Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: MONDAY, May 2, 1994 TAG: 9405030005
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: B8 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MELISSA DEVAUGHN STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Springer Fever is that uncontrollable urge to rush back to Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the 2,147-mile Appalachian Trail, and start all over again, to meet new people and experience unique places. I can't blame a person for wanting to relive such an experience.
My six-month journey along the Appalachian Trail last year was shared with my hiking partner and best friend, Ruby Tuesday. She got her name from one of my favorite Rolling Stones songs. We both had trail nicknames - I was "Chaos," Ruby was "Order." People would sometimes ask, "How did you get your trail names?" and I'd say, "Well, you know how chaos and order must have each other to exist. Without one, there is not the other. That's how it is with me and Ruby."
Until about two weeks ago, I had Springer Fever. I had it bad. I'd wake up to a sunny morning, the wind chimes on the front porch tinkling their own good morning welcome and birds chirping on the tree outside my bedroom window. I'd get out of bed, take my long-time pal Ruby for her morning walk and anticipate a clear, warm day.
Often, I would recall the early days of the journey - back when Ruby and I struggled through the first 75 miles of trail in Georgia. Snow from a March blizzard lingered on the trail, making the path a slippery, wet obstacle course. We were tired and sore, both of us. We couldn't wait to get to our campsite each night and collapse in our tent. But still, we were on the Appalachian Trail and had over five months of outdoor adventure lying in front of us like a red carpet leading to some special, magical spot.
Springer Fever would hit at the most unexpected moments. One evening not too long ago, I took Ruby for a walk around the block. As she tugged on the leash she hated so, and I pulled back to keep her in control, I looked up in the sky and saw a silent flash of lightning. Instantly I was transported back to Pierce Pond Shelter near Caratunk, Maine. Ruby, myself and four other hikers were packed into the little three-sided lean-to near a beautiful glacial pond. We sat there in silence that night, watching the lightning shoot across every direction in the sky like a giant strobe light. Ruby snuggled close to me, afraid of the curious lights and too scared to leave my side.
I also felt Springer Fever about a month ago, when Ruby and I readied ourselves for a weekend backpacking trip. We were eager to experience a small slice of trail life again, to live like we did on the trail with all our belongings tucked neatly in our packs. These weekend trips were therapeutic for Ruby and me, helping us to cope with our return to a semidiameter lifestyle - Ruby confined in a house, me in an office.
Looking at a mountain in Giles County one rainy day, I wondered if there were other hikers out there who were in need of some "trail magic" - a name hikers have given to all the surprises that happen along the way. Perhaps I could drive up there and bring some of them to my home. They'd be so appreciative of a hot shower and a dry bed after hiking in that rain for so long. I knew how they felt. And I longed for us to be out there, feeling that freedom again.
I admit it - I caught Springer Fever. While I had so much to be thankful for here in the "real" world, I found myself wondering. Wandering. Wishing. The Appalachian Trail does that to you.
But lately things haven't been the same. At a time when I thought Springer Fever was the hardest obstacle put in my path, I was challenged again. At a time when I thought climbing steep Mount Katahdin, the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail, was the toughest physical feat I had accomplished, life dealt me another blow.
I lost my Ruby. She was struck by a car in front of my house three weeks ago. As she lay in the road, dying before my very eyes, all I could think of was our time on the trail together.
Flashbacks of Ruby begging for my leftover mashed potatoes as I ate my dinner each night. Visions of her tail wagging as she ran ahead of me on the trail. Nights of snuggling together in the tent when it was cold, or sharing water out of the same metal Sierra cup when it was hot. Ruby was the best hiking partner there was.
Ruby had her own band of supporters back home, people whom I had never met, who followed our progress as I chronicled the journey in a series of articles for the Roanoke Times & World-News. These kind people would send letters of encouragement to us at each of my mail drops and often they added doggie treats for Ruby. She liked the bacon beggin' strips the most.
Upon hearing of Ruby's untimely death (she had just turned 4 years old), a close friend left me some flowers and a note on my desk at work. The note read: "It's still spring."
It's the beginning of May now and this time last year Ruby and I were somewhere between Bastian and Pearisburg in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. Now I'm back at work, carrying a different weight - adapting to life without "Order."
But my friend is right. It is still spring and the birds are still perching on that tree outside my window. The flowers I planted before Ruby died are still going to bloom. And each year for the rest of my life, I will continue to get Springer Fever and think of Ruby.
Memo: ***CORRECTION***