Chapter 6
National Rangers Association Headquarters, Virginia
514 miles down and 1654 miles to go

Pine Swamp Branch Shelter Register:

     "I hereby rename this shelter 'Pine Swamp Branch Davidian Shelter.'  I've converted the privy to a high security stockade and am locking myself in with a cache of weapons, ammunition, and rations in wait of the Apocalypse.  Please do not disturb (unless you want to be saved)."

Kaptain Krummholz
GA>ME

     Going up and down Mt. Rogers, the Vikings saw their first snow of the trail. While they climbed the mountain, mist came down thick and cold, turning to ice and then snow as the wind gathered pleasant flakes into a blinding blizzard. Finding refuge in the shelter near the top, they joined a very desperate looking group of hikers that had dashed forward and backward to reach the shelter. It was the only spot on the mountain that offered any real relief from the storm. They draped a large tarp across the open front of the shelter and tied it off tight to keep heat in and wind out as much as possible. Even so, they spent a very cold night listening to their boots freeze solid while the winds howled outside and hikers moaned inside.

     The next day the world was a quiet sheet of snow punctuated by lines of snow-covered trees, and down the mountainside the clouds swam through the valleys. Rocks and mile signs showed the marks of the wind as if they had sprouted fur made of ice and the wind had molded it into swept tableau.

     They played all day, only hiking a few miles over the Grayson Highlands where wild ponies ran through the melting, speckled snow. They were down to three. Jokers Wild had stayed in Damascus a few days earlier to wait for mail and promised to catch up soon. Wayah, now dubbed the Viking Lord since he was the source of the name and the largest in the group, sent his gloves back home in the mail when they were in town since he had walked through the bitter cold of the Smokies without ever wearing them. Later in Damascus, an outfitter had offered him a walking stick when he bought a new backpack. Now he realized that the reason he hadn't needed the gloves is that his hands had been in his pockets. Having hiked all day holding onto the stick in the cold, he was prepared to sit on his hands for a week if that was how long it took to get the feeling back. He had switched hands whenever one went numb, but often the pocketed hand hadn't had time to warm up when it's turn came around. Squirrelfight, dubbed Viking Hero for his acts of inspirational valor, took pictures madly all day, and then sat in the shelter writing in his journal, trying to remember everything they had done and seen that day. Jones, the Viking Destroyer, was starting a campfire, the ceremonial duty from which he got his name.

     Down from the high altitude of the night before, they were steadily warming, and though the night might be cold, it would be a long while before they would be so cold again. Wayah poured some of the peppermint schnapps he had been carrying since Damascus in his hot chocolate to soothe his cold and aching muscles. He sat on the edge of the shelter with the warm travel mug between his ungloved hands, feeling the heat growing in his palms and belly, promising deep sleep.

     The weather the next day came out warm, and by the middle of the day was fairly hot. Cain, who they had seen only a couple of times since meeting him in Hot Springs had spent the night with them the past two nights and was getting off the trail that day. It was a strange thing to see someone getting off the trail, effectively dropping out of existence. But it wasn't like a death unless a hiker felt like he had failed. There had been a great deal of discussion on the trail and among the Vikings about what it meant to hike the trail and what it meant to stop. Squirrelfight intended to hike every inch of the trail; that was the goal he had set for himself. He figured that if he was going to go all the way out there to hike the trail, there was no point in missing even one of the white blazes that marked the way. For Wayah, the hike had become its own reason for existing, and anything that happened to him in the course of his travels was a part of the trail experience, whether there were blazes or not, and whether it meant missing a portion of the actual trail or not. Jones thought both ideas sounded good, and was a bit frustrated that there was not a group consensus, but he had a knack for finding a middle way. Their group approach to watches was similar. Wayah kept one attached to his pack strap and used it to tell how far he had hiked, how long he had before sunset, when the post office would close, and occasionally used it as an early morning alarm. Squirrelfight wanted no watches at all, preferring to live by the natural rhythms of the forest. He wanted to eat when he was hungry and wake when he was rested. As with the hike, Wayah and Squirrel didn't question each other's opinions and went on doing it their way, but Jones sought some common ground. After some deliberation, he decided to wear a watch, but set to the wrong time would so he wouldn't be influenced by a preset schedule.

     When they came to the road crossing where Cain hitched to town, they said good-bye to him, wished him well and spread out in the grass between the road and the woods to eat a lunch of granola, cheese, candy bars, dried fruit, and bagels. It was a late lunch, but they had hiked ten miles already, leaving only a short stretch of five miles to hike after their break. After putting away his food, Wayah stretched out on the grass with his head on his pack to relax in the sun and catch a quick nap. When he opened his eyes, Squirrel and Jones were looking at him and grinning slyly.
     "Oh Viking Lord. We've got a plan," Squirrel was beaming.
     "What are you guys up to?" said Wayah, half asleep. Jones prepared to illustrate their masterpiece.
      "All right. Fourteen more miles today," Wayah winced at the thought, but Jones continued unaffected, "We'll make it to the National Rangers Association. We can sleep on the porch, and there's a phone where we can order pizza!" Wayah could see the temptation but wasn't sure if a pizza was worth turning this beautiful day into a grueling drive for miles. Squirrel took up the sword, "But that's not all. That leaves us with only twelve miles left to get to Atkins, which we can do in plenty of time to get showers and laundry, and go to the Post Office." Jones chimed in, "And catch Seinfeld!" Wayah's face lit up. It had been months since he had seen his favorite television show (or any television for that matter) and almost as long since he had acknowledged the existence of Thursday. The only reason the days of the week had any bearing on them was because they had to make sure not to arrive at the Post Office on Sunday.

     So much goodness to be had just from hiking a long day after lunch! Such a decisive Viking raid on all the fruits that civilization had to offer! Wayah couldn't argue the genius of the plan, and they set off to hike the rest of that short day turned suddenly so long.

     As usual, Squirrel and Jones hiked ahead, sometimes together and sometimes apart, while Wayah hiked behind. Squirrelfight was the fastest due to the two magic ski poles he carried. The old white paint was chipping off, but they were sturdy and light. His lean body twisted back and forth with each step. Pushing off with one leg and the other arm, he glided along the trail steadily. Jones hiked fast at times and slower at other times, his rate changing with his moods. He carried a thick wooden stick and each step pushed him as much up as forward. When he was happy he almost bounced, but when he was grumpy he drove along the trail quickly leaving deep holes from the tip of his staff. Wayah nearly always fell behind, walking at a stroll and often singing. On long days, when the Vikings would pull into camp around dark, Wayah would stroll in 15 minutes or so later in the growing darkness. The other Vikings would hear him singing as he came down the trail through the night.
     "Blackbird singin' in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise..."

     Wayah knew when he accepted the plan for the long day that he would probably end up doing some night hiking, but he hadn't thought about it at the time. He found himself very weary when he noticed the sun was setting. He wasn't sure how many miles were left or how far ahead the others were. He stopped for a moment before he lost the light, and pulled out his map. He hadn't noticed any landmarks for a while, and the rolling hills offered no clue as to where he was. The hiking hadn't been very hard, but his body was aching nonetheless, and he felt unusually tired. Hoping to ease the ache in his neck and back and legs, he pulled out the dwindling bottle of schnapps and took a pull. With his stomach empty and his blood pumping, the sip had a powerful and immediate effect. He felt one hundred percent better and hefted his pack to begin walking again. He glided into the night, not bothering with his headlamp as the trail had been relatively rock free that day. He preferred to walk by the moonlight and follow the trail like a cool black river through the dark trees. He looked hard into the trees ahead, searching for straight horizontal lines, the sure sign of a building, but it was long in coming. He hiked for nearly an hour in the dark, stopping when the pain would overtake him for another drink of the peppermint potion. He figured he was due for some trail magic. Trail magic consisted of all the little amazing things that happened out on the trail. Sometimes it was as small as finding a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup lying unopened near the trail. The week before, Jones and Jokers had found a chilidog lying by a road. It was still warm and pretty clean. Sometimes trail magic was offered by a stranger or left on purpose. The legendary instances of trail magic involve hikers being picked up for a shower, a hot meal, laundry, and a bed to sleep in before being brought back out to the trail. Whatever its measure, trail magic constantly reaffirmed their faith in humanity and serendipity and reminded them of how wonderfully odd the world was.

     Finally Wayah could see dim lights poking through the darkness. It seemed like he had been toiling in the dark for several hours. The fences and ledges of a government building came into view and on the wide concrete porch he could see Jones hunched over next to his pack explosion, the scattering of gear caused by unloading for the night. At the other end of the porch was another hiker already in his sleeping bag but sitting up against the wall. He was an older man holding a tiny dog and watching the Vikings. Squirrel stood on the side holding a phone, pleading with it.

     "You're sure there's nothing you can do? Really? All right, thanks." Squirrel turned away from the phone slowly.
     "This sucks!" Jones exclaimed, convulsing and knocked over his water bottle, "This really sucks. All day I've been thinking about that pizza and now I'm so hungry, and this stupid door is locked!" Wayah looked behind Jones and through a locked glass door was a glowing soda machine and the sterile signs marking a bathroom with running water and maybe even showers. The soft drink logo shined through the door like a sadistic beacon.
     "They could've at least turned off the lights so it wouldn't look so inviting," said Wayah, realizing that his tongue was a little numb. "What's up with the pizza?" He looked over at Squirrel.
     "The place that used to deliver out here closed down last week, and the only other place that delivers is Pizza Hut, and they said we're to far to deliver."
     "In a car?" Wayah tilted his head in disbelief. He still felt minty, "Give me the phone. Call them back." Jones looked up as the Viking Lord strode over to the phone. Squirrel dialed the number again and handed the phone to Wayah.
     "Hello, Pizza Hut, how can I help you?" A young woman's voice came over the receiver.
     "Hi. This is the Viking Lord. One of my men, Squirrelfight, just called and someone told him that you couldn't deliver any pizza to where we are."
     "Yes. That was me. He said you were at the Rangers Station."
     "That's right. There's even a road. I can see it from here."
     "Yes sir, but it's outside of our radius. We can deliver to the gas station five miles down the road if you'll just drive down and pick it up."
     "Okay, now you listen to me," Wayah was fired up now. "We don't have a car, we hiked 24 miles to reach this phone today just so that we could have some pizza, and you're telling me that your driver can't drive his car another five miles to save our lives? It's dark, we're too tired to cook, and there's a locked glass door here with glowing bathrooms and soda machines laughing at us on the other side! We're dying out here, and you and your car that won't drive five more miles are killing us!" There was a long pause.
     "One second, here's the manager." There was a shuffling noise and a man's voice came on the line.
     "Hi there. You're hiking the trail?"
     "Yes, we are" Thank God he knew what the trail was. Wayah could feel the tone of the conversation shifting under his weight. There would be pizza for sure.
     "Okay, I'll send someone out there but you guys had better tip him good."
     "On my honor as a Viking." Wayah could hear the manager smile.
     "So what do you want on your pizza?"
     Less than an hour later they were eating pizza and smiling. The weariness of the day sloughed off of them, some of it settling into their legs and heads in anticipation of deep sleep.
     "So you finally got your pizza," said the man with the little dog, "Way to go." He had already declined the offer for some of the pizza. He still sat watching the Vikings while the dog stared wide-eyed at the dripping grease and cheese. In the morning he was gone and never did the Vikings see him again.