Chapter 8
Hightop Hut, Shenandoah National Park, Virginia
873 miles down and 1293 miles to go.

Pine Swamp Branch Shelter:

     "An ostrich my foot!! There are no ostrich out here - everyone knows that. Anyone gullible enough to believe such a ‘tall’ neck of a story ought to be in a padded cell. As for those who write such baloney - straight jacket time!
     We had a good days hike from the campsite four miles out of Pearisburg, although suffering from too much town food and bugs. Oh yes, we saw an elephant today (seriously) flying high, circling the turkey vultures before diving down into the bushes to gobble up some unsuspecting peanut hiking to Maine."

Sulu - the third Brit
GA > ME

     "When did the National Park Service start the Ostrich relocation program in Central Virginia?"

Blind Owl
GA > ME

     "Now there’s a lot of bears in the park," said the ranger, "and you’re bound to run into one on your way through." The ranger had cornered Wayah and Squirrelfight as they stopped to fill out their back country permits for the Shenandoah National Park. Across the section of the permit that asked about names and schedules they had written "VIKINGS".
     "Now if a bear should charge you, just hold your ground ‘cause it’s probably a false charge and he’ll turn away at the last second." Wayah glanced over at Squirrelfight and saw him intently visualising the encounter. There was a leaf stuck in his dread locks. "Now if he should get up to you, just drop down and ball up. He might mess up your pack, but he probably won’t do more than bat you around." The ranger was starting to sound like safety pamphlet, and after the thought of standing up to a charging bear had run it's course, the Vikings began looking for an appropriate exit. "On the other hand," continued the ranger, "if a bobcat should come after you, you’ve got no way out but to beat the hell out of it, cause they just won’t stop until you’re dead." Wayah looked back at Squirrelfight with a gleam in his eye. Squirrelfight’s face was already animated with excitement.
     "Oh, man!" Squirrelfight yelled, somewhere between laughter and epiphany. "I hope I get attacked by a bobcat!" He started flailing around the road, punching the air and strangling some unfortunate imaginary bobcat that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wayah started laughing and stretched his arms out in front of him.
     "Imagine the scars you would have after that scrap! ‘Yeah, well you should see the bobcat!’" Wayah emerged from their fantasy to find the ranger staring concerned, perhaps even frightened by the Vikings. It occurred to him that the lawman might decide to have them put away, locked in some treeless cell without icecream. No way, the ranger didn’t have a chance. They outnumbered him and Squirrelfight already had the blood of one predator in his teeth today, however imaginary.
     "Don’t worry about us, tough guy," Wayah said, suddenly a little confrontational. Squirrelfight’s face was still red with laughter and every now and then he would cry out and kick the ravaged bobcat across the road.

     Striking out into the Shenandoah, they were about 100 miles from Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, the 1,000 mile mark and spiritual midway point on the trail. It was just the two of them since Jones had hiked out of Rusty's with another group a couple of days before they left and Fur Trapper, who had remained with the Vikings since Trail Days, met his parents in the first days of the Shenandoah to go home for a short break. It was good to get a break from each other and the intimacy of backpacking together every day. Squirrelfight had to get off for a week to go to his sister's wedding soon, but he wanted to have hiked 1,000 miles before he went home.

     They had counted the miles for a long time. The first 100 miles was a victory, as was the second, but after a while, another 100 miles was something to be noted but not necessarily celebrated. 1,000 miles. It's the kind of thing you joke about or write songs about, but they were about to have hiked it. It wasn't even halfway, but to have hiked a thousand miles over the mountains was to cross into the unquantifiable. The mind simply can't hold on to 1,000 miles, or the difference between 1,000 miles and 1,200 miles. In a sense, a day's hike no longer added noticeably to the whole, but once they were halfway, Wayah and Squirrelfight knew they would make it all the way. They were moving forward, having the time of their lives, and they began looking far to the North where Katahdin could now be felt and hunted.

     Squirrelfight's birthday was the day after Memorial Day. He would be 24, and looking at their maps they could see a shelter exactly 24 miles away. Wayah thought it would be better to take it easy and relax on Squirrel's birthday, but since Squirrel was so excited about doing the big day, Wayah consented to the miles.

     The day was a beauty, and they walked some together and some alone all morning. They were dipping through the lush green valleys, criss-crossing Skyline Drive, the road that slices through the trees the length of the Shenandoahs. They passed outcroppings and wide spaces in the road where drivers could pull over and look through their car windows and across the guardrails to the world the Vikings called home. The trail was accessible by road all through the National Park, which had good points and bad ones. On the bad side, it was dangerous to be so near the road, vulnerable to casual crime and pestering drivers, not to mention the mental impact of constantly hearing the passing cars. It was bad enough having to see and cross the road now and then without having to always know the road was nearby. Squirrel stopped to piss on the yellow line in the middle. On the good side, the enormous campgrounds were usually full of RVs and tents and people with too much food and a willingness to give it to tired, sweaty, starving thru-hikers. The art of bumming town food from townsfolk was affectionately referred to as "yogiing". The only rule for this hiker sport was that one could never directly ask for anything. Even hinting was considered poor form. The weekenders and locals had to be coaxed into offering their various treasures and still think it was their own idea. In North Carolina, Wayah had met a southbounder (a thru-hiker starting in Maine and going south) named Knothole Willie. Willie had shared his favorite yogi with the rest of the hikers around the fire that night. He would sit, looking very starved near a group that was out picnicking, and finally ask if they had any peanut butter he could "borrow" for his bread. They would always feel so sorry for him that they would invite him to join their meal. Stories of the trail are filled with these hopeful transactions, even those that were less than successful.

Hemlock Hill Shelter

     "Nice to see Fly and Aces here at the shelter when I arrived. Last night when I arrived at Crampton Gap Shelter, there were two people having chicken right there on the front step of the shelter, and we’re not talking Buffalo chicken wings here, these two were having the all-you-can-eat BUFFET. They paid no attention to me when I arrived and continued marinating each other (I mean the chicken), so I made it clear that I was there to stay by laying out my Thermarest pad and then hanging my REEKING socks directly over their heads. After a few minutes, the grill cooled down, and they left, disgruntled. Is it possible to be gruntled?"

-the thru-hiker formerly known as Buzzsaw
GA>ME

     It was Memorial Day weekend in the National Park, normally a yogiing paradise, but after a few days of heavy rain, the park was nearly empty. The two Vikings stood in the ruin of a camping lot over the moistened remains of red, white, and blue paper ribbon and flag-colored paper hats, wondering if the camp store was open. Wayah left his pack with Squirrelfight and went to scout out the store, finding it stocked with goodies more than adequate for a birthday lunch. He brought back two cokes, a half gallon of ice cream, a dish of fudge, and six beers. They sat in the shade of the moist canopy eating and drinking, then threw the containers in one of the trashcans and kept hiking. They climbed and hiked at a relaxed but steady pace, taking long breaks at the tops of mountains or to do a little scrambling off the trail on a separate peak.

Viking Rule: We stand on big rocks

     They leaped from boulder to boulder along the cresting ridges near the trail, and sent barbaric yawps back and forth over the expanses of trees and the long, deep swept landscape with the road cutting always somewhere far below them. The day skipped along slowly under them and around them, and it became obvious that they were going to have to do some hiking in the dark to make the 24 miles that day. They had made a lazy start to the day and weren't in any hurry. The air was cool in the wake of the rains and they were enjoying the perfect embrace of Squirrel's birthday hike. Squirrelfight had always been the slowest getting ready in the morning. In the first months the others would wait for him to get himself together and stretch after breakfast every morning, but of late they had taken to leaving him, knowing he would catch up. Today, though, Wayah waited for him, and Squirrel took a pace more like Wayah's so that they hiked together all day.

     Looking at the map, Wayah wondered where they would be at nightfall. He didn't have to tell Squirrel that he would rather set up camp than push into the night; it was his temperament to always take it easy and Squirrelfight knew him well. There was a restaurant/bar on the trail several miles ahead at a resort by the road. It would be dark when they got there, but their guidebooks indicated that it would be open late and they decided to celebrate there.

     Night fell on them quickly and it was darker than usual, only two days after the new moon. They stumbled along the dark and rocky trail, looking for a light through the trees. Squirrel's lamp was dying, and when they stopped to replace the battery, he found that the spare had melted somewhere along the way. They had to move slowly with only one headlamp, the light casting sharp and deceptive shadows that made it hard for Squirrelfight to find his footing behind Wayah. The miles crept by for what seemed like hours before they began to see specks of light through the trees on their right. They passed the huts and bungalows of the resort for a good stretch before coming to a splinter path with a post marking the way to the restaurant. They carried their packs up the ridge and into cones of street lamps that lit paved paths among the buildings, finally coming to a wide lawn in front of the main lounge of the resort. The light from inside the glass bled like a sterile wipe over the sign on the door reading, "No Packs." It was the norm in places near the trail to forbid packs indoors. It was one of those rules that made sense in a paranoid, civilized way, but had come to seem confusing and foolish from the trail side of the sign.

     They found a clump of manicured bushes in a dark corner and stashed the packs among them before going to the door and pushing it open. The blast of cold artificial air littered with traces of lounge music and carpet made them grin. They were tired, but there would be a great deal to plunder here. They followed the noise through the luxury cluttered lounge and down a set of stairs to the basement. They limped past the clean white walls and glass doors into a dark room with red ornamented carpets and small round tables. Couples and groups were huddled over the tables or reclined around them, and every one turned and watched the Vikings saunter across the room. The hiker limp is a noble swagger. The legs are fatigued, the feet are sore and there’s usually some chaffing in the nether regions to add a little "Fred Sanford" to the swing, but the body is free of the strain of the pack and stretches and twists freely.

     The clean, well dressed patrons looked uncomfortable as Wayah and Squirrelfight walked by as if they were pan handlers or bums that would look over all their wealth and style and beg feebly for a piece of it. Their fear was amusing to the Vikings, but they were too tired for nonsense and made their way to the bar, annexing two stools with soft, cushioned tops.
     "A.T. hikers? What can I get you to drink?" Said a smiling lady behind the bar. She had a kind face, just starting to age, and seemed accustomed to hiker traffic. Wayah ordered a beer, and Squirrel the whisky he loved so well.
     "What we really need, though, is some food," said Squirrelfight, his stomach moaning.
     "Oh, the kitchen just closed a little while ago." She seemed genuinely sorry. Wayah looked around the room at large plates with pieces of pizza, chicken, sandwiches, and steaks with only a few bites taken out of them, and napkins and silverware strewn on top, begging retrieval.
     "Is there any way that when you throw away all those people’s food you could accidentally drop it all in a big bowl for us? We’ll be very discreet." Her eye’s opened in profound sympathy, but then she squinted and shook her head. "Oh well," said Wayah, feeling his muscles relax from the drink and some of the soreness subside as the bartender disappeared in the back. "A very happy birthday, my friend," he toasted Squirrel, "and an excellent day."
     "Indeed," said Squirrel, swallowing his drink. From around the corner came the bartender, holding a large plate of fruit and two bags of chips. The Viking’s faces lit up.
     "I managed to scrounge this stuff up from the kitchen."
     "Thank you so much. You’re a life saver," said Wayah. The fruit plate wasn’t dinner, but it would hold off their hunger for a while, and the fresh fruit would hit the spot. More than that, though, it was a healthy dose of trail magic.
     "Did I hear you say it was somebody's birthday?" the bartender said, still on a gift giving high. They nodded, and Wayah pointed to Squirrelfight. "Well, I guess I'd better buy you a drink." There was a warm light between the three of them. Wayah had decided long ago to accept any gift that a person offered him, whether he needed it or not. Some people could sense the adventure that they were having, and it excited some part of them. They wanted to contribute and be a part of the adventure, even if it meant just being a character along the way. To turn their gifts down seemed cruel.

     They sat at the bar, talking and eating fruit for a good while before going back out into the hall where there were a pair of phones. They called friends and family, sharing their high spirits with faraway people living in another world. There was an open maintenance room down the hall with a comfortable couch, and they traded off lying on the couch and using the phone. It was already midnight, several hours after they were usually asleep, and the couch was comfortable and inviting.
     "So, do you think we should call it a night here?" Squirrel asked, sizing up the maintenance room as a hideout and sensing his friend's weariness. Wayah looked up at him from the softness of the couch. His body was crying for sleep, and Squirrel seemed resigned to cutting his day short of his goal. Sublime rest could be his with a word, but somehow, the first words out of his mouth were those of the Viking Lord.
     "What kind of talk is that?" he said, hoisting himself up on one elbow. "We’ve still got four miles to hike." A huge grin leaped to Squirrel’s face.
     "Right on."

     They went outside, collected their packs, and sat cross-legged cooking a proper dinner of mac n’ cheese with tuna fish under the light of one of the path lamps. By the time they started hiking it was past one. They stumbled over the rocky trail, tripping on roots and trying to make Wayah’s light work for both of them. It was a long stretch of hours in the blackness with the one dancing beam of light throwing a strobe of shadows around them. They came to the shelter in a clearing where the starlight and sliver of moon could barely hold to the ground, and tried to be quiet enough not to wake the hikers that were curled up inside as they climbed in and prepared for a much deserved sleep.
     "Thanks, Wayah," came Squirrelfight’s whisper from the dark corner of the shelter.
     "Happy Birthday," replied his weary friend. The dim stars lit the ground outside the shelter with a quiet blue white and crickets called to each other through the slight moonlight and the moisture of a day close to breaking.

     Days before, when the Vikings were all together, they had made a list. Squirrelfight loved to make lists, and this one was a list of hiker trail names that you would never hear on the Appalachian Trail. They had laughed a lot trying to think of things that no one would want to be called: the Privy Dunker, the Crawling Bleeding Guy, the BagWetter, and so on. Now as they walked through the Shenandoahs, they traded laughter back and forth, making up new names and stories to go with them. When they reached a shelter in the middle of the day, Wayah and Squirrelfight sat down to write a fictitious entry for one of the characters they had created. Wayah had come up with a way to write it so that it would sound more believable, counting on no one recognizing his handwriting.

Hightop Hut

"I enjoyed the privy at the last shelter. I think if Weathercarrot had looked more closely, it might have made his list. Apparently I forgot to lock the door, though, and I had an interesting run-in with Squirrelfight. He must have been pretty embarrassed, and when I got out, he even seemed upset, so I just left. I think he was yelling at me as I went. Can’t we all just get along?"

-The Privy Dunker

Then Squirrelfight sat down to sculpt his reply.

    "I can’t believe this guy. Let me explain about the ‘interesting run-in’ we had. I got to Pass-Mountain Hut and had to use the privy real bad. I ran in there, jumped on the seat and started going. Suddenly I heard a moan from underneath and a gloved hand touched my ass! This guy was under the seat! I never moved so fast in all my life. Damn right I was upset! This guy comes crawling out a few minutes later wearing these weirdo gaiters looking like some kind of freaked out fly fisherman with shit all over him. This guy traumatized me big time, man. I have to go right now but I’m not going in any privies for a while... I hope you never meet the Privy Dunker, and I’d better not see him again."

-Seeking Therapy
Squirrelfight

     Wayah and Squirrelfight sat on the wooden bench in front of the empty Hightop Hut, laughing uncontrollably. They were tucked under the overhanging roof out of the sun taking a break from the heat while giving birth to the Privy Dunker, who, as far as the hikers behind them knew, now stalked the woods somewhere ahead.

     From the trail that led to the road, a man and a woman wearing matching red T-shirts bounced up to the table by the shelter. They looked like the sort of people who existed to be someone else's wacky neighbors. The man had a bad hat, and they both had cameras. When they saw the Vikings they jiggled and stopped where they were, grinning like cows out of the pen.
     "Is it all right if we come down here?" the woman asked. "We don't mean to disturb you." Wayah shrugged in mid laughter, but Squirrelfight was still laughing too hard to acknowledge anything else. The couple commenced taking pictures of everything on the premises, asking the Vikings permission if their subject included them or their gear. Further into their roll they became bolder and started to venture outside the camp area. "Could you tell me where the spring is? I want to snap a picture of it."
     "Sure," said Wayah, "just follow the arrow over there with ‘spring’ painted on it." Squirrel was emerging from laughter into a heavy gasping stage after re-reading the entries.
     They hiked on into the afternoon, ascending the ridge and then hearing the road on the other side of it. At an intersection in the trail there was a small wooden sign reading, "Scenic view." The white blazes went off the other way.
     "Let's check it out," Squirrel suggested. "We'll leave the packs here." Wayah unclasped the belt of his pack and let it slide down his back and legs until it rested on the ground. It had a free standing external frame and he leaned it up against a tree, unzipped the main pouch and pulled out his snack bag. Squirrel swung his pack from his shoulder to his knee before putting it down to rifle through the gear on top for his snacks. He lay it on the ground next to where Wayah's pack was leaning and pulled one of his water bottles from where it was nestled on the outside of his pack. Wayah also grabbed one of his water bottles and they headed down the short trail. It emerged onto some rocks and they climbed over the boulders to where the rocks dropped off shear down to the road where cars were pulling over to see the view over the rail and down into a deep valley. The Vikings looked over the steady, mild slopes of the Shenandoah for a while, and began watching the cars go by. No one saw them perched among the rocks above, and Squirrelfight started throwing M&M's at them. They hadn't been wanting for food as much lately since they were moving faster between resupply points and the intensifying heat had curbed their hunger a bit. In the past months he would never have spared the M&M's. He would have eaten them off the ground if he had been lucky enough to find any.
     "None of them get out or even stop," said Squirrel, "they just slow down on the gravel pull-off near the rail and then speed back up and go on. What do they think they’re seeing?"
     "As far away from nature as they can be. I guess a glimpse through sunglasses and tinted windows and air conditioning is better than nothing." Squirrel stood up and sounded his barbaric yawp to the sight and smell and feel and taste and life of the land, and another car rolled slowly by.