A Thousand and One Appalachian Tales
part nine
Up Pearisburg
©Copyright 02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.
Abruptly Steve -n- Jerry bolted upright. "It's a beautiful day and you're part of it!" He had been sleeping soundly until mere moments ago when suddenly his Our Man Flint wristwatch pulled him out of a deep, self-induced coma. He soon sprang into action, pushed his bevy of babes aside, and begin his morning routine. The Agnostic Monk and others were already in various states and stages of departure and soon everyone was out the door and once again heading north with the rush hour traffic. Steve Trailnameless was gone in a flash. That was just about the last time The Monk would see of him except in passing at Pearisburg. From then on, Trailnameless was a daily entry in the Trail Register. As ever, an entry to look forward to.
Minutes later, The Agnostic Monk stumbled out onto Va 608 and Lickskillet Hollow. After a short skip along the road, the Trail began an easy assent over yet another Brushy Mountain. There he ran into Zero. Zero joked that it was the same Brushy Mountain every time and that really they were trapped in a Twilight Zone episode. To add to the vibe, the Trail followed and crossed several old woods roads and was at times hard to follow. Then, Zero disappeared.
The Monk stopped for lunch at the overlook of Dismal Creek Falls. He waited for Zero but he didn't show. There had been an advertisement at Jenny Knob in the Trail Register giving directions to Woodshole Hostel so he decided to push on. It turned out that the 1988 Philosopher's Guide had two dedications, one to Mark Noepel, aka the Walking Stick and the other to Roy Wood and his wife Tillie, owners of the Woodshole Hostel. This was a classic example of why the Philosopher's Guide was often more precious than the Appalachian Trail Guide - there was not a single mention of Woodshole in the Trail Guide!
The Trail continued up Dismal Creek before turning left to ascend the crest of Sugar Run Mountain. There, The Monk paused to rest at a rocky outcropping with views north to Pearis Mountain. The ascent up Sugar Run left him feeling tuckered. It was the tent. This was a twelve pound Timberline Eureka with Vestibule. The Timberline was an excellent tent when distributing the weight between hikers. For a solo hiker, however, it was overkill. Unfortunately, it was the only tent he owned at the time. He carried it to avoid crowded shelter stays but, as he progressed north, he was finding this to be less and less a problem. Perhaps it was time to mail it home. Again.
It was getting late. He finally reached the side trail to Woodshole Hostel after dusk and stumbled into the bunkhouse well after dark. It had been a long eighteen mile day but he was glad to see a den of familiar faces. He had found another hiker haven. The Monk could see that Pablo and Mom had gotten there early enough to take showers. They were looking squeaky clean and zestfully fresh. Other familiar faces were, Chris and Beth, the Great Descenders, and Steve -n- Jerry who had grabbed a top bunk. This had a prolific spot for hanging Jerry, a cloth flag depicting a color blind test pattern of a baked and beaming Jerry Garcia. There was a veritable din in the air as dozens of exciting tales danced merrily about. Some were reminding others that it was an election year. They were hot to engage in discussions of the candidates, George Bush or Michael Dukakis. No one could name a single third party candidate.
Others were still talking about Irvan's underground castle, placing it on a lengthy list of items considered quintessential to the "full thru-hiker experience." Many agreed that a dip in the mystery pools of Hot Springs was at the top of the list. All were quick to include Woodshole with it's indispensible Virginian hospitality. It made them feel complete, like this was where they were meant to be. Woodshole was a hiker hostel done right. Indeed, the Trail Register was oozing praise. The Monk was too exhausted to enjoy much of the festivities so he lay back on a bunk and listened to the tapestry of yarns as he drifted off to sleep.
Day 60: after a short hike back up to the crest of Pearis Mountain, a cakewalk brought the Monk to Angels Rest (3,550 ft) which afforded excellent views of Peters Mountain, Butt Mountain, and Bald Knob. Far below, Pearisburg noisily waited. Minutes later, he was there.
It seemed like the first real city he'd seen since he got on the Trail, certainly it was the most developed. He turned right onto Stump Street and followed the blue blazes through town to the Catholic Hospice and what looked like a revival of sorts. Quite a few hikers were congealed at the hospice, many not seen since the Appalachian Trail Days and the now historic Damascus Tea Party. Beth and Chandra were there. Chandra had pictures back already from her hike through the Smokies! Most interesting were of her stay at Ice Water Springs, feeding the skunks. They were the cutest most adorable skunks you had ever seen. One was so up close and personal that they were nose to nose.
Strewn around the broad floor of the Hostel were many others. Rawhide was there quaffing brews, and Ken Bushpig was breaking in a new pair of boots he picked up at the Post Office earlier in the day. He was having foot problems and this was his third or fourth pair since Springer. Meanwhile, Chris and Beth, the Great Descenders, fumbled through a stack of books; their biggest concern, what to read next.
The Monk stayed a few days in Pearisburg. He needed to hit the PO on Monday for a food drop and a little something extra from Mom. So he decided to spend Sunday back in Bastion for the weekly Blue Grass Festival Levi put on at his diner. He had mentioned it in passing to someone and the next thing he knew, he and a group of others were crammed into a big blue stretch van heading back to Bastion. It was a great time and, of course, much carbo-loading was involved.
When they returned to the Hostel, the party continued on well into the night. Finally around 2 am The Monk crawled into his Cat's Meow and fell asleep.
When at last he awoke it was a little after one. He quickly got up and dressed and headed out to the Post office. But then, after spending the rest of the day getting ready he decided to spend one more night and leave Tuesday morning bright and early. Once more festivities ran long into the night. But this time he did not join in. He plugged his ears with toilet paper, wrapped his head in a shirt and fell asleep.
The next morning he was out the door by 11 am. He blue blazed it back through town to the AT, then crossed the Senator Shumate Bridge. Soon he was heading north once more.
The Stranger at Symms Gap
"Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream,
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream..."
Nursery RhymeOn the far side of the Senator Shumate Bridge, The Agnostic Monk stepped out of time and into a dream. Places and events took on an ethereal quality as if he stood between two different worlds. One occupation which came to him as he walked was to listen to the sounds of his breath, heartbeat and footsteps as he interacted with the sing song melodies of nature. The world was a symphony and he was more than just passing through it, he was part of it. As he approached and left towns he listened to the faraway sounds of urban life waft up from the valleys below. The sounds of a hammer on a roof, the simple daily noises which blended together to become the norm of quiet country living, all this passed and was gone.
"Today, the dichotomy of the sounds of nature and the industrial noise of Pearisburg's Celanese plant, as the wind carried it up through the trees, immersed my mind with music; the wind, as it stretched and twisted the resonating vibrations of the plant, transformed the sounds into a howling demonic chorus..."from, Did Ed Garvey Sleep Here.
The Monk ran into the regulars at the next spring. Everyone was cameling up for a night in the ridge. Pablo and Mom were there as were Zero and Eileen and another thru-hiker named Mr. Rogers. The Monk pulled from his pack the collapsible water bag he used at camp. It was essentially a plastic lined cloth bag. The plastic lining was the very same material used in those boxes of wine you get at Liquor stores. He filled it mostly full then fastened it to his Jansport.
They decided to make their way to Symms Gap for the evening which was just under a mile away. Much of the tops of these ridges through Virginia were prime cattle grazing land and Symms Gap was no different. The one particular oddity, however, was a stranger with a pack the size of a stretch limo. Various people had encountered him separately throughout the day but they all had the same story to tell. One, they didn't believe he was a thru-hiker as no one had seen him before. His pack looked too heavy to be anything other than airlifted in. Plus, the guy was watching TV! He had a small little portable television set about the size of a walkman. One person told of how, when they met him earlier, he wanted to charge them money to watch his TV. Everyone felt a peculiar vibe from the man and, even stranger, everyone imagined him carrying a gun even though none was visible. The main group set up tents higher up on the ridge while not far enough off, the scary stranger set up a mammoth dome. As the stars came out the dome glowed an eerie blue.
Many thru-hikers were packing Instant Pudding these days and The Monk had decided to give this a try. He purchased a few packages back in Pearisburg and specifically carried extra water to make one for desert. Later, he didn't feel too well and felt that maybe something in the pudding was disagreeing with him. But this passed and he eventually fell asleep under the stars.
June 8th, Day 64: when he awoke the dome tent was gone. The scary stranger had vanished as if he had left in the night, as if he had never been. Zero joked that the stranger had been none other than the Devil himself. It didn't seem that far from the truth. As jokes went this one only rated a silent chuckle on the laugh-o-meter. The guy had weirded everybody the same way.
Everyone was quick to push off and leave Symms Gap's "ghost" behind. They spread out and continued along the ridge until Pine Swamp Ridge where they descended to Pine Swamp Shelter for an early lunch. After a quick gander at the Register, the Monk pressed on. He continued on past Bailey Gap Shelter to War Spur Shelter for the evening. It had been a long day for everyone but there had been an anxiousness to distance themselves from the Stranger at Symms Gap.
Around the campfire many tales were told, too many lost to memory. Mr. Rogers had plenty to say about Alaska. He spent some time there working at a State Park. To hear him tell it, no finer occupation could be had. Zero regaled them with just how awful and boring he thought On the Road, by Jack Kerouac was. He had been trying to read this since before Damascus. Pablo expressed his plans to open a rock-climbing school. Many were surprised to learn The Monk had been in the Military. They found this difficult to believe, so to corroborate his story, he told them about Basic Training.
"We arrived with the other 'Rainbows' around 3 or 4 in the morning. For about an hour we played 'pick 'em up, put 'em down' with our baggage until the Tech Instructor was satisfied we could do it soundlessly. Then they fed us and gave us about three hours sleep."The next day we became pickles. This meant removing our jeans and t-shirts, our rainbow colored reminders of the world we left behind, shaving our heads and receiving our General Issue. Those without 20/02 vision were given BC glasses to wear. The BC stood for Birth Control under the premise that there was no way you could get laid wearing those things."
After Basic Training, the Monk, then Airman Page, had these glasses tinted. He was using these very same glasses as sunglasses on the trail and pulled them out for everyone to see. Tinted they looked just like wayfarers; tinted they looked cool. Untinted, they looked like Buddy Holly's worst nightmare.
"For the next day or so, we marched around in just our greens, not yet earning the right to be Airmen. Then we were given our rank and insignias, our labels, and we were canned. We were no longer the losers who couldn't do anything, we were canned pickles! We were finally getting somewhere..."But you had to be careful or you could be washed back. Any minor offense could get you washed back, all the way to day one if they felt like it. One such offense was PDA, Public Display of Affection. Just lighting a lady's cigarette was PDA. That could get you washed back a week.
"Near the end they took us to fire the M-16 but they used .22 bores so it was like shooting a cap gun. I remember thinking what a joke it was until Technical School when I got to fire the M-16 with the NATO 5.56 round...wow. That was a feeling of power..."
The next day, the Monk awoke still a bit sore from yesterday's Death March. After crossing Va 632 and John's Creek they passed over many stiles and through many pastures before reaching Big Pond Shelter for lunch. There was something in the air. He wasn't alone, the others felt it too. It was like a Culture Shock after yesterday's hike through the Mountain Lake Wilderness. There were too many spooky old woods roads and now they were at an essentially large bog pretending to be a pond. It was buggy. Together they pondered over their maps and guide books and wondered what to do. Dragon's Tooth taunted them, still days away. Some folks were getting down to their last few days of food. Plus, if they didn't stay at Big Pond for the evening, they'd have to stay at Sarver Cabin, which the ever informative Philosopher's Guide listed as being surrounded by old haunted buildings and a cemetery. Furthermore, it was a steep 0.3 mile descent off the ridge. After their encounter with the Stranger at Symms Gap and yesterday's 18 mile extravaganza, Sarver Cabin was striking out on all counts. Pablo and Mom told everyone they were going to scout ahead and to meet them up ahead at Va 630. Everyone agreed.
That was the last anyone saw of Pablo and Mom again. Just kidding.
Actually, this was a nice area to pass through it was just that something seemed to have sapped the collective energies of all involved. Zero blamed it on the Stranger at Symms Gap.
Shortly after leaving Big Pond Shelter they reached a pleasant vista with views of Salt Pond Mountain. From there it was a short scurry over Kelly Knob (3,742 ft) before a long descent to Laurel Creek. This was a beautiful, bubbling fountain of joy ensconced in rhododendron and hemlocks. Next, after crossing a perilous stile, they were back in cattle country. There, the Trail became hard to follow with cattle tracks repeatedly crisscrossing the trail. Then they reached the mother of all stiles. It was like something from an Indiana Jones movie. It rose up into the clouds on something that might have been a precursor to today's ladders but only if designed by accounting. To add to the peril, it straddled a "hot" electric fence. All part of the "full AT experience", Zero concluded.
Finally, they stumbled out onto Va 42. Waiting for them was Pablo and Mom and a friendly local with a car. Pablo and Mom had run into this guy at the market. They had the idea they would pick up food for a barbecue when he offered to pick up the lot of them and treat them to dinner and a stay at his place. After stressing the last few miles over stiles and cattle tracks, it was nothing short of a miracle.
After several trips, they all found themselves drinking wine and preparing for a feast. It was very nice. The stranger was quite the example of Virginian hospitality. Everyone stayed up late telling stories, drinking wine, and getting mellow. It was a timeless enchanted moment. Zero told the tale of the Devil at Symms Gap and how everyone had been really stressed out by it. They were all thankful to be there relaxing in a rustic cabin in the woods, safe from the perils of strangers with guns and portable televisions.
Day 66: after breakfast and coffee, the kind hearted stranger brought them all back to where he found them. They thanked him for his hospitality, said goodbye, and once again headed north. From Va 42 they continued over a few more stiles, and under more than a few power lines before reaching the crest of Sinking Creek Mountain. This was a long ridge walk followed by a sharp and somewhat treacherous descent to Niday Shelter for the evening.
The next day the Trail crossed Va 621 then shot back up again to the long ridge of Brush Mountain. After a short descent to Va 620, the Trail crossed over Trout Creek on a wooden footbridge before reaching the trail junction which led to Pickle Branch Shelter. It was a little after noon so the Monk pressed on to the Dragon's Tooth, a magnificent monolith with excellent views, near the summit of Cove Mountain.
"Last night I bore witness to yet another spectacular sunset, perched as I was atop the rocky spire of Dragon's Tooth. It was awesome earlier in the day as I sat atop it's highest point listening to what sounds the winds did bring me."I reached the Dragon's Tooth shortly after Mr. Rogers, who was perched atop a smaller cuspid. We sat silently for more than an hour awaiting the arrival of our current composite of companions. I listened to the communication of three dogs in three separate valleys far below. Finally, the cast and crew drifted in and were ensnared by our powerful vortex. First to arrive were Pablo and Mom, followed by Zero and Noel, then Strider..."
from, Did Ed Garvey Sleep Here?
This was not the same Strider they had left behind in Hot Springs. This was another northbounder with the same name. He was tall and skinny with long legs and a bunch of scraggly whiskers at the end of his chin he called a beard. He had started later than most but due to his long stride had quickly caught up with the pack. Way back around Damascus, someone had given him a bandana that had a Chinese Checkers board printed on it. Along the way he picked up various colored beads and buttons and so, beside the Dragon's Tooth, they all played Chinese Checkers...
Zero: Passing through, did you...
Strider: ...run into any strangers at Symms Gap? Sure did. There was a guy there watching TV on a portable television. He was so spooky, I kept right on truckin'...
That was enough to send Zero into veritable Grand Mal seizures for the evening! He flopped and frothed about as if possessed. Later, Strider confided in The Monk that he really had just read one of Zero's entries in a Trail Register about it.
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©Copyright 02002. Fresh Ink. All rights reserved.