Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 27, 1993 TAG: 9306270161
SECTION: HORIZON PAGE: F-6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MELISSA DeVAUGHN STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: DUNCANNON, PA. LENGTH: Long
That's my life as I continue my journey along the 2,146-mile Appalachian Trail. My friends and family ask me: "So, what do you do out there?" as if I have a set routine and schedule.
Truth is, I have no schedule, and I have quickly learned that this is one of the best aspects of my journey.
Out on the trail, I can hike or I can rest at camp. I can get up at 6 a.m., or lie in my sleeping bag until noon. I can eat dinner for breakfast or dessert for dinner and no one is there to tell me otherwise.
This is the freedom of life on the trail.
But it isn't an easy transition to make.
One of the challenges many of us thru-hikers have is adapting to this new-found freedom, this lack of discipline and daily routine.
Sure, we do get up each morning but not always at the same time. And we do eat regularly, but only when we're hungry, which is always. We sleep as much as we can, too, be it a long night's rest at a trailside shelter or a midafternoon nap.
The first time I experienced this freedom was my fourth day on the trail back in March. I was still in Georgia then - it seems as if it were years ago - and the remaining snow of the blizzard of '93 clung desperately to shaded rocks and overhangs. I was using an ill-suited sleeping bag at the time, still making adjustments to life on the trail.
I told the owner of a local outdoor equipment store of my sleeping bag problems (the bag was not keeping me warm) and he said, "Don't worry about it, we'll call the company tomorrow and have it taken care of."
Alarms went off in my head. I thought to myself, "But I can't wait, I still have seven miles to hike today according to my schedule and it might rain and there's nowhere to put my tent and . . . "
Wait a minute!
I stopped and thought again.
So, big deal, I'll be a little behind my grand schedule.
I stayed an extra day. The problem was resolved and I enjoyed getting to know the owners of the store in the meantime.
In trying to "deprogram" oneself from years of routine it is easy to forget that there is no schedule in the woods.
After all, we've followed schedules all our lives. It started during infancy with regular feedings, nap times and bath times.
Then it was on to school, six hours a day, five days a week. Later we went to work, always longing for the weekends.
Out here, there are no weekends, no weekdays - and best of all no rules.
As hikers, we are constantly reminding ourselves: "Hike your own hike." Each one of us is out here for our own reason and each has his or her own plan. Most everyone respects this philosophy but we often find it hard to follow. I've been tested several times.
Coming out of Damascus, the first town in Virginia through which the trail passes, I left town with a hiker whose trail nickname is "Food Dude," because he has a reputation among hikers for eating anything in sight.
Food Dude's dog, Dune, loves my dog and hiking companion, Ruby. Ruby loves Dune, too, and they spent a week together in a kennel while Food Dude and I hiked through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park (where dogs are not allowed).
Food Dude is tall and hikes fast and far. I hiked with him for two days, watching Ruby and Dune play together like puppies. But the third day, we had a 25-mile day planned through the Mount Rogers National Recreation Area in Southwest Virginia - and things changed.
Food Dude hiked on ahead of me and I told him I'd catch up. But after about 15 miles I caught up with another hiker who calls himself "Kilgore Trout."
We hiked along together, me complaining about the blister forming on my heel.
"Well, stop hiking," said Kilgore.
That alarm went off in my head again, telling me, "But you still have 10 miles to go . . . and Ruby will miss Dune . . . and I'll miss Food Dude, and . . . "
Kilgore continue to talk, discussing the importance of "hiking your own hike." I listened, and the more we talked, I realized what we had been doing.
That schedule bug was creeping back into my life and I was determined to overcome it.
I stopped short of a 25-mile day, hiking only 20 instead, and celebrated my independence with a big breakfast at a country store in the little crossroads community of Troutdale.
I think I'm finally catching on to this way of life.
Of course, I've been known to go a little overboard with "slack-packing," too. I'll blame it all on my dear trail friends "Hippydad," "Chickory" and "Llama Mama" (a guy), known along the A.T. as "The Lollygaggers."
Not only are The Lollygaggers enjoying their trip, but they are savoring it as well. Learning to chuck out the old schedule has been a breeze for these guys. Their only goal is to make the trip last as long as possible.
After a much-needed break in Troutville last month to visit my family, I got back on the trail and met up with this mischievous threesome.
On that particular day, the 16 miles I planned to hike turned into 11 miles. A few days later, we pulled the ultimate lollygagging feat, managing to hike less than 10 miles in more than five 5 hours, not leaving camp until 1 p.m.
This can't go on, I thought to myself, although I was having a blast taking countless daytime siestas and leaving camp no earlier than noon. At this rate, I won't reach Mount Katahdin, Maine, (the northern terminus of the A.T.) until October.
Sad to say, "So long," but determined to resume some real hiking, I left The Lollygaggers at a place called Rusty's Hard Times Hollow, a procrastinator's dream (or nightmare) and one of the most unusual places I've visited so far.
It's nestled deep in the mountains of the Blue Ridge Parkway near Waynesboro. Rusty Nesbitt, the owner of this working farm, has been taking in thru-hikers for more than 10 years.
Once Rusty's Hard Times Hollow was a shack with vines growing through its broken windows. But Rusty has fixed it up and made it into a home.
The house has no electricity and no plumbing, but it has plenty of bunks for hikers, a wood-burning stove for cooking and a spring house with cold, clear mountain water. It may not sound like much to you, but Rusty's Hard Times Hollow has everything we hikers need: shelter, water and - most importantly - a spirit of friendship.
Most hikers who come to this place stay more than one day. It's difficult to describe why or how.
Perhaps it's Rusty, probably the most generous person I've met.
He drives hikers to pick up their maildrops in town, delivers backpacks to hikers who want to hike ahead for a day or so without the usual burden, and encourages hikers to help themselves to any food in the house. In return, he accepts donations to keep the place going.
Rusty treats the hikers as if they were family. In fact, we are family, he says.
Perhaps it's the atmosphere of Rusty's Hard Times Hollow, with all the hikers cooking together, talking and listening to Rusty's stories of hikers from years past.
I stayed at Rusty's for four days, still managing to hike northward for three of those days, with Rusty retrieving me each afternoon.
I wanted to stay longer but the time had come to resume the trail life.
Recently, I've settled comfortably into a niche somewhere between lollygagging and real hiking.
After leaving Rusty's (and promising to visit again after my trip is over) I began hiking 15-mile days through the Shenandoah National Park. I crossed the West Virginia state line and the Potomac River, passing through the quaint and historic town of Harpers Ferry.
I breezed through Western Maryland, where unexpected treats included many large stands of old-growth coniferous trees. I watched a pileated woodpecker hard at work on a tree one day as I ate lunch, wondering if it noticed that Ruby and I, visitors in its domain, were watching.
Now I've crossed the Mason-Dixon Line and reached the halfway point of my journey. I'm getting closer to my destination just as the days begin to get shorter after the Summer Solstice.
This is unchartered territory for me, and every day I marvel at the sights I've seen, the people I've met and the trail towns I've visited.
In particular, these small towns have given me a better taste of our country - the real America - than any trip to a tourist trap. They're small, out-of-the-way places where people speak with different dialects about the same basic concerns. I've realized that North and South have more in common than either might like to admit.
Now the rocks of Pennsylvania are gnawing at the soles of my brand-new boots, but I feel strong and press on, moving northward with every step.
I got a letter from my boyfriend the other day - he's a former thru-hiker himself.
He told me to be sure and take the time to enjoy the Appalachian Trail, to breathe it in deeply, then exhale.
This is something I could never plan for, never put in a schedule.
All I can do is heed this advice, hike my own hike and relish all the unplanned moments that make the Appalachian Trail so magical.
P.S. - People have been asking me about what happened to the doggie backpack that Ruby lost in the woods near Wesser, N.C. I never found it but my boyfriend bought a new one and mailed it to Wesser. Ruby's been wearing it since.
If you have a question about hiking or life on the Appalachian Trail for Melissa DeVaughn, or would like to say hello, you can write her at her next maildrop. Address mail to Melissa DeVaughn, General Delivery, Kent, CT, 06757. Be sure to write "Hold for A.T. Hiker" on all correspondence, and mail items no later than July 6.
by CNB