cluster around it and tend to supper.
After our meals, we headed back to the grassy summit to watch the sun set. The young hikers I had seen while having lunch had tents pitched on the hill in full view of the bright orange glow. It was still cold but we held tight for the spectacle.
When the sky darkened, we headed back to the shelter leaving silhouettes behind us.
The water source was down a path behind the shelter and was not easy to find. As I searched in the woods for the very small stream, I could see the lights of a distant camper and beyond the lights of Wasp, Tennessee some distance to the west.
I crawled into my sleeping bag fully clothed against the cold. Ziggy-doo crawled into her hammock which swung freely in the chill night air.
Day #38 Groundhog Creek Shelter > Walnut Mountain Shelter 13.1 miles