There are three ways people view us.
1. With awe. Like we are some other awesome rare breed of human. (Tourists. These people usually don't know much about thruhiking, but enjoy nature).
2. With excitement, helpfulness, and interest. (Locals or former thruhikers. These people know who we are and what we do).
3. With disgust. Like we are gross homeless people who are a nuisance to society. (City folk. These people usually know nothing about us and hate being outside).
I met the third kind of person for the first time today. I stood by the trailhead looking at an information board when two people passed by. I looked at them and smiled. Don't make eye contact, don't make eye contact, I could hear the woman thinking as they gave me a very wide berth. Ok lady, I know I stink but you don't have to be so rude. This third group of people probably thinks we are always looking for handouts and feels bad for passing by with full bellies and clean bodies. They don't want to look into our pleading eyes that beg for trail magic, a ride, or even just a smile. They don't even acknowledge us. It's like we don't exist. I wondered if that was how homeless people on the streets feel, if they just want to be seen, recognized, smiled at... to feel human.
With these thoughts, I turned back to the trail. Stupid, stupid, stupid, x 1,000 stupids hill. It was long and steep and no switchbacks and hot and overgrown and no views. By the time I had gotten to the top and down into the next gap I was strongly considering going to a nearby hostel. A lady offered me a ride there and I gratefully accepted. It turned out she worked at the hostel. I told her my name was Arrow. She gasped, "Nuh uh... No way!... Nuh uh!..." Umm, is everything ok lady? Please pay attention to the road... I had never gotten that kind of reaction before. Usually just an "Oh cool" but I thought she may have a heart attack or something. Then she explained her name was Arrow as well because she was a competitive archer.
A shower and a pizza gave me superpowers; I felt like a new person. When I got back to the trail I pounded out the remaining six miles, passing a few groups of hikers sitting around, unmotivated move as I had been. I was determined not to break a sweat so the effects of the shower would remain, but my efforts proved futile.
I went to the Priest to confess my sins. I had seen a dog pee on somebody's backpack and didn't do a thing about it. I felt terrible, and I had hiked 500 miles with that on my conscious so it felt good to get if off my chest (actually it was rather funny, I didn't feel bad at all). The Priest Shelter is where hikers go to confess their trail sins in the confessional log book. Most of them are about not fully burying their poop (okay, who really buries a poop 6 inches deep?), peeing in the privy, not hanging their food bags, or stealing TP. Some of my favorites:
On the way down from the Priest I walked past a rattlesnake laying a foot from the trail. I stopped abruptly and watched him from a safe distance until he rattled at me, then I jumped away. I waited for the people I was hiking with to let them know. He got angry as they approached and coiled up. We practically ran down the rest of the hill.
When I got to the shelter, there were over 100 people camping in the small space. I had forgotten it was Memorial Day weekend. Holy cow.
"Follow her, she knows what she's doing." A guy told the three people I had just passed. "That's good, because I really don't," I stopped to talk to you the two men sitting on the side of the trail. "You from Maine?" one asked. "No," I replied. "Well you walk like somebody from Maine," he said. "Oh? How do they walk?" I asked. "Beautifully," the second guy interjected. "Like gliding down the rocks," the first guy added.
I was in the zone. How far had I come? 4? 7? It didn't matter. How far did I have to go? 12? 20? That didn't matter either. I was unstoppable. Time didn't exist. I paused for trail magic. A former thruhiker in his wife had set up a smorgasbord of food. I grabbed a donut, a banana, and a granola bar. I would have eaten more, but I felt like the wife was judging me.
Onward. I passed a guy huffing and puffing up a big hill. "How are you doing?" He asked. "Good," the standard reply, "How about you?" "Ready to be in the parking lot," he said. I stopped for lunch and later passed them in the parking lot. He was very happy to be done, a huge smile on his face. "Have a good hike!" He called after me. It must be nice to have a shiny magical transportation device at your command that will take you faster than three miles an hour.
I passed a sign to awesome viewpoint but it was a quarter mile off trail. My feet hurt. So instead of going there, I googled a picture instead. It didn't look like it would be worth the extra energy, especially because there was a fog rolling in. I made it the rest of the way to the shelter and slumped on to the picnic table. A 22 mile day. I considered doing the remaining four miles into Waynesboro but decided it would be too late to catch a ride by the time I got to the road crossing. It could wait till tomorrow.
コメント