TRAIL DAY 43

Sun, Apr 3, 2016 Before leaving Hot Springs, I must acknowledge this day as I write, a year later. I can’t imagine anyone undertaking the arduous adventure of an AT thru-hike and simply returning to life as if they had just been to the corner grocery store.

The day I’m writing is a beautiful spring day in eastern Pennsylvania. My wife and I drove to see one of our three sons who teaches French and Spanish at The Hill School in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. We enjoyed a nice breakfast together and then drove south to Phoenixville, Pennsylvania to surprise one of our two daughters who is working at a café there. It has been a delightful day with two of our five absolutely magnificent adult children.

We drove around the Phoenixville area and went to the Valley Forge National Historical Park where I started the 170-mile Horse-Shoe Trail on September 4, 2013. It was a day for being outside and here I was walking a very short weekend walk on a well-worn trail as a tourist, completely indistinguishable from all the others tourists. I was lacking, and missing, that subtle superiority we felt on the trail when we knew we were walking over 2,000 miles northbound and the weekenders were amazed at our undertaking. We were in it for the long haul and had all we needed on our backs.

Today, I was not leaving Newfound Gap for Maine but was rather one of the tourists, one of the visitors who would return to their cars. I felt my otherness and a quiet, dull ache inside. I was not as present to my family as I should have been and I could not say why. I was lonely and a little sad. I am different – like the Uruguayan rugby team members who survived the airplane crash in the Andes on Friday, October 13, 1972. Those rugged rugby players, remembered in the movie “Alive,” had to canalize their deceased teammates to survive and now they have to get together every year to connect with those who understand who they are and what they carry inside.

My experience is far less severe than theirs but it participates in that same otherness from the crowd. I have experienced something that very few you meet in ordinary life know much about. What I did is strange, different, other. The vast majority of people have no real comprehension of how my psyche has changed. It’s lonely. I miss the hikers who know. I miss the AT thru-hikers of 2016.

And I know it’s hard on those who have lost a major part of me. The sun on our backs is not the same.

O.K. Hot Springs. Back to Hot Springs.

Hot Springs, North Carolina is the first town the AT passes right through. I left HLHL not by the usual road downtown but by a section of the AT leading perpendicular to that road and along a high knoll above the town. The descent took us to the south end of town where there was a run-down motor home and a very modest dwelling or two that were poorly maintained. I had my last breakfast at the Smoky Mountain Diner while Theo stayed outside on the porch. He never needed to be tied up because he would always stay as close to me as he could. Running away was simply not in his bag of tricks. In fact, he didn’t have any tricks except to find a way to get closer and get a rub or food.

After breakfast, I walked through town past the Mission, over Spring Creek, past Spring Creek Tavern and Hot Springs BBQ, both of which I had enjoyed, and onto Bridge Street which took me over the French Broad River east of town.

Immediately on the other side, the AT left the road to the right for a stretch along the east shore of the river. Perhaps it was the magnetic draw of the rushing water, the sound, or the cool breeze or the beauty of the river, but my attention went there and I missed a turnoff to my left. I ended up following a river trail to some tents pitched on the bank and then turned up hill where it looked like there might be a trail. The climb was very steep, the footing was precarious and “the trail” was less and less well defined.

Wrong move. I carefully made my way back down holding on to saplings or trees where I could and headed back to the last blaze. That was always the failsafe approach – the last blaze. In time, I saw the trail heading off to my right up a steep climb. It was good after false moves to get back on track where you could proceed with confidence. Northbound once again!

Sometime before Hot Springs, a day or two perhaps, I had met a thru-hiker, Tom. He had sprained an ankle and was hiking slowly and, because of his injury I ended up passing him on the trail and learned, as I did so, of his malady. He had left Hot Springs before me and I figured I would catch him again but I never saw him. He must have healed in town and back on the trail, he was gone!

It was another bright, sunny day walking up and down through dry leaves and barren trees. There was nothing in particular to report about the day except that we were back, toes pointed in the right direction.

Maybe it is time to reflect a little on our life on this planet. As I write, I am mindful of my trip this morning to see my orthopedic surgeon for my third post-op office visit following rotator cuff surgery on November 28^th. Events in northern Connecticut and New England are what made this necessary.

For now, suffice it to say that I ended the trail with a massive rotator cuff tear in my right shoulder that required a skin graft to reconnect muscle to tendons and recuperation will be a year plus. I will not regain my full strength and if the surgery fails for any reason, I’ll be in for a reverse shoulder or a shoulder replacement. All worth it.

While I was waiting for the doctor alone in his examining room, his computer monitor was cycling through glorious pictures of our planet: brilliant colors, sunsets, oceans, mountains, forests and much more. As I sat waiting for him and taking in the sights, I was suspended in space, kind of. That is, because of my recent experience and my age and stage in life, I was seeing everything afresh. I was detached from immediate pressures (they are still around, though, I just don’t let them invade my soul as they used to) and aware that my time is shorter than the average reader’s.

I recently wrote a friend: “I am bursting with the promise of life. Am I like a woman who is so beautiful before she gives birth? Am I a man blossoming before withering?”

Some years ago, I observed: “Leaving learns life.”

What I meant by that is that we see things altogether differently when we are about to leave them. . .and so it is with life itself. We see the ocean best on shore, especially if we have been in and felt her all around us, perhaps even plumbed her depths and been tossed by her incomparable force. Stepping aside and letting both ocean and life be while we look on opens up an eternal perspective that outlines reality in bold, brilliant, shimmering and vibrant relief. And what an unspeakable privilege it is for me now to take the time to taste each day Theo and I had in the wilderness!

The day April 3, 2016 ended at Spring Mountain Shelter, 2000′ up from Hot Springs and 11 miles north. Several German hikers set up camp on a hill above the shelter. Bear bag cables were just east of the trail on the way up to their location and we all hung our victuals aloft. This cable system was used in the south while bear poles were more common in the north.

The cable system involved a single cable stretched between two trees a good 12 to 15 feet above ground. Perhaps 5 pulleys would be evenly spaced on the cable and each would have a long, looped cable running through it. At opposite ends of the loop was a large closing hook, the top one for the bear bag and the bottom one to fix to an eye hook screwed into the tree. You’d unhook the cable loop from the tree and run it through the suspended pulley to lower to hook for your bear bag, hook you bag, raise it to the top cable and fasten the hook to the eye hook once again. This was a very effective way of keeping food out of the way of bears. It was getting warmer and they’d be out scavenging soon.

Hanging bear bags was a big deal and there were probably as many views on the subject as there were hikers. Extreme caution dictates:

Cook far away from where you’re going to sleep;
Do not bring the clothes you cooked in into your tent;
Do not keep toothpaste in your tent;
Do not keep duct tape in your tent;
Remove all food and snacks;
Remove all refuse that smells of food; and
Remove your pack or anything that food spilled on.

These all make sense but I found them a little excessive. I took a little comfort from Theo’s companionship and the general belief that bears don’t like dogs because they are used in hunting. However, I wondered sometimes if bears might be provoked by Theo. One was later but happily I did not live (key word) to regret my somewhat looser approach to hanging.

The worst bear stories I heard involved a boy who went fishing with his dad and kept some of the catch in his tent. He did not survive.

Another was a woman who thought the bears were cute and wanted a picture of a bear licking her child’s hand so she put honey on the hand. The bear ate the hand.

Bad things can happen.

I may have had a false sense of security with Theo around. Incidentally, he never barked at anything – not even approaching hikers when he got used to the idea of others being out there with us. He was always alert and on the lookout for others coming along – but he never, not once, gave any hint of awareness or aggression around bears, deer or any of the creatures of the wild. I think he knew that his first job was to keep up with me and carry his share of the load. Happily, we never had the experience portrayed in William Faulkner’s “The Bear.”

More on bears and what to do about them later.

It was here that I met “Fetch,” a heavy-set fellow who started out in the shelter but advised that his sleeping pad was thin and the hard floor would bruise his hip. He had thrown his crocks up into a tree for reasons I don’t recall and they got stuck. He carried water bottles on his hip belt and had some difficulty with mice in the shelter. Although he was all set up and it was now dark and cold, he decided matter-of-factly to leave the shelter and set up his tent. I felt for him.

Oh, yea, mice, always. They’ll crawl right over your face to get to food scraps or waist belt pouches containing snacks. If you are super mouse-averse, shelters are not for you.

“Castaway” was another hiker at this shelter. I noted that he had sailed in the Chesapeake.

The most memorable encounter here was “Cold-Snap” and her husband, “Diesel.” I loved the name Diesel! You picture the power and roar of an 18-wheeler tearing up the woods on foot with no exhaust. I’m not sure how Diesel’s wife got her name but she was a little brusk in her manner. She had attempted a thru-hike in 2015 but had to quit somewhat north of where we were for a – a shin splint. She was back for another shot with her husband who was carrying a little extra weight but seemed determined. They both did and I hoped they would make it to Maine this time.

Cold-Snap prepared all their food in advance and had arranged for resupply packages to be sent at intervals. They had a lot of good food that I think she cooked at home and dehydrated in a machine (as others would do) for the trail. I admired the planning and effort and envied the selections she gave Diesel to choose from. It wasn’t, “How do you want your filet mignon done?” but it was a lot closer to that than my slim pickin’s. The only thing I didn’t envy was the weight of what seemed a massive food supply.

We shared our meal together at the table in front of the shelter while they got acquainted with Theo then they retired to their tent. I had the cold shelter to myself with electricity – some really were fooled. I’ll confess to a quick doubletake.

I hung my bear bag and hit the sack.

Day #43 HLHL > Spring Mountain Shelter 11 miles