A Thousand and One Appalachian Tales

The Agnostic Monk awoke sometime after the crack of noon. He had stayed up late, drinking and reveling-in-the-moment, until the cows came home. It was Saturday. The last two days had been like one long frat party and, as he was discovering, it was not over yet. A second talent show had been scheduled for the afternoon, but this time with thru-hiker talent. All thru-hikers were welcomed to participate.

The Monk was brewing a pot of java, Turkish style, for the small group gathered within Chapel Perilous. There was Zero, Noel, and Ken and Carrie Currin. Ken and Carry had just announced they at last had Trail names. They were now Pablo and Mom of the bushpigs. They continued to wear their bandanas in full bushpig regalia, proudly manifesting the bushpig gene. Said bandana consisted of two knots, one on either corner, protruding from the forehead like horns. It was surely an apt metaphor for the pandemonium of the Trail, at least as it was joyously celebrated by the bushpigs. This really only meant a lot of "carbo-loading" but as only a bushpig could do. The bushpigs were a sure sign of the transcendent insanity of the Trail life of a thru-hiker. It was certainly evidence of the heightened endorphin activity that is naturally acquired from thru-hiking. That, or brain damage.

Among the bushpigs, Zero was craziest. He had a magical power in which he could help release tremendous belly laughs in just about everyone who met him, simply through his ever brilliant and cutting edged goof. He was never afraid to celebrate the eternal oeuvre, to feast upon the absurd with an enthusiasm unparalleled. He could always be counted on, without provocation and at a moments notice, to rip out transcendent gems that could only have come from him, and which left everyone else rolling on the floors with laughter in their wake.

Then there was Ken Bushpig. He was so crazy it was scary. He would always look like he was angry in his photos but really it was all a big goof, or so he might disagree. Ken loved to play Devil's Advocate. He had that wry Mainer humor that only other Mainers could fully understand.

Ken also won the award in 01988 for going through the most pairs of boots the entire trail. Something like 23 pairs in all. By Damascus he had already gone through several already and was suffering from blisters nearly every step of the way. Yet he never quit. They would have had to cut the boots from his bloodied stumps before that would happen.

Then there were The Sandbaggers. These guys could really Carbo-load! You'd pass them as you were leaving town and they'd be lounging around drinking beer even though it was 9 am. During the day they'd go flying by and then that night they'd be drinking a beer with dinner. Cans, of course. They were environmentally conscious and always packed out what they packed in.

Next, in the Sandbagger hall of fame, was the ever indefatigable Insufferable Drunken Hog From Hell! He out did everyone in carbo-loading combined. And as for pain, he out did everyone in that too. Ken Bushpig's agony of the feet was as nothing compared to the pain of the Insufferable Drunken Hog From Hell! Legend has it that he had an entirely rebuilt hip and was told he would never walk again. Only an Insufferable Drunken Hog From Hell would go for a thru-hike after news like that! Now that's crazy. Many was the time he would stumble into camp long after dark all bruised and banged up from a difficult day. He was an inspiration to them all.

Then there were others who were not explicitly bushpigs but who summed up the overall insanity of the Trail none the less. There was The Maineak. Now this guy was crazy! Talk/Gossip in 01988 was that he probably hiked the Trail more times than anyone else. Yet word was that he was officially banned from Baxter State Park for life! The story went that after hiking all the way from Springer with his dog, he was not about to finish the Trail without him, even though dogs were strictly verboten in Baxter. It was the principle. You'd probably understand if you were a dog owner.

So he snuck his dog in and when he showed up on Katahdin with his dog, they arrested him. Another story was that he was airlifted down off the mountain years later when he did the Trail again, this time in the winter, when the mountain was closed. You needed special permits to climb Katahdin in winter. But these were all legends and myth, unsubstantiated rumors and grist for the mill. Yet, they fully lent to the larger than life tapestry of the Trail.

Next there was Chris and Beth, the Great Descenders. They were ELMs, elite literary moguls, from New York City. They brought with them a large library of books and proceeded to pour through them as though they were vitamins and one a day was doctor's orders. It was all sorts of strange and unusual fiction from an obscure press known only to the highest echelons of the literary connoisseur's food chain. The Great Descenders were like proverbial Johnny Appleseeds seeding the shelters behind them with fresh fodder for fire and/or food for thought. One wondered how they found time to hike...

As for Pablo and Mom of the Bushpigs, they were cool-cat campers all the way. They were the epitome of what thru-hiking was all about. Laid back and casual, yet deeply conscious of the underlying unity of all things. They seemed to float above the Trail, leaving not even footprints.

As the day continued, it seemed headed toward a definitive and welcomed climax. After three days of celebration, the townsfolk seemed as restless to want to return to their townsfolking as the thru-hikers seemed to want to return to their thru-hikering. Soon, it would all be over and it would be time for everyone to leave. Once more a sense of sadness hung in the air, like at Davenport Gap and Hot Springs.

The Talent Show turned out to have a lot of talent, namely, Trailnameless. He single-handedly stole the show. The guy was the supreme character. He put on a skit that was so original and unique it cannot be described. He started with a simple song parody and parlayed it into cutting edged shtick. He pulled it off beautifully and the crowd went wild. He of course won first prize.

The Agnostic Monk also made a contribution. He borrowed someone's Violin and played Vivaldi's Concerto in D Minor 1st Movement. That was the first time he had picked up a violin in many years.

After the talent show a thick silence fell upon the tent town which had over grown The Place like so many weeds. Everyone grew silent and reflective, some quietly traded addresses and last goodbyes. A heavy silence filled the air. The tents began to evaporate. In silence, a few thru-hikers joined the oozing Diaspora out of town. Others geared up for a break at dawn.

But then, that night, a storm blew in from the north. The next day it poured an icy rain. Whatever had been staying away had returned with a vengeance. This turn of events naturally led many to decide to stay another day. The theory was to let the rest of the herd get soaked while they stayed behind to wait out the rain. It was good in theory, but failed in practice. The rain did not show any signs of wanting to let up. By Monday morning, the Chapel Perilous Cafe was once again open for business. The aroma of The Monk's Turkish brew filled the air. Inside, the quintet sat around another pot of java, perplexed and wondering what to do. Zero was struggling with the idea of packing up and hiking out in the rain. He knew that leaving town, a bushpig's pack was heaviest, weighed down by a full food bag and beer. He was agonizing over the prospect of leaving the beer behind.

Packing up in the rain meant everything would get soaked and their packs would get even heavier. It was not what anyone wanted to do. Pablo suggested that they all concentrate and form a collective mind to stop the rain. No one for a moment thought the idea absurd. So they did it and, wonder of wonders, it worked! Within minutes the rain had stopped. Then, miraculously, the clouds rolled back and the sun came out! Somehow, this collective "vibe" was enough to fill the air, raise a bubble of convection up into the rain soaked clouds, and part the clouds! Or at least that was the collective conclusion/delusion shared by everyone who participated. Whatever the cause, things began to warm up nicely and by noon a late start was under way.

Leaving Damascus, the Trail followed an old railroad bed through Laurel Creek Gorge. It was a cakewalk for the first nine miles until an abrupt left turn sent the Trail up and over Straight Mountain. It looked like a useless detour as the Trail simply came back down on the other side and reconnected with the railroad bed. According to The Philosopher's Guide, the railroad bed, called the Virginia Creeper Trail, could be followed instead. As Chapel Perilous was well over 12 pounds when dry, The Monk decided to follow the Virginia Creeper Trail instead. By late afternoon he reached the village which had sprung up around the designated, unnamed shelter. Crowded though it was, many had set up their tents to dry, and there was one spot left in the shelter for The Agnostic Monk.

Among the many there that night were the "singing" Stars -- Shining Star, Wandering Star and Lucky Star. They were almost a trio of happy, happy women who displayed their infectious happiness through song. They could out-sing a whippoorwill and quite often they did. The Stars were almost a trio because they were fractal thru-hikers. Only two thirds of them ever hiked at one time, or at least so it seemed. Rarely did you see all three together except once in a while and usually in town. They apparently took turns thru-hiking. Wandering Star was the most concurrent of the three. She was from England. She met the others through correspondence and the Trail had brought them together.

That night the rain returned and stayed through morning. Those who had set their tents out to dry, found themselves swimming in it. It was enough to demoralize even the most stalwart of hikers.

This was the type of weather where having good gear became tremendously important. Specifically, this was the type of weather where it was important not to wear cotton. It was in times like these that the expression, "Cotton Kills" had it's meaning. For, of all fibers, cotton actually whisks heat away when wet. Indeed, it was times like these that Zero was most proud of his all-plastic clothing. But even Zero was feeling the effects of the weather. His shocking good humor could not hide the demoralizing effect the weather was having on everybody. Even the Stars weren't singing that morning.

The Monk managed to dive in without too much of a splash. Perhaps because he had spent the night in the shelter or perhaps because he kept everything in thick plastic garbage bags, he was able to keep almost everything dry. It was no minor miracle. He kept his clothing in a garbage bag in the center of his pack and his sleeping bag double bagged in a stuffsack down below. Over that he stretched a pack cover and then threw over that an army poncho big enough to hide a jeep. It was quite a sight or at least it would have been, had the poncho not been camouflage.

But while he had somehow managed to keep things mostly dry, he had not been able to keep himself very warm. As he hiked he sensed a growing hypothermia in his body. He managed to find a spot with a rocky overhang in which he could stay somewhat out of the rain and plopped down to make some hot cocoa.

He was using the MSR Whisperlite. This was a small backpacking stove that, except for the fuel bottle, was small enough to fit in your cook kit. He had found this stove to be such a reliable piece of equipment that he had begun to take it for granted. Which is perhaps why, cold and shivering, he was finding it unable to work. Just then Pablo and Mom were walking by. They quickly intuited the situation and in a few short minutes were boiling water in their own stove. The three found essential rejuvenation in the tasty hot chocolate they enjoyed mere minutes later.

With his spirits refreshed thanks to the spiritual guidance of the enigmatic Pablo and Mom, he was able to continue on to Deep Gap for the evening.

©Copyright 02001. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.

Go to part seven

Return to Top of Page

Return to the International Peace Trail Project

Return to Freshspace