A Thousand and One Appalachian Tales
part eleven
Hard Times Ahead
©Copyright 02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.
The Agnostic Monk awoke and for a moment didn't know where he was. Then it came back to him. He was on the floor of a motel room in Buena Vista which he shared with Buddy Bear, his wife Bare Bait, and the ever amazing Jack, The Insufferable Drunken Hog From Hell. A shower just turned off in the other room. Two showers in two days? Decadent! The Monk unzipped his bag and got up, enticed by the idea. Moments later the hot water pelted him into euphoria. Getting dressed he felt completely refreshed and invigorated, ready to hell-hike all the way to Katahdin and back, non-stop like the Maineak. Life was good on the AT!
After breakfast, the quartet said asta la vista to Beuna Vista and split a cab back to the Trail. Once more they began walking north. From the Parking area, the Trail descended through trees passing an old homestead foundation. In the ravine was evidence of an old whiskey still, with tell-tale glass jars still in evidence. The Monk thought nothing of it and continued over Rice Mountain (2,228 ft). He made good time to Lynchburg Reservoir where he ran into Zero, Noel, and a local. Apparently, Zero and Noel had run into some problems and had fallen behind the rest of the Sandbaggers. Zero was talking to a local and they were in the midst of haggling when The Monk approached. The local had a jar of clear liquid in his hand and was in the process of getting Zero to buying it off him. The memory of the still came back to The Monk and he quickly deduced the contents of the jar. Minutes later, as Buddy Bear and Bare Bait arrived with The Insufferable Drunken Hog From Hell in tow, The Monk had his first sip of genuine moonshine. It was nothing at all like he expected. It was real smooth and actually quite tasty. Zero let everyone try a sip then packed it tightly within his pack and skipped off, happy that no one had gone blind. From Lynchburg Reservoir it was a cakewalk to Brown Mountain Creek Shelter where The Monk once again ran into Zero, and Noel, and a fellow northbounder named Foster. They started a fire and the seven of them sat around drinking moonshine. The Monk was never very much into alcohol so he took just the tiniest of sips. Nevertheless, he was impressed with the quality of the black market hooch and wished he had purchased a jar himself, just for keeping with the total thru-hiker experience.
The next day Zero burried the empty jar and, sober, contemplated the foolishness of his actions. Without quality control, there was no telling how the hooch had been prepared, he fretted. It could have been run through a radiator for all they knew. They could all have suffered lead poisoning or worse, gone blind. In hindsight, they all agreed it wasn't very bright of them. But no harm no foul, everyone was still alive, and no worse for wear, as far as they could tell. They each rattled off a few more clichés, and a few double entendres for good measure, then left Brown Mountain Creek Shelter behind.
After a steep assent to US 60, the Trail began a 1,954 ft ascent to the wooded summit of Bald Knob (4,059 ft). Next, a steep descent, passing aircraft wreckage, led The Monk to an over grown woods road at Cow Camp Gap. From there, the Trail began to ascend again, this time to the rocky summit of Cold Mountain (4,022 ft). This was a grassy summit, similar to the southern Appalachian Balds. It afforded fantastic panoramic views.
Following, crossing, and rejoining, several old grassy and dirt roads, the Trail descended to USFS 48 and Hog Camp Gap. The Monk continued on and a little over half a mile later emerged onto the first crest of Tar Jacket Ridge with it's numerous overlooks and breathtaking vistas. He passed through several pre-civil war stone fences to the high point on Tar Jacket Ridge (3,847 ft). Then he descended to Va 634 and Salt Log Gap.
He was feeling weary but pressed on. He had another five miles to go to get to where he planned to call home for the evening. He crossed several old roads and a railroad bed, all long abandoned. He passed an old abandoned apple orchard too before reaching Wolf Rocks (3,893 ft) in the early evening. Finally, after a long day, he reached Seeley-Woodworth Shelter around dusk. By now he had the routine down pat, He had a quick dinner eaten and cleaned up before the last rays of sun light concluded the days activities. Once again he was in the magic void between swarthy bands of sweaty thru-hikers. Zero, Foster and Noel had pushed on and Buddy Bear, Bare Bait, and The 'Hog had found shelter for the night somewhere behind him. He did not light a fire and in the ensuing darkness, soon fell fast asleep.
The next morning, following his new regime, he broke camp early, skipping breakfast and the super-sacred morning coffee ritual. After a quick ascent up Porter Ridge, he descended through a hickory grove to Fish Hatchery Road before another half mile brought him to Spy Rock. It was only a little over an hour since he left the last shelter but he could never say no to a scenic vista. He dropped his pack and hopped out to a large rock dome with full 360 degree views. The air retained a lingering crispness from the morning and clouds were still lifting off from where they had settled in for the night. He ate a Pop-Tart in silence and soaked up as much scenery as he could.
He remembered a line from The Book of The Law: "I am divided for love's sake. That the pain of division be as nothing and the joy of dissolution all..." In that moment, it seemed as though the scenery had soaked him up! For a brief instant, all plurality, all duality, vanished as the flimsy illusions they were. There was no self and other, no object and observer. There just was. It was wordless. Even to come to this conclusion was to break the spell. There was only a terrific peacefulness, a completeness from which all things arise and return. Around him spun the wheels of Samsara and for a tiny, egg-shell moment The Monk stood in it's center. Capturing a silver strand of that precious moment, he quietly walked back to his pack and carried on.
In was a short three tenths to the summit of Maintop Mountain (4,040 ft), yet another rocky outcropping with outstanding views. The Monk was entering prime Civil War territory and, he learned later, Spy Rock and Maintop Mountain had been Confederate Lookouts. It was easy to see why. The views were outstanding! But the best views came from Cash Hollow Rock (3,512 ft), .8 miles later. From there, The Monk bore silent witness to awesome views of The Religious Range which comprised several mountains: The Priest, Little Priest, The Cardinal and The Friar. The sight of The Priest excited him and he could tarry no longer at Cash Hollow Rock. He quickly wolfed down a peanut butter sandwich then hefted his pack into orbit and beamed himself in.
He quickly dropped down, then up, then down again, crossing a 14-foot rock, a barrier fence, Cash Hollow Road, Crabtree Farm Road and another barrier fence. Less than a mile later, all uphill, he reached the trail junction which led to The Priest Shelter. The Monk blew on past and half a mile further reached the wooded summit of The Priest (4,063 ft). This was a massif dominating the area with yet more unadulterated views of the naked outdoors. The Monk stopped for another lunch, yet another peanut butter sandwich. Then, he dropped like a rock - over three thousand feet in a little over four miles. It was a joyous descent and he bounced all the way down. He felt sorry for all the Southbounders would would have to climb up that Trail.
A little after 2 pm he reached Va 56 and the Tye River. He wasted no time in jumping right in. The day had blossomed into a scorcher and the waters worked wonders on an over-heated cardio-vascular system. As he relaxed with some locals in the cool waters, a white VW bug suddenly appeared, honking it's horn. It's eagle-eyed driver had apparently seen his pack and pulled over. Inside were a bandwagon's worth of thru-hikers and the one and only Rusty. He was shuttling thru-hikers down to the PO in Tyro and offered The Monk a ride. He couldn't refuse. Rusty insisted he stop in for a visit to his world famous Hard Times Hollow. The Monk had never heard of it. Rusty was nonplussed. He dropped The Monk back off at his pack with complete instructions on getting there.
The Monk donned his pack and about a half an hour later sat in Harpers Creek Shelter, reading the Register, and contemplating what to do. There were several important factors to consider. One was a group of young boys camped nearby who did little to maintain the solitude of Harpers Creek. They looked to be part of a larger group and that meant things could get crowded. Most pressing on his mind was not the Hard Times Hollow. It was the fact that it was still way too early to quit for the day but the idea of tackling Three Ridges after The Priest failed to find the support of Congress. It was still quite warm and a sweltering uphill climb lacked suitable appeal to the courts.
Weighing in was the fact that he had passed several side trails in the last few days all lobbying for various waterfalls and he had missed them all. The last one was Crab Tree falls. He liked waterfalls too and felt there was a certain disparity between breathtaking vistas and spectacular waterfalls. Well, it just so happened that there looked to be an awesome opportunity to even things up. The map on the wall of the shelter showed a side trail linking up with the Mau-Har trail, which he had passed about a half mile back. According to The Philosopher's Guide, The Mau-Har Trail led to a magnificent waterfall (in wet season)with numerous swimming holes and great rock scrambles. This clearly beckoned to him. It was too hot for more ridges. He wanted water.
"Ridges? We don't need no stinking ridges." He exclaimed aloud. Then he followed the link to the Mau-Har Trail and continued on the Mau-Har Trail from there. He enjoyed the waterfall, though it was not as spectacular as he had hoped, due to dry weather. However, he found the climb out, back up to The Appalachian Trail, more than a little exhausting. The rock scrambles made the assent all the more tiring. By the time he reached Maupin Field Shelter he was delirious. He felt like he was hallucinating because as he approached he saw ten maybe fifteen dwarves smoking pipes. They all had pointy ears and looked really old. It was a strange sight to say the least and he kept wiping the sweat from his eyes thinking that might help. As he got closer he realized they weren't dwarves at all but young boys. That made the pipe smoking all the stranger! It was a scene his brain almost couldn't process.
It turned out they were all part of the first of several Outreach Programs he would encounter all the way to Mount Katahdin. They were part of the same group that was also camped at Harpers Creek. There was no escape. The Group was part of a Federal Program which took troubled youth and brought them out to survivalist style backwoods retreats. It was all part of a program to teach them how to work together to overcome their differences and their environment. The idea was that, by removing them from the scripts they learned in urban life and which had in consequence brought them into trouble with the law, they could learn new scripts and thereby become productive members of society. But while the theory was compelling, the practice seemed strange, to say the least. For example, they weren't allowed to bring with them many of the things most people would consider necessities, like toilet paper. They weren't allowed to bring toilet paper! Almost everything they needed they would have to get from the land. For toilet paper they would collect moss. Also, it seemed like they all smoked but they weren't allowed to bring cigarettes. Only pipe tobacco.
The Monk couldn't fathom the seemingly arbitrary nature of their rules. He was left with mixed feelings. On the one had he was glad these children were able to get out and experience nature - he had to feel that was a priceless experience unto itself - but on the other hand he felt they were being given cruel and unusual punishment by not being allowed the decency of simple things like toilet paper. Besides, he questioned the environmental impact. How good could it be, from nature's perspective, for all these rug-rats to be going around ripping moss off the trees just to wipe their asses?
In any event, there was not much he could do about it and since they were camped away from the shelter, he could not delve any deeper into their situation.
Near dusk another thru-hiker, named Longhorn, straggled in. It would be just the two of them in the shelter tonight. They built a small fire and discussed their adventures and the plight of the children around them. As the darkness fell the thru-hiker felt obliged to comment on The Agnostic Monk's name. Was he in fact Agnostic? It turns out that Longhorn was Southern Baptist and felt that perhaps The Monk simply needed to hear the Good News.
The Monk tried to explain that, at least from his perspective, the Universe was a vast mystery and that this mystery was lost when people chose instead to "fill in the blanks." He explained that as far as he was concerned, Mankind was a race of story-tellers and that, given two pictures, most people would quickly fashion a story connecting the two. Longhorn didn't like this, thinking he was dismissing The Bible as "just a story". The Monk assured him that was not the case. Just that, how was he to tell one story from another when neither could be proven? How was he to tell which was the better story? Was he to accept the Catholic story simply because he was raised a Catholic? No, concluded the Baptist, because he was not Catholic. The Monk tried to explain that Buddhism had stories too but did not require them. Indeed, the refreshing thing about Buddhism was that it warned you against believing too strongly in your stories. Longhorn rejected Buddhism too because Buddha did not die for his sins and come back from the dead, like Jesus.
The Monk did not want trouble but was pressed by Longhorn who found the word agnostic to be anathema. He tried again by explaining that what distinguished belief from knowledge was that a belief may or may not be true. There was a fundamental uncertainty to belief without which a belief could not exist. If there was no uncertainty, you would not believe, you would know. Since he did not know, he questioned his beliefs and, from this perspective, that made him an agnostic monk. Longhorn didn't particularly like that either but decided to give it a rest. Soon they fell asleep.
The next day, The Monk awoke sore from yesterday's 18.7 mile hike. He was thankful that he decided to head to Rusty's after all. He needed a serious break. It turned out that Longhorn was heading to Rusty's as well so they hiked together. From a dirt road just north of the shelter, it was a mile to the Blue Ridge Parkway, then 1.2 miles on the Parkway to Rusty's.
Slackpack Fever
Rusty's Hard Times Hollow was a paradise tucked into a corner of the Blue Ridge Parkway. The Parkway surrounded the land on three sides. The Hollow boasted three springs and electricity, when Rusty could afford the fuel for the generator. Rusty lived the good life but was not wealthy by any means. Though he gave good appearance of being the generous, gracious host, below the surface you could tell life was a daily struggle to hold onto the land and make ends meet. Nevertheless, the Hard Times Hollow was an oasis. It was also quite the vortex having sucked in all the Sandbaggers and Bushpigs.
Many were packing up, making plans for a slackpack that afternoon. They loaded up into Rusty's bug and off they went. When Rusty returned he let his vision be known. He saw a giant teepee down the hill on a flat part of his land. Things were getting crowded and he anticipated a few more thru-hikers shuffling in before night fall. He rounded up an intrepid crew and assigned them chores. A few shuffled off with an axe in search of the posts and the rest grabbed hold of an enormous pile of canvas. With great effort they lugged it onto a flat bed attached to Rusty's John Deere and followed him down to the field. About an hour later, a giant teepee appeared where none had been before. It was magic.
As the afternoon progressed, Buddy Bear and Bare Bait shuffled in and Rusty drove off and returned with a gaggle of weary slackpackers. Everyone had stories and over a huge bonfire many tales were told.
The next day, Rusty shuttled several thru-hikers into town and The Monk joined them. He hit the PO and the grocery store before returning back to the Hard Times Hollow. Many of the Bushpigs had since departed. The Sandbaggers were just leaving.
Another thru-hiker, Soarfoot, was raising money for charity. He wore a t-shirt which said, "Hike for Life." A friend of his showed up and suggested they round up some folks for a trip to Crab Tree Falls. This was music to The Monk's ears as the day was quickly turning into yet another scorcher. Buddy Bear Bare Bait joined them and together they headed off to the falls for a day of fun in the sun.
Crab Tree Falls was truly spectacular. Well worth the visit. It was rather crowded but understandably so. There were five major cascades with a total fall of over 1200 ft. The Monk had a great time and even managed to do some rock climbing.
Later, back at Rusty's the evening was spent carbo-loading with some of his friends from the hills. They brought some instruments and played bluegrass well into evening.
The next day, Rusty shuttled The Monk and a bunch of others into town. The Monk thought he would slackpack back to Rusty's so as to not fall too far behind the rest of the Bushpigs. But as the afternoon wore on he realized he had bitten off more than he could chew. So he dropped down to the parkway to road walk the rest of the way. But as dusk began to fall he became concerned. Was he even walking the right way? He became confused and worry began to grip him. At one point he started walking back and forth, not sure which way to go. It was one of his worst moments on the Trail. He had never before experience such acute hysteria first hand. Not until the Mahoosucs in Maine would he experience anything like this again.
Somehow he persevered and in the dark at last made it back safely to Rusty's. Still shook up, he turned in early.
The next day, Rusty again loaded up a bunch of thru-hikers, this time for a slackpack south through the Shenandoah. He dropped everyone off at the Riprap Trail Parking area and with a warning to be on the look out for snakes, took off with the agreement to rendezvous back at Rockfish Gap later in the afternoon. Joining The Monk was Buddy Bear and Bare Bait, The Insufferable Drunken Hog From Hell, and Rhode island Red, yet another northbounder slackpacking south for the day.
For the most part this was a cakewalk, especially without the packs. The Monk felt as though he had just landed on a planet half the gravity of his own. He bounced along the gentle Trail with grace and vigor for about an hour or so, crossing Skyline Drive twice, before reaching a side trail leading to the summit of Turk Mountain. He was making excellent time so, without much hesitation, he decided a short detour was in order. It was barely a mile to the summit but as he was heading up the trail he heard a rustling in the woods, coming down the mountain. He stopped and grabbed his camera expecting to see deer. But what should appear was a mother bear and her baby cub. The were so cute, he couldn't move. Actually, he didn't know what to do. Apparently, neither did they. The mother bear sensed his presence and the baby bear looked back and forth between his mother and the direction of The Monk, wondering what to do. It was a timeless moment. They both looked so adorable, The Monk wished he could hug them. But then, the mother took off to her right, avoiding any potential problems, and the baby quickly followed. He was left standing there speechless. Eventually, he continued on to the summit of Turk Mountain where he hung out with several Turkey Vultures enjoying the views.
After a time, he returned back the way he came and continued south. At sawmill Run Overlook the Trail again crossed Skyline Drive and began ascending an unnamed hill (2,453 ft). There he passed The IDHFH as he descended to Jarman Gap and the southern boundary of the Shenandoah National Park. He ran into Buddy Bear and Bare Bait who were just completing the self-registration process required for their journey through the Shenandoah in the next few days. The Monk registered as well and after waiting for The 'Hog to do the same, the four headed south together.
The Trail ascended up Calf Mountain(2,974 ft) before descending through pines to once again cross Skyline Drive. From there, it ascended open slopes to the bare summit of Bear Den Mountain (2,885 ft). But while the summit was bare, it was not entirely empty. Several structures, a police radio installation, blighted the landscape. Nevertheless, the foursome enjoyed a leisurely lunch before descending to McCormick Gap. Once again the Trail crossed Skyline Drive before an easy cakewalk returned them to Rockfish Gap and a waiting Rusty.
Back at the Hard Times Hollow, a few more thru-hikers had arrived. There was No Name, The Bobsie Boys, The Mad Norwegian and Toothpick George. Everyone was in quite the festive mood and when they learned that tomorrow was The IDHFH's birthday, well, that meant party. Rusty wasn't too keen on the idea but it didn't seem like he had too much say in the matter. In the end, he was cajoled into becoming a willing participant and agreed to try and round up his bluegrass buddies for some live entertainment.
The next day, Rusty shuttled folks into town where a quarter keg was purchased against Rusty's better judgment. Then Rusty headed off to parts unknown to scare up some musicians. He told everyone it was a work night and most folks get up pretty early in the morning around these parts so no one should have any expectations. But as evening approached, Rusty returned with a handful of some on the finest bluegrass musicians you ever heard. Many he pulled away from the dinner table as they were just sitting down to eat. Rusty had come through in spades!
The party lasted long into the night. At one point a few thru-hikers had passed out only to awake hours later and the boys were still playing! They out partied the partiers!! The festivities continued on and The Monk passed out for a second time. When he awoke it was morning and the musicians were gone. But not so the keg of beer. It was still going strong so the gang gathered round and finished it off! No one would dare let those carbohydrates go to waste!!
Many decided to stay another day to recover but The Monk knew it was time for him to press on. He thanked Rusty for everything. Rusty truly was the most magnanimous host on the Trail. Joining The Monk for the big bugout was Buddy Bear, Bare Bait and The 'Hog. They loaded up in Rusty's Bug and headed out.
Back at the Riprap Trail Parking area they said their last goodbyes to Rusty then turned and once more headed north.
©Copyright 02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.
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