Erwin, Tennessee mile 342.9
At last a tiny respite from the constant pound, pound, pound on my buggered feet. I’m now in Erwin, Tennessee, mile 343.2. I’ve made 102.7 arduous miles since my last post at “Standing Bear Farm”. In retrospect I’m upset with myself for taking two complete “0” days there. The hope was that my plantar fasciitis, i.e. “Buggered Feet”, would become a bit less painful. I was dead wrong! Two days rest made no difference whatsoever. Taking two days off allowed a lot of people to catch up to me. Not that I mind the people, but all the accommodations become too crowded and I find that unsettling.
A hard push through over 2 feet of snow (i.e. 61 centimetres, or 610mm for you adherents to the metric system) took me over Max Patch Bald. This was probably my worst day so far. It was numb fingers, frozen wet footwear, and punishing wind for a 10 hour slog over a 4,629 foot mountain and 15.1 miles to “Roaring Fork Shelter”.
The next day was a constant fight to stay on the trail because of the myriad rhododendron and laurel bushes being weighed down with snow. I never harboured any particular dislike for rhododendrons before, but when they’re hanging down below your waist across the trail, loaded with wet snow, thwarting your every step, and hiding the white blaze marks, it causes a person to reconsider.
Late afternoon the next day brought me to the small town of Hot Springs, NC. It is reputed to be one of the three most “Trail Friendly” places on the whole Appalachian Trail. I checked in at Elmer’s Hostel. It’s located in a gigantic old southern farm house crammed full of dusty antiques in dingy heavily curtained rooms. Elmer, the proprietor, is a devout follower of Ned Ludd the founder of the Luddite movement. He actually has several books on the subject. Needless to say there was no WiFi, nor computer anything. A man much to my liking.
A laundromat was the first order of business. So, I took my rain gear to cover my nakedness while my clothes were washing and walked the three blocks to the tiny laundromat. While loading the washing machine I was overwhelmed by a persistent feeling of déjàvew. When I looked at the bank of drying machines it struck me. I had in fact been there before in 1973. While attending Catawba College in Salisbury, NC my roommate Gary Schaffer, a colleague Jim Sprat, and I hopped a freight train to Ashville, NC to visit a friend of ours, Jimmy Sprinkle.
At least Ashville was our intended destination. After studying freight movements, I chose a car of pulpwood carded for Knoxville, Tennessee in the Salisbury freight yard. My thought was that the train would stop in Ashville on the way to Knoxville long enough for us to get off. I was wrong. She blew through Ashville without touching a break. Then, after some considerable anxiety, in the wee hours of darkness, somewhere deep in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains the breaks started locking up with with an ear splitting squeal. The train, over 100 cars long, ground to a halt, to wait for the block of track ahead to clear of other traffic. I said “Now’s our chance!” and we jumped off in the middle of nowhere in the intense darkness of an advancing thunder storm. The train soon began to advance with increasing speed leaving us standing in the blackness of a driving rain. Soaked to the skin we began a stumbling hike back toward Ashville. After a two hour or so hike we came to a crossing in a town that turned out to be Hot Springs, North Carolina. It was 3 AM in the morning, but we bumbled into a laundromat that was open. Anxious to get warm and dry we went in and stripped down putting our clothes in the dryers. The local sheriff somehow spotted us and burst in wanting to know “What in tarnation do ya’ll think y’all’s doing in hear at this hour of the day?”
We did our best to explain our situation and he seemed to soften enough that I hazarded a request “Iffin we might be able to spend the rest of the night in the jail to get out of the weather?” He smiled and said “Not lest ya’ll wants to be tried!” So, we put on our dry clothes and crawled under the bridge going over the French Broad River, wrapping up as best we could in a piece of polyethylene plastic we’d brought with us. The next day we hitch hiked back toward Ashville to visit our friend Jimmy Sprinkle that we knew from Catawba College.
You might imagine the memories crashing back on me while my laundry washed. After an hour of pacing around the laundromat in my rain gear, my clothes were clean and dry. On returning to Elmer’s, I asked if he had a phone book. Luckily, Luddites use phone books. I actually found Jimmy Sprinkle and rang him up. Jimmy was dumbfounded to hear from me, and enthusiastically declared he’d come have lunch with me. We met at the Stoney Creek Tavern and caught up on 42 years of life while consuming many locally brewed drafts and excellent grub. Jimmy of course, in true Appalachain tradition, insisted on paying for everything. On parting he said “Gya’ll better take this here can of Long Cut X-tra Wintergreen Skoal snuff to keep you company on the trail.” I’m savouring some just now.
After a long, lonely, climb out of the French Broad River Valley I found a beautiful isolated campsite about 5 miles up the AT. At dusk I was startled by two wild turkeys, and later by deer blowing when they winded me. A strong wind arose as I was falling asleep and a constant rustling of leaves played tricks on my imagination. Was it opossums, flying squirrels, deer, or bears? In the isolating darkness, I couldn’t tell, but I awoke thoroughly rested and unmolested.
Three and a half days of hard hiking has brought me to Erwin, Tennessee, mile 343. I’ve taken what’s referred to as a “Nero”, that is, one night in the “Mountain Inn”. I start this afternoon on the trail again with throbbing feet and ibuprofen coursing through my veins.
In the past few days I’ve seen two snakes lying across the trail. A garter snake and a ring snake; both totally harmless. At the lower altitudes Spring is afoot with countless patches of Mayflower, awakening Galax, and trillium. The diversity of mosses, lichens, and liverworts continues to amaze me. There is so much to learn about in this most diverse portion of our content. However, there’s no time to dally. It’s walk, walk, walk without end if I’m to ever catch up with the ex-marines I started off with at Springer Mountain, Georgia a month ago.
I’ve elected to stay in my tent as much as possible. I sleep much better, and I can walk till the dark sets in, finding level enough campsites as I can. It’s far more challenging to find level ground than you might imagine. Water near a good campsite is even more challenging.
The provided shelters on the trail are atrocious. They are squalid, dark, grottoes with mud caked all over everything. They are hazardous with rusty nails, jagged tin roofing protruding, and mud puddles strategically placed so as to interfere with all movement. Plus, the shelters are vermin infested hell holes with derelict picnic tables, and fire pits that Neanderthals wouldn’t tolerate. Norovirus is rampant, with many hikers succumbing to violent bouts of vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal pain. No joke when you’re days from help or care. Plus, at this stage they are overcrowded, with over exuberant young buck hikers striving to outdo themselves with lame witticisms and I got here first challenges.
A few days ago I engaged one of the “Trail Runners” hired by the US Forest Service to keep some sort of order on the trail as to why the shelters aren’t maintained in better condition. I began by stating that “Lord Nelson’s Royal Navy provided better accommodation for prisoners aboard His Majesty’s Ships in the Napoleonic Wars over 200 years ago than what the Forest Service provides for today’s hikers.” He replied “Lord Who?” Then he went on to leave no doubt about his total ignorance of anything that happened prior to his birth. I continued to rail about the deplorable conditions at all the shelters. We were in front of one of the nastiest double decker models where some brilliant navel architect got the bright idea to install an orlop deck cutting headroom to 3 1/2 feet for accommodation. It was impossible for anyone to sleep, anyhow, without one grass combing bugger after another crushing your ankles or your head in the twilight of the tween decks. He simply replied that “They’re maintained by volunteers, who do their best.” Perhaps I’m being unreasonable as no one else seems to mind or question the state of the shelters. However, I still maintain that a country that can dispose of hundreds of billions of dollars on the other side of the planet fighting un-winnable wars could spare a few thousand dollars to provide some tolerable shelters. They are supposed to get better farther north, but I’ll probably still use my trusty tent.
Thanks all for your attention!
Till I come out of the bush again, it will be at least a week to Damascus, Virginia.
Long Stride
“Light heart, easy pace”