AWOL on the Appalachian Trail by David Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

Interstate 40. Each time I have to guess when to change roads and which way to go, since there are sparse markings. Over the entire length of the trail, I spent more time searching for my way on roads than I did in the woods. On the last leg of the road walk, I take a turn down a gravel road away from the trail, headed for Standing Bear Hostel. Wall Street is stomping down the road toward me, cursing the lack of marking. He had made an unintended trip down to the hostel only to find he is off the trail. I'm happy that he won't be staying and not unhappy that he is astray.
    On the trail, "hostel" is a generic term for any inexpensive or free lodging. This could mean bunkrooms at a private residence, outfitter, or church, or steerage-class accommodations at a hotel or bed and breakfast.
    The Standing Bear Hostel is a wedge of land with a stream running through it and an assortment of structures. One building is the home of Curtis and Maria, the owners. Curtis started this hostel. He's proud of his handiwork and gives me a tour. He's built bunks in what used to be a garage. He built a bunkroom on top of a bridge over the stream. There are outdoor showers, an outhouse, and a fire pit. There is a small shelter with laundry machines, a phone, and a laptop computer for Internet access (it's not working). He has converted a tool shed into a storeroom where he sells an assortment of trail foods.
    This is Curtis's job, but clearly he also likes the company of hikers. Tonight he takes a drive to pick up pizzas for me and Matt, the only hikers staying. I choose to sleep in the bunkhouse on the bridge for the unique (and cold) opportunity to sleep over a babbling stream.
    The itch that I felt on the back of my heel yesterday is now a blister the size of an almond. I can hardly believe that such a large blister could form when all I felt was an itch. I pop the blister with a needle, drain clear fluid, and put a bandage over it. I've seen blisters come and go already, and I figure my feet get tougher with every callus. They are of no concern.
    The day is perfect for hiking. It is clear and cold enough to wear fleece when I'm not moving and a T-shirt while hiking. I hardly break a sweat. The trail here has a lot of variety and is nicely graded. For miles there are fields of white and pink trillium, mayapples, and purple wildflowers. There are two grassy balds, pine forests, blooming mountain laurel, rhododendron tunnels, and many stream crossings. Set loose, a child would run down the paths, scramble up the rocks, lie on the earth. Grown-ups more often let their minds do the running, scrambling, and lying, but the emotion is shared. It feels good to be here.
    The wind is blowing strong all day and is especially noticeable when going over the larger bald, Max Patch. I stumble across it, fighting the wind like a drunk trying to hold a straight line.

    The trail across Max Patch Bald.

    Walnut Mountain Shelter is a ratty old shelter with a platform that would comfortably fit five or, uncomfortably, fit six. I am number six. Usually I would pass on a crowded shelter, but it is late in the day and I am ready to stop. I try to evaluate the group. Wall Street is snuggled inis bag at one end of the shelter, looking miserable and asking for cold medicine. "Hello, Awol," he says feebly. His hello is sincere. I recognize friendliness buried under his brusque persona. I am glad that I stayed cordial with him when I had considered him off-putting.
    The other four men are obviously familiar with one another. One of them I take for a day hiker. He has rag-tag gear and a car-camping-sized stove. He introduces himself as Steve O., and says he intends to thru-hike. I am immediately uneasy about Steve O.--not because I have any special powers of perception, but because he would make most people uneasy. He has a hard-living look to him, with leathery skin and worn, yellow teeth. He has an odor that stands out even among thru-hikers. I make my dinner on a log in