Musings of a Thru-Hiker
By Gary Shealy
Siler Bald April 25th
For the record I soaked my feet three times, and I will soak them at least once more before the sun drops over Siler Bald. Macaroni and Cheese provided the basis for dinner. It was the first time that I had fixed it on the trail. The stuff makes a sticky mess and is difficult to clean off the pot walls. I need to make sure that I have plenty of fuel and water anytime that I have macaroni and cheese. My food and dishes are already hanging in the shelter utilizing the can trick to keep the critters out. I hope it works tonight.
Slow Poke just wandered into camp. He is still chain smoking cigarettes. He again prepared a complex multi-course extravaganza for dinner. Just incredible, he has more weight in cooking utensils than I have in food supplies. We talked for a while about East Tennessee, of seeing friends again, and of the problems on Buck Mountain. East Tennessee has gotten quite a reputation (only exceeded now because of two murders in Pennsylvania ), and I was somewhat glad that I was already familiar with the area and almost knew my way around Stony Creek. If the need arose I could probably find help or at least someone I knew to notify next of kin ( some solace). I crawled into my bag and slowly dozed off as Slow Poke finished his dishes and smoked a few more cigs.
The long night gave my body ample time to digest the macaroni and cheese cuisine, and so I headed off down behind the shelter to find a spot. Others had been there. Behind every tree there seemed to be a pile of toilette paper or a mound with a stick as a warning buoy. I moved on until I found a comfortable log. Personal hygiene can be a challenge. Trying to rest comfortably, dispose of waste, burn TP, and bury remnants without getting splinters, cuts, poison ivy, burns or falling in any of the other hazards is rather an art and a skill that requires dutiful concentration and practice (wilderness tip: always keep shoelaces neatly tied, otherwise they will certainly get in the way and lead to trouble). No time for leisurely reading here, especially with a cool damp wind from the north.
I made my way backup the hundred yards to the shelter and collected my towel and water bag. I stopped to soak my feet and get water for the morning. On the way back I thought I saw something, perhaps a hunter, standing very still by the trailside beyond the shelter. This made me a little nervous, especially with all the talk the night before about the boys from Buck Mountain. How long had he been there? Why was he so still? What is in season in April? Hikers? I stared intently for a moment walking steadily back to the shelter and went about boiling water and fixing breakfast. I looked up again and he was gone. Had I really seen someone, or just imagined it? I had only been out ten days, but already my eyes were sharper from not constantly staring into a computer screen all day, and the fresh air, sound sleep, and vigorous exercise had certainly cleared my head of any remnants of beer and convoluted software interfaces.
By the time I finished the dishes, Slow Poke was getting in a few more smokes before finally crawling out of his bag to face a new day, and the hunter appeared from behind the shelter. He was real, carrying a 12 gauge Remington that looked like an automatic. He dressed in traditional hunting gear and stood well over six foot tall. He watched as I repacked some of my cooking gear, and swung wide around the side of the shelter so that he could still see me and see in side the shelter without turning his head. I was glad Slow Poke decided to get up.
Others might have been startled or surprised to look up from bed and see a man standing over them with a gun, but not Slow Poke, at least not that I could tell, he just continued to drag on his cigarette. Slow Poke was not one to act with haste or inclined to sudden, quick movements of any kind; he was very deliberate and his trail name suited him perfectly. In fact trail lore has it that one night a crowded shelter caught fire and although Slow Poke was the closest to the front he was the last one out because, as it was told, he stopped to light a cigarette in the flames on the way out.
I spoke first, "Good morning, you just missed breakfast; Any luck this morning?" A poor choice of words, if he indeed hunted hikers. He seemed satisfied to stand and watch as Slow Poke unpacked his cooking gear, perhaps he was in awe. Finally he spoke, he retired to Asheville on disability from the Fire Department. For fun and to fill his time, he hunts. He had been to Alaska, Canada, and hiked through the Smokeys and Yellowstone. He was hunting turkey today and would probably cover fifteen to twenty miles. He had already eaten breakfast and wondered why we were not already about our business. I figured if he watched Slow Poke for a while there would be no need for me to answer, the less said the better, and hoped that we were not the turkeys that he sought.
Although I was ready to go for some time, I felt some sort of obligation to wait for Slow Poke to finish breakfast. Eventually the hunter walked on, and I took my leave. Throughout the day I watched and listened for hunters. Several times I heard what I believed to be turkey calls, and as I zigzagged across numerous jeep roads I whistled loudly so that I might not be mistaken for game. Often the trail ran between low ridges, and I could not help but imagine how appealing a target the top of my pack might be from the other side of the ridge as it bobbed up and down with every my step.
Peace,
Slim
Copyright 1991-2000, all rights reserved
This is a fictional account of an actual Thru-Hike in 1990. Any resemblance to specific individuals or events is purely coincidental.