Date: 2004-05-31
From: Appalachia Waltz

To: Flashbacks and Foreshadowing
Miles today: 21.4

It¢s no good. Every time I try to live in the present, my mind races to the past.        Back before I knew what the words ¢wolf¢ or ¢trail¢ meant I knew what ¢wolf trails¢ were. That¢s what my brother called the natural spaces between the trees that were just barely big enough for a little boy to run through. Those trails seemed to race back forever, going deeper into the forests behind the farm I was raised on. All throughout my youth I dreamed of following one of those trails back to the forested mountains that seemed to touch every sunset.        Sometimes, when I dream, I still remember those wolf trails. It¢s only in dreams I can recapture the endless wonder they filled me with, the sense of not knowing where they would end - or if they ended at all.         I couldn¢t help to remember those more innocent times. In a way, I was living that dream. Sure, they weren¢t the wolf trails from my youth, but I was passing along the highest ground in the state. Somewhere down there, in the farms at the foot of these mountains, there were young boys and girls looking at the horizon and promising themselves that, someday, they¢d follow the wolf trails behind their houses back to the horizon.        Thoughts like that kept me going. I began to realize that, realistically, it was time to consider bailing out of this trip. I had been out here for four days wane I could have been spending my Memorial Day at a barbecue with a lot of friends. Actually, since it was a rainy day, I¢d probably be more likely to spend it watching TV, but that¢d still be a lot better than walking through the trail, with each step sending a shockwave of pain up my leg. Worse, I was way behind on my mile count, and far to exhausted to make up the difference.         I had all but decided I was going to have Uncle Doug take me back to Grandpa¢s when I met him at Port Clinton. What Was I Feeling That Would be Better Expressed in German?Leid und elend. 501The shelter near Route 501 is a bit of a legend among hikers.         The shelter itself is, basically, a bunkhouse with a skylight and boxes containing everything from games to trekking pole parts. Compared to the preceding shelters I¢ve seen, it¢s practically a mansion. It also boasts an outhouse, a water spigot, and even an open-air shower outside. Best of all, it had a caretaker, a former hiker named Youngblood (it¢s an ironic name), who watched the place. If you were nice, the legend goes, Youngblood would let you call for a pizza delivery.        The rain was coming down heavily by the time I reached the shelter that afternoon. Although I was soaked, I ironically didn¢t have any drinking water, so after setting my pack down I headed out to the water spigot. As I was heading out, the two hikers who passed me the night before (the blond guy and the foreigner) were coming in.        When my canteen was full, I went back in and talked to them a bit. The blond guy was Alabama (who was from Ohio but earned his name because he started hiking in Alabama, hundreds of miles from where it actually began in Mount Springer) and his companion, an Israeli, was named Tom (named because his parents liked it, I guess).* The two of them acted like a couple of college kids, constantly bickering, lamenting the lack of women they¢ve met on the trail, gossiping - it¢s fair to say the two of them combined almost had a personality.         Youngblood eventually came by to make sure we were hikers instead of hobos (obviously, that¢s the kind of thing you can only determine by asking a few questions). He let us call for pizza but the local joint was closed on account of it being Memorial Day. We tried to forget our dreams of melted cheese as we heated up our Ramen noodles.        Tom had some interesting questions about American culture, such as, ¢Do Americans really eat ramen noodles at home? Or are these only for hikers?¢ Later, he asked, ¢How do Americans celebrate Memorial Day?¢         ¢Well,¢ I said, ¢We have barbeques and help our friends move. When the weather¢s good, anyway.¢        He seemed a little shocked by my answer. In Israel, he said, the people commemorate Memorial Day by solemnly standing outside their homes and singing the national anthem. Then the next day is Israeli Independence Day, which everyone celebrates with parties and fireworks. We agreed Israelis probably take Memorial Day more seriously because they still get conscripted, whereas here in America we don¢t know how good we have it.         Eventually Alabama and Tom left when the rain seemed to let up a moment. I stayed behind, seriously considering spending the night there. It was dry, comfortable, and even had natural lighting. It was also 23 miles from Port Clinton. There¢s no way I could clear that distance by Tuesday evening, not in the shape I was in. Even though I really wanted to quit, another part of me really wanted to at least give completing the trail my best effort - and that meant making Port Clinton by Tuesday.        An older lady with an aluminum walking stick came in just as I was leaving. I was almost literally out the door at that point; otherwise I¢d have stayed to talk to her. Against the NightI pressed through the rain in an angry stride. The next shelter was 14 miles away and I no longer had a tent. I didn¢t plan on making it at first. There were a couple of places I had hoped I could camp at first.         The first of these was the New Tripoli Campsite. This was basically a large fire ring at a Y-intersection of a roaring creek. I¢m sure it would have been a perfect place to camp in better weather, but it offered no shelter. Besides, it was still early evening when I reached it and I still had daylight on my side.        The map noted something called the Fort Dietrich Snyder Monument along with the blurb, ¢one of a chain of forts ad blockhouses built as protection against the Indians.¢ I wasn¢t expecting much, especially since the ¢ruins¢ of Yellow Springs were still fresh in my memory. I got even less. The monument was nothing more than a granite block with a plaque saying there was indeed a fort there once. Now, though, there s nothing but ankle-high grass.        I walked on, resolving to go as far as I could before I collapsed. I spent a half hour wandering around the state game lands, where the trail takes a strange leap between blazes. Then I was back in the thick of the forest.        It started raining again right after the sun set. I had made some good time by then, having walked nine miles since leaving the 501 shelter. There were only five miles left to go ... I might just be able to make it. If I did, I¢d have somewhere dry nd warm to sleep. If I didn¢t, I¢d probably get pneumonia, which I hear is a pretty pitiful and pointless way of dying.        So I pressed on against the night. I shined my flashlight on a blaze, walked over to it, set it on the next blaze, and so on. The shadows starting playing tricks on me; even an errant leaf looked like a black skunk bolting in front of me. The rain kept falling ,getting harder. I walked on, climbing over fallen trees, charting my way through the darkness one blaze at a time.        I found out I was up for the trip, but my flashlight wasn¢t. I had to change the batteries twice, the second time unsure of what mix of dead and charged batteries I was loading it with. Finally, though, I saw a sign, proclaiming the Eagle¢s Nest Shelter was only two miles away. Another few battery shuffles later, it was only a quarter of a mile away. I was close, so close.         By that point, I was so exhausted my feet were literally giving out from under me. I forced myself to stumble for what seemed like a quarter of a mile, but I couldn¢t see the shelter. Ultimately, I decided, screw it. I threw down my roll and sleeping bag, tried to arrange the garbage bags over it, and fell into an uneasy sleep along the side of the trail with my backpack at my feet. *Those who remember my European travels in ¢97 will no doubt recall the night in Paris when I went out drinking with a guy from Wisconsin and an Israeli soldier. For some reason, every time I meet an Israeli, they¢re always hanging out with a blond guy from Wisconsin.