Date: 2004-04-29
From: Shelter at Wesser Bald

To: Faded Glory
Miles today: 12.6

I broke camp as the golden orb of the sun peeked over a nearby ridge, silhouetting the trunks and branches of trees that were still, to some degree, bare of leaves. At the lower elevations, the leaves are becoming prevalent.Four people were snoozing in their sleeping bags which were laid out on the ground. I later found out that they had chosen to sleep under the stars because another person in the shelter had been snoring loudly.While hiking during the morning, I passed by a hiker who was sleeping in his sleeping bag at a camp site beside the trail. I recognized the backpack beside him as belonging to a young man and thru hiker named Kevin, a resident of Phoenix, Arizona. We had run into each other now and then. I penned a greeting on a piece of paper and left it among his gear. The trail crossed a road and passed through the sprawling Nantahala Outdoor Center, which caters to river rafters, bicyclists, and hikers. There, I picked up a food drop which I had mailed to myself, bought a bandana, and availed myself of their laundry and shower facilities for a nominal fee. Some hikers were staying at this facility for the night. One of them, in his mid twenties, who I had never met until today, mentioned that he had arranged transportation into Bryson City, located twelve miles away. Hearing this, I asked him if he would drop off at the post office an exposed roll of 35 mm film for delivery back to Massachusetts.He replied, "I need to build up positive karma." There was a knowing smile on his face, as though I understood the meaning of his answer in relation to the question. Was he saying that he would deliver my film, thus adding to his accumulation of karma along his journey to Nirvana? (I have little knowledge about Hinduism and other so called Eastern religions). When I asked him for a specific answer, he told me he was not sure if he could get to the post office, but that it was a possibility.I decided to keep the film in my backpack for a few more days and personally mail it when I reached a town. I did no feel comfortable handing over images from a once in a lifetime adventure to this person.During this hike, I have been using three bandanas, one for cleaning up after meals, one for wiping clear my ID board, and one for general purposes, like wiping sweat off my face, drying my feet after soaking them in stream, and other tasks.The general purpose bandana is the workhorse of the three. It is white, with a fading red and black pattern. The fabric is fayed and flimsy from 26 years of wear and tear. It has a hole which seems to grow larger with every washing. The bandana has been everywhere. It accompanied me on an Outward Bound course in Minnesota following my graduation from high school. It served me well on trips across Canada, in the British Isles, and on the tundra of the Brooks Range in Alaska. And now it is accompanying me on my hike of the Appalachian Trail. Suffice to say, this beat up piece of cloth is a source of sentimental affection.The time has come to relegate the white bandana from general purpose use to a lesser role as my cooking pot bandana. With its current function, it is falling apart under the constant demands of the trail. I am also fearful that I will drop it or leave it behind at a rest stop.So this afternoon, with a touch of regret, I stuffed my "Faded Glory into my pot. I tied around my neck its replacement, a new, blue colored bandana which I had recently purchased. A couple of hours later, while back on the trail, I stopped to refill my water bottle, soak my feet in a stream, and change my socks. When it came time to dry my feet, I could not find my new bandana. It had apparently fallen somewhere back on the trail. So I reached into my backpack, took out Faded Glory, and restored it, albeit temporarily, to its lead position around my neck or more often, inside the pocket of my pants. After leaving the Outdoor Center, I endured several hours of misery ascending the slope of a mountain called Swim Bald. I climbed 3000 feet with a fresh load of food adding to the weight of the backpack. It was the hardest climb so far, worst than Sassafras Mountain back in Georgia. I reached a shelter which by coincidence was called Sassafras Gap Shelter. Four of those twenty-something hikers from the last two nights were there. They call themselves Rabid Marmot Tribe because each one of them possesses an item of equipment from the manufacturer, Marmot. The men are John, Steven and an ex Marine whose trail name is Sardine. The woman is Jackie. Sardine got his trail name after he began his hike carrying something like 25 to 40 cans of sardines, along with other items of excessive weight. Burdened by the load, he jettisoned the cans along the trail as a food donation to other hikers.Later in the evening, a couple whose trail names are Woe and Moxie showed up at the shelter with my missing blue bandana.After supper, we all relaxed around a campfire. I joked to them that it represented the second campfire of the night. Previously, while igniting my Pepsi can stove, I had dropped a match into the can. Using my plastic spoon, I attempted to fish out the match while the stove was burning. Instead of retrieving the match, I accidentally knocked over the stove, spilling the alcohol on to the woodwork of the shelter. A small fire ensued. I extinguished it with a few splashes of water from my bottle. The plastic spoon is warped from the heat and my nylon pants have a bump in the fabric from a quick exposure to the flames. Definitely a boneheaded move on my part. Rain is expected, so I decided not to string up the teepee tarp. I will sleep in a shelter for the first time. I hope that nobody snores.