Catawba to Pearisburg, Virginia
By Jim Lemire
“AT 2000”
T WAS just after 9 p..m. when I reached Pearisburg after driving since 6
a.m. Fortunately I pulled into a gas station to ask for directions to the
hostel and it was very nearby. I pulled into the church parking lot and got
out. Walking around rather aimlessly in the dark, I couldn’t find the hostel
and didn’t want to bother anyone so I hopped into the back of my truck and
went to sleep. In the morning, the sign for the hostel was plainly visible.
It was only a week ago I mentioned my section hiking plans to the AT-L list
(hiking group) and got a response from Frank, who was willing to shuttle
vehicles. In a few brief e-mail messages we had casually agreed to meet at
the hostel on Sunday at 8 a.m. As I explored the hostel and signed the
register, I wondered if I wasn’t crazy to expect this plan to work out.
Frank walked in and asked for a Jim and it all came together.
We took Frank’s car and drove to the trailhead at Catawba, leaving my
truck there in the church lot. I left a note in the register as such.
Concentrating on finding our way gave us little time to get to know anything
about each other and we stepped out of his car in the pouring rain.
It was clear that I had underestimated the terrain by the time I reached
Dragon’s Tooth. I think I memorized nearly every line from Alanis
Morrisette’s tape on my long drive. “I recommend biting off more than you
can chew” was foremost in my mind at this point. About half way down the
blue blazed trail to Pickle Branch Shelter, I met a northbound hiker that
was barely moving. Even baby steps couldn’t describe the way she was moving.
She moaned “how much further can it be” and I felt stupid for the
complaining thoughts I’d had about the rough trail. I said hello so as not
to startle her as I passed and she asked me to holler back to her when I saw
the shelter so that she would have some hope.
Frank was at the shelter and as I approached I said, “don’t tell me the
the water is another 500 feet down.” I had been without any for a while and
was thirsty and angry at myself for foolishly not taking enough to start.
Polky Dot made it to the shelter and recovered considerably after resting.
She was the first of many hikers I met on this trip whose home state was the same as mine,
Vermont.
In occasional rain, we started out a second day with little promise of
scenery. Every viewpoint was one of fog and clouds. I was quite content to
complete a short day at Niday Shelter where I was to learn the fine art of
roasting socks. “Mission Man” was holding a forked stick over a fire with a
sock on each prong as though it was a most natural thing to do. He and his
thru-hiker companions, “Sandman” and “Que Pasa,” were an amusing group of New
Englanders. I enjoyed their sarcastic humor.
The sun came out for very brief periods, but it was mostly a wet, cloudy
day on the third day. Wet socks and boots were so far the norm. I enjoyed
the hike through pasture land more than I have in the past. It seems I have
always passed through them on hot, sunny days where my brain was baking. At
one of a half dozen stile crossings there was a virtual traffic jam where I
met many thru-hikers. Not more than 15 minutes behind me, Frank soon arrived
at Laurel Creek Shelter where we wasted no time in claiming shelter space as
the sleeping bags of thru-hikers “Blueberry,” “The Cat in The Hat,” and
“Weathercane” were already laid out. “Weathercane” had a fire going and the
roasted socks routine I had not seen before repeated itself. I opted for the
“when in Rome theory” and tried it. Watching the steam rise from the socks
was an encouraging sign that water was leaving them.
Soon the very talkative “Mr. Bean” arrived and livened things up. He is
equipped entirely with L.L. Bean gear and means to put warranties to the
test. Surprisingly when I mentioned that my wife was from Caribou, Maine, I
found that so was his! He had many stories to tell and keeps track of a number
of thru-hikers. Trail Days in Damascus was a hot topic as many hikers had
recently attended some part of the weeklong event. Kraft showed up with a
truckload of its famous mac and cheese and gave it away 3 boxes at a clip. It’s nice to
know that the company is aware that its food has been a hiker staple for as long
as I can remember.
A most interesting story “Mr. Bean” told was one of a hiker that reached
into her pack and pulled out a sock that was quite shredded by a shelter
mouse. She stuffed it back in disgustedly and pulled out another that was
fine. Seven miles later, she set down her pack at another shelter and a
hiker pointed out to her that he saw a mouse run out of her pack. When she
looked inside, she discovered 4 baby mice in a nest made from her shredded
sock! Little did she know thru-hiking would turn into a moving business.
Late arrivals at Laurel Creek were thru-hikers “Bo Sox,” “Cookie Monster” and
“Pink Panther.” They quickly set up tents and get down to cooking. It seems
80 percent of the people on the Trail are from New England.
It was raining again in the morning and it was getting to me. By the time
I reached War Spur Shelter the sun was out in full force. I laid out my wet
clothes and myself for some serious sun worshipping. That did it, I was
staying. Frank continued on to the next shelter.
Aside from “Navigator,” a thru-hiker, the hikers seemed an odd, inexperienced
group that evening.
I started out in dry boots for the first time and felt strong. A note in
the Bailey Gap Shelter for me from Frank expressed his hope that I reach
Pearisburg some time Friday. Frank is such an easy-going, compromising
person that he never told me about his plan to hike a specific section after
Pearisburg and would need Saturday to do it. He signed the note “Que sera” and
then later changed to “Whatever.” I think it is a good trail name for him.
I was cooking dinner at Pine Swamp Shelter at 3 p.m. and not at all tired.
A large group of thru-hiking teenagers was also having a meal. Within 30
minutes there were at least a dozen hikers taking a break there and no one
planned to stay the night. After my beef stroganoff, I started up Peter’s Mountain
on more switchbacks than I could believe. I didn’t mind them a bit. On the
ridge, I met a bear and it ran as soon as it saw me. I still had no idea of
where I’d camp for the night but signposts were in convenient places,
making it easy to know exactly where I was.
I knew Symms Meadow was going
to be the place as it neared 7 p.m. I was climbing one more rolling, open
hill before throwing down the pack when I heard a crying sound
behind me. I turned around to see a running and stumbling fawn coming toward
me. Five feet in front of me it stopped, realizing that I was not its
mother. I was wishing I had my camera in my pocket and when I tried to take
the pack off to get it, the fawn ran off. I attempted to chase it around
for a while to get a picture, but it led me through heavy brush and I gave up.
My campsite was perfect. It was under one tree with perfect hanging
branches for the food bag, a fine log to sit on, and an outstanding western
view. I knew I carried a tent for something besides a pillow in a shelter.
The only thing it lacked was a water source, but I was prepared for it. I
watched the sunset and climbed in my tent for the most peaceful of nights on
the Trail.
I woke up on day 6 to a clear sky and thoughts of what a great time the
trip had been. I seemed to have just the right amount of everything. By the
time I reached Rice Field, I was stopping and talking to a parade of passing
thru-hikers. I didn’t care how slow I was going and chatted with each of
them until they said the first good-byes. I met “Sysiphis,” “Scout,” “Seadog,” a
nameless couple from Rockland, Maine, “Smiley” and “Slap Happy,” to name a few.
“Slap Happy” was hiking barefoot and almost apologizing for it. It must have
been the look of disbelief on my face.
And then there’s the road walk to the Holy Family Hospice. I hated it. I
always talk out loud to myself on a final road walk. I do my best cursing
walking down a hot road with heavy traffic, forgetting completely that I’m
supposed to be a smiling, tolerant backpacker. If I were to pass someone
nearby, I’m sure they would think I was crazy. I hated the smell, the cars,
the 18-wheelers that forced me to hold onto my hat.
I stopped at Hardy’s and ate like a fool. I didn’t even consider having
an ice cream after stuffing myself with chicken and biscuits. The blue
blazes to the hostel were easy to follow and the sight of my truck was a
relief. You always wonder. There were many more thru-hikers to meet at the
hostel. Frank was nowhere in sight and no one I asked could assure me that
he was around. In a short time he appeared and had been in and around
Pearisburg since noon. We drove to Pizza Hut for a late dinner after
catching up on our separate last few days. After a night at the hostel, I
dropped Frank off north of Catawba and he continued to hike as I headed
home. The AT-L listserve had paid dividends. Things could not have worked
out better.
~~ “AT2000”
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