Damascus to Daleville: Blue Skies and Boulders

Damascus to Daleville. Blue skies and boulders.

June 15, 2011

The large dark bear loped along the ridge above the trail, never knowing that the two hikers below were transfixed watching him go about his morning business.

We watched, stalking him as we quietly moved along our trail as the bear moved casually across the ridge and stopped to sniff at this or that. For five minutes he stayed in sight before scrambling over a fallen tree and heading the other way as the hikers shared an excited “wow” and went our way to the north,

This was just another majestic day on the Appalachian Trail. It started with a magical sunrise at my campsite overlooking an idyllic Virginia valley from atop Tinker Cliffs a few miles back.

I had camped alone on the cliffs the night before to celebrate the 700 miles on the Appalachian Trail and, quite honestly, feeling a bit proud of myself.

I am humbled by the entire adventure.

Seven hundred miles is a long way, and most hikers who make it this far end up going the distance – 2180 miles to Maine. That’s a very long walk.

This is a magnificent country, one filled with amazing people who hike its trails and who give strangers a lift, sensing we are travelers who appreciate the kindness and mean no harm. This remarkable country is filled with incredible wildlife like this morning’s bear and the other wonders I have seen on my journey: the rattlers and other snakes, the deer, turtles, the birds and the butterflies.

The forest creatures have begun taking hikers for granted -- perhaps it's the smell or we just fade into the trees like they do. They frolic in thee trees and race by without a glance.

Butterflies seem to always find me at the perfect time. Sometimes when I need to strength to make the next climb, sometime to ease a doubt that might come through my head. Sometimes, they seem to just want to say hello.

The road from Damascus to Daleville has been 240 miles of heat, bright sunshine and cloudless blue skies, and the trail has taken me through long lush meadows and farm fields, across stark and open highlands strewn with large boulders, and through demanding ups and downs across harsh and jagged rock slides and scrambling over downed trees.

It is hard hiking, tough on the knees and ankles, and I stop here in Daleville to recover a bit before the push to the halfway point on the 4th of July. I pause to give thanks before pressing on.

Angels and More Angels

The battered black pickup truck turned around up the road and pulled alongside my friend and me on a lonely backcountry Virginia road, hoping for a ride to the grocery at Newport, about eight miles away.

“We’re going to Newport. Ya’ll get in the back,” said Thelma Jean the Trail Angel. I told her I’d kiss her if I weren’t so wet and smelly; him too, I nodded at the driver, Buddy. They both just grinned that happy Southern grin.

“They is beers in the cooler back there if ya’ll is thirsty,” she said. “Mountain Dew, too.” There may be a better cold beer than that one; I don’t know it.

Two days later, I was trying to catch a ride to the Catawba post office before closing when Trail Angel Laurie gave me a lift, waited for me to do my business inside, and then drove me five miles back to the trail.

And yesterday I sat in the gravel parking lot at Catawba, having a quick lunch at Mile 700 before the 3.7-mile hike up to McAfee Knob. Trail Angel Mike, a Presbyterian minister, eagerly quizzed me about trail life before he told me to put my stuff in his truck and let him drive me to the store and buy me trail treats.

None of these angels seemed to mind how bad I smelled; or perhaps they were just too polite to mention it.

From the Messenger to Daleville

I wrote last from about the rain at Mount Rogers and the southbound Messenger who joined a group of us northbound thru-hikers also seeking shelter from the storm. The Messenger headed on south, and I headed north toward Maine, though I called calling Mepkin Abbey a week or so later to check in with him. We swapped voice mails.


North took me into the wonderful Grayson Highlands State Park where the forests gave way to panoramic views and the solitude of the Appalachian Trail evaporated with the clouds and was quickly replaced by the hubbub of a popular state park on Memorial Day weekend.

Family sounds echoed across the fields as day-tripping groups came to explore. Mothers screamed at their youngsters to “don’t go over there” and that gave the highlands the feel of a Wal-Mart or Disney World more than a wilderness playground.

We northbound thru-hikers became part of their wilderness adventure as they greeted us with fascination and wariness – you’re really walking to Maine? There was no shortage of awe and wide eyes and a little bit of head shaking.

I stopped at a gate to let a troop of scouts go by and paused to thank the adult leaders for taking young people into the woods. The group stopped to let me buy when the leader asked me how far I had hiked. With a burst of enthusiasm, I happily announced, “I have hiked almost 500 miles!”

More than one camper’s eye bulged at that and then the first one grinned and raised his palm. “High 5!" I received an enthusiastic hand slap and some ‘woo-hoos” from every young hiker I passed.

The joy of the highlands and passing the 500-mile mark from Springer was quickly tempered by physical horrors, as I caught a nasty bug that had made its rounds through the hiker community, and my body, reliable so far, became my worst enemy.

I was still able to do long miles, but the heat got to me and water became scarce along the trail. I was sweating far more water and fluids than I could take in, and, coupled with a very nasty intestinal disorder, I became a very unhappy camper. The 200-pounder who confidently strode onto the trail in early April was now a gaunt shell, looking more like a POW than a thru-hiker.

No pun intended, it passed.

Hiking By the Numbers

What damage does backpacking for 700 miles from Georgia to Virginia do to the body of an otherwise healthy 60-year-old man?

When I began, I weighed about 205 pounds and was carrying a 55-pound pack, fully loaded with gear and food for several days on the trail. Between me and my pack, my legs were carrying 260 pounds up and down the steep Georgia mountains.

When I reached the Woods Hole Hostel near Pearisburg, VA, I weighed 170 and, fully loaded, my pack now weighs about 35 pounds. That’s about 205 total, or 55 pounds less than I was struggling with during the early days of the hike.

I have no idea what my vital signs might be, but I have added some weight to my body since Pearisburg. That 170 weight came after a few terrible difficult days of gastronomic distress and I have gotten steadily stronger as the days go by.

A Day in the Life

I write this at 7 a.m. Last night, three of us went to a country cooking all-you-can-eat buffet. Cheap, but there was a lot of it. Soon I will have a hot breakfast here at the Howard Johnson’s Express, and then the trail beckons once more from just up the road. So it begins again.

My hiking days typically start at 6:05, when my internal clock nudges me to get moving. The tent comes down, the sleeping pad is put away with the bedding and the clothing are packed away while I either prepare a breakfast of hot oatmeal or keep it simple and have a granola or power bar.

I am on the trail by 7:15 most mornings and plan to go for three hours before a morning break and a snack and then another three hours of walking before stopping for lunch. I eat at both stops and if the day has gone well, I have covered about 10 miles or more before lunch. My daily goal is 115 miles, but that can vary because of water, weather, or the sometimes-complicated logistics of getting from Point A to Point B.

I try to camp by 6 p.m., pitch my tent, make a hot dinner and do camp chores before settling on my sleeping pad away from the bugs and reading, writing or just reviewing the day. My world is Spartan and simple and amazing.

The sun drops by 9 and I drop off soon after, another day starting just a few hours later when the sun calls me again to get up and start walking.

I learn daily lessons about hiking and every day seems somehow easier than the day before.

The climbs and grades have gotten easier as I have learned to regulate my breathing and pace myself so that I can keep moving and not stop again and again to gasp for breath. I recover more quickly after a difficult stretch.

Hiking that has been drudgery has become wonderful fun. It’s not effortless by any means, but I have enjoyed walks up and down Virginia hills and found a good cadence and rhythm that moves me along at a good clip and I negotiate the rocks and roots and obstacles by instinct, placing my feet where they need to be without obsessing and feeling each and every step.

I have added music to my hike this time, bringing an iPod with me on the trail as my only creature comfort from the other world. Sometimes it is Steely Dan, sometimes the Beatles or bob Dylan or gospel or new age, but the music helps drive the hike sometimes and adds the right mood when times are tough.

But the sounds of the forest are always more interesting than the music I own and I pick my spots for music carefully and remember why I am here. Why is that? Oh year, I remember. I am here because the Appalachian Trail is here and I am walking to Katahdin.

But first there is a hot breakfast and perhaps another shower before I put the 40 pounds of stuff on my back again and hit the trail, following the endless white blazes that guide me -- first to Harpers Ferry W.VA by the 4th of July – and then to Maine by October.



Happy Trails!