TRAIL DAY 51
Mon, Apr 11, 2016 After Theo’s good night sleep, we would have a fairly short day of ups and downs, nothing too challenging. It was again dry, sunny. I came upon a teacher from a nearby university out hiking with a friend. We spent a little time chatting together. Our conversation somehow brought a touch of civilization to the trail. People had jobs and were still working. I was mindful of my later stage in life – my having the freedom to do what I was doing. Following a mandate in my mind. Sojo and Theo. We were not tied to a lesson plan for a given place and time in life. We were sojourning – together. We were very, very fortunate.
Each day, and sometimes frequently en route, I would study the profile of the trail coming up. I would use a certain, musical or rhythmic cadence to remember what was coming: uuuuup > down > up > dooooown > blip > blip > down. This meant a long up and modest down followed by a short up and longer down and then two relatively short up-and-downs followed by a down.
I say “short” because a 400′ or 500′ climb is a lot shorter than a 3000′ climb. But! There is an interesting phenomenon on the trail, climbing and descending day after day. I came to realize “up is up” no matter the grade or the distance. You are fighting gravity and it’s hard. When you see the profile in AWOL, you think, “peace-a-cake, no big deal.” When you start climbing. . .it’s a big deal. The “short” loses its significance. Besides, when you do a long climb, you know what you’re in for, you’re psychologically prepared and you can rest whenever and wherever you need to. I was able to do my rest technique even on a foot-square ledge of rock – and close my eyes. I was safe and soon refreshed. The “short” concept was a psychological hurdle. It set up the peace-a-cake expectation soon to be dashed.
But the uuup-dooooown rhythms did help me know where I was in the day’s journey. They told me how far I’d come and how far I had still to go.
My AWOL notes for this day include “The Colors of the Wind” from the Walt Disney movie, “Pocahontas.” I had thought of this song many times already for its magnificent poetic thrust. It was the best way for me to capture the feel of a clear day with breezes or a strong wind. Theo and I were painting with all the colors of the wind – with golds and greens, whites and blues, with black, dull silver and the hues of a clear raindrop. We were painting with the bright yellow and orange of fire and the grey-white wisps of wind-blown fog and mist; with the grey-blue chill of ice and the breathless white of snow and frost. The colors of our journey folded in on one another day after day, season after season, storm-and-blue-sky cycle after cycle. It was a breathless time of wind-blown colors rising up without and within. A symphony of life on the loose.
Greasy Creek Hostel (0.6E) didn’t sound too inviting. Kinda took the “color” out of the day and it would take a bit of a hike to get there. I remember the turnoff east and down a rocky trail-turned-road toward the destination. Signs of spent civilization were evident along the way. The 0.6E seemed to keep on going to the point that I felt it best to call if I had signal and verify my course.
A young man answered and told me I was on the right track – they were not much farther on.
I passed a somewhat disheveled homestead on my left and then rounded a bend to the hostel. I would later learn that the homesteader was not at all keen on hikers tramping by his place and had been seen brandishing a rifle at a few some weeks past. I’m glad to be well enough to tell you this.
On arrival, the young man interrupted his work out back building a shed for a water tank. Because I had a dog, he directed me to a shed out back which would be mine alone. The owner of the hostel, Connie, would be back later. Meanwhile, I unloaded in the shed. There was a mattress leaning up against the wall. It would become my bed. A couple of chairs and an outdoor table just inside the door made for a small dining area. I was plenty satisfied.
At the main house there was much to explore. Just inside the entrance was a door to the right into a bunk room. Someone was catching up on sleep. Happy had the other bunk. Opposite the entrance was a wall with shelves of resupplies with prices noted. The honor system was in place at all hostels. To the left was a rack of clothes to use while you washed yours. All hostels had these. Against the entrance wall to the left were the washer and dryer and opposite them was a freezer.
To the left of the freezer was a doorway into the main area. Bathroom to the right. Big table for supper to the left and kitchen to the left of the table. Dining table would not be the right term. “Dining” Suggests a level of elegance lacking here. To the right of the large table was a large black couch facing into a large sitting area. A wood stove was centered in the wall to the right of the couch.
All areas of the house were covered with signs all cattywampus, a term I learned from a client meaning out of control and helter-skelter – all askew. They contained directions for everything: what this or that cost, how to use the bathroom, shower, toilet, toilet paper; the cardboard roll inside was to be recycled, etc.
We soon met the flesh and blood behind the ordered chaos, Connie. She was non-stop talk and the most friendly and finicky female you could imagine. She explained how we were to keep track of our purchases for resupply and for drinks to have with supper. Soda was so much, juice so much, and, if you wanted a beer or a little bottle of booze, you would draw a smiley face or sunbeam or some other specified hieroglyphic to disguise the unlicensed sale of such goods. Who would ever guess? It was nice to have the choice of a spirited libation.
As supper time approached, Connie asked who would like to take a 15-minute ride to the Mountain Grill for a take-out supper. I went along. En route, I got the impression that non-stop Connie was very bright. She had converted from Judaism to Christianity and knew both traditions and their literature very well. She freely divulged countless references to religious themes and doctrines. I was both impressed and saddened by the tireless energy that welled up in this bright, free and seemingly burdened spirit.
From Mountain Grill in Buladean, North Carolina, we could see Roan Mountain to the northeast in Tennessee. It would take the following day to reach the summit in rain.
Back at the hostel, Connie raised a glass of wine with a Hebrew toast and praise for the fruit of the vine – an unusual and warm invitation to dinner.
It was surely dark as I made my way back to the shed where I laid out the mattress, did evening ablutions and turned in.
Day #51 Cherry Gap Shelter > Greasy Creek Hostel 7.2 miles