Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail Read Online Free Page B

hiker was not in walking, but in camping. The first thing ninety-five percent of hikers do upon making camp is cook. But I didn’t have a stove. So, as Justin pulled all sorts of cooking gadgets and culinary delights out of his backpack to prepare a meal, I began nibbling on pop tarts, bagels and peanut butter. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, but Justin apparently was.
    “Ha, man, let me cook you some noodles and make you some hot tea or something,” he said, concerned. “You gotta’ eat better than that.” But I declined. It seemed unfair to eat something another hiker had carried all day. (I would later alter this principle, modestly).
    As we sat on a log nibbling away, a trim young mid-twentyish hiker, wearing a wide-brim straw hat, approached. “You guys mind if I camp with you?” he asked.
    “Sure,” we replied.
    Despite Justin’s counterculture appearance he went by the book in his campsite preparations. “I took an Outward Bound (wilderness-preparation school) course,” he said, “and just do this stuff out of habit.”
    When I started to put my food bag back in my backpack he said, “Gimme ya’ll’s food bags,” and commenced setting up an elaborate roping system to hang our food out of reach of any nocturnal visitors.
    Justin built a fire, and the three of us warmed ourselves and talked like close friends. Justin was a singer, as evidenced by his deep, soulful delivery. “Man, I’m really glad to be hiking with you two,” he said movingly. And then in words I would remember hauntingly, he added, “I’m really uncomfortable in crowds. They freak me out.”
    Seth was a twenty-five-year-old English teacher from West Virginia, and this was his second straight try on the AT, after being struck down by injury in Virginia the previous year. “This year is going to be different,” he said confidently.
    When it was time to go to sleep, Justin said, “Did ya’ll see that sunrise this morning? It was red.”
    “What’s that mean?” I asked.
    “Foul weather soon.”
    With a bit of anxiety stirring, I decided it was necessary to set up my tarp. I found a couple trees the right distance apart to attach the strings, although the ground was slanted, which meant sleeping at an angle. But after watching me flail around, trying to erect an effective shelter, Seth got the message. He quickly showed me a more user-friendly way to do it. It wasn’t the Hilton Hotel, but appeared capable of warding off rain.
    This would be the night with them I would most fondly remember when, a few months later, one of us was still ambling up the trail, one had suddenly and surprisingly gotten off, and one had died in the most tragic way imagineable.

     
    On the third day we faced Blood Mountain, the highest point on the AT in Georgia. The southern Appalachians are a natural mystery. Stretching from north Georgia to southern Virginia are about eighty-five mountains (including Blood Mountain), known as balds. Their summits are treeless, in spite of being below timberline, which is about 7,000 feet at these southern lattitudes. Even the Cherokees, who dominated the area for centuries, were baffled by these balds.
    The dark, leaden sky looked ominous. Justin and Seth, exhibiting more equanimity than me, were scattered along the trail separately taking snack breaks. But I anxiously tried hurrying up the mountain as the visibility worsened. Warren Doyle had specifically warned about clearing exposed areas in high winds, poor visibility, and rain. Indeed, this would be my first taste of just how harshly the winds can blow at high elevations.
    Blood Mountain was impressively steep, and I ran into my first “false summit”—clearing an area that appears to be the summit of a mountain only to find another summit ahead. One big concern at the higher altitudes is the lack of blazes, usually due to the dearth of trees. Thus, it was a relief when the Blood Mountain Shelter came into view out of the dense fog. Inside the shelter,