Date: 2004-04-13
To: Night zero.
Miles today: 0.0

In the activity of backpacking, there is the principle of the Golden Triangle. It states that when one sleeps in bear country, one should take some extra precautions to not sleep where you cook and eat. So, imagine a large 100-foot triangle. Your tent would be at one corner with your bag of culinary delights hung in a tree in another and your cooking and dining room in the final corner. Just in case you spill your turkey tettrazini on the ground, it would be nice not having it at your tents front door. Need I remind you that your tent walls are no thicker than the fabric of you underwear, which you are sure to soil if such a confrontation took place.Miraculously, I made it up the approach trail. Tonight, a cool breeze is blowing and my home will be at the southern tip of the Appalachian Trail in a open-air lean-to called the Springer Mountain Shelter. Even though I¢ve read the stories about how annoying the congregation of mice around shelters can be, I¢m here. But others, who have also heard the courageous antics of these brazen mice felt less comfortable and decided that tenting would be a better option for their journey. One such hiker traveled under the trail name of Kingfisher.I took a liking to Kingfisher right off since his backpack equaled mine in size, weight and stupid decisions. Having read the principles of the Golden Triangle, he had set up his tent and cooked and hung his food bag in a way that would make a Park Ranger proud. But not everyone who hikes reads, apparently. So even if you do all the right things, others may not take the same precautions and that¢s how the comedy begins.It wasn¢t long after Hikers Midnight ¢ that is what sunset is called and the ensuing darkness ¢ that this true story gets interesting. At about this hour, short of journal writing, there¢s not a whole heck of a lot to do except sleep. And God knows we all need the time out from underneath our coffee table size packs. So, having finished his first dinner on trail and triage performed on countless blisters, it was headlamps off and into his mummy for a good nights rest.For some reason, early in the hike, the darkness alone can be pretty unnerving for some, and that doesn¢t count what¢s wandering around out in it. As Orion dipped to the horizon and the hour of real midnight came, Kingfisher awoke. A bit disoriented at first, trying to remember that he was on top of a mountain in the middle of the woods came ¢SNORT¢¦SNARL, SNARL, SNORT¢ ¢¦not but a foot away. As his pupils dilated and his sphincter contracted, there was nothing but darkness, a paper-thin fabric of false security and more ¢SNARL SNORT SNORT.¢Petrified with horror he was quickly drenched in a cold sweat. The black bear was breathing him in and deciding on whether he was the entr©e or the desert? Kingfisher had his beautiful new backpack just outside the tent with all its wonderful little bear toys in it. True to form and as curious as a cat, Mr. Bear started spreading it all out for a better look. And doing so while leaning and almost collapsing the tent that Kingfisher sat paralyzed in. Just as thoughts of poking it through the fabric were ruled out, the beast caught the aroma of his food bag bounty. Off the lumbering monster went to consider the entire areas dining options. Not terribly worried about being silent, the sound of snapping branches and twigs heightened the terror. Although Kingfisher had hung his food bag in text book fashion, that is to say at least ten feet off the ground and at least eight from the trees trunk and a good four feet below the hang limb, black bears learn. And this one was a model specimen. It realized that the bag was unreachable from the host tree, but the cleaver, hungry bear climbed an adjacent tree where it could get its claws on the hang limb. With a few mighty swats the limb was broken off and all of Kingfisher¢s provisions lay helpless on the ground. For the next hour, it was nothing but tearing, ripping and snarling. The ferociousness of the sound was horrific. Everything Kingfisher had to eat was being devoured and his hopes for starting his hike being swallowed. ¢Well, better my food bag than a body part¢ he thought. The mayhem continued for a very long hour, until the fading sound of snapping branches said that the midnight marauder was moseying off. It was at that moment the thought of collecting the damaged remains occurred, if any, but he thought better of it. One just never knows what else may be waiting in the dark? By 2 a.m. Kingfisher¢s pupils had found their normal size again and he was moderately calm again, but any idea of sleep was far from happening. The hours went by and peace returned to the woods. Near 4 am, as the edge of sleep started to overpower his paranoia, a distant ¢SNORT SNARL SNARL¢ started moving his way. Holy shit! Maybe it was time for his arm to be desert? Or maybe it wanted a hiker drumstick? As the sound of the snapping twigs grew, it was moment of truth time. Everything Kingfisher had bought and planned hung in the balance. To yield or not to yield, that was the question? With headlamp on head, Kingfisher jumped out of the tent in unlaced boots and underwear, grabbed a hiking stick and a nearby rock. This would be a battle of titans. An angry, terror induced, screaming hiker on one side against a smelly, hungry, black bear on the other. (Frankly, I liked my decision to hang out with the mice about now.)The towering Kingfisher courageously braced for the coming clash as the bears advance grew from the darkness. As he yelled and screamed hoping to make the bear rethink its plan, he heard the sounds of the snapping branches stop. A dead silence fell on the moment. Just out of the reach of his illuminated headlamp, the sounds renewed, but this time moving to his right. It was now circling him in the dark. Oh how the terror grew and the time slowed. The standoff continued for an interminably long five minutes as the bear check for a geographical weakness. Still yelling and throwing everything he could into the dark abyss, Kingfisher heard the sounds finally recede and disappear into the vast sea of night.As 6 a.m. came around and a glow on the horizon started to emerge, Kingfisher fell asleep. A restless nap was all he could muster, so it was off to see the food bag. There on the ground, were the shredded remains of his ¢bear-proof¢ food bag. It was as if someone had run over it with a lawn mower. Foodless and rattled, he came to the shelter to lick his wounds, where all he found was a bunch of smiling, well rested hikers. We had heard nothing of all the shenanigans that night. However, it was revealed that another hiker, who¢d tented as well, had left a gallon of Kool-aid outside their tent and may have started the frenzied feeding? Thanks to the generosity of a couple of over-night hikers that were heading home, Kingfisher was able to get enough food-like objects to log a real honest to goodness mile on the AT. Now most of us would probably call it a hike right there and then, but not Kingfisher. So, without a single official mile trekked on the AT, Kingfisher put his first night behind him and moved north, vowing to never tent again. It would be shelters and mice forever. Or so he thought.Relative to last night, the day was completely absent of drama. As many find, hiking 8 miles in Georgia is not like hiking 8 miles on flat ground. The hikers quickly start to understand why counting ounces is not fanatical, but practical.Tonight would be an early dinner and a spot on the floor of the shelter with the other hikers. Everyone was bushed. Without the physical exercise of hiking to keep you warm, everyone retired to his or her sleeping bags as hikers midnight came. And that¢s when the show began.A resident family of field mice sprang into action. Hoping to catch a rookie hiker off guard, they have visions of sugarplums and energy bars dancing in their heads. It¢s fascinating how such a small, cute, furry creature can give the heartiest soul the willies.Out they came to scurry along the rafters and around the perimeter of the floor to search for a dropped crumb here or a candy bar that failed to get hung in the food bag. These little bundles of joy will chew right through a pack pocket to get at a misplaced morsel. Trail experiences teaches you to leave all your pack pockets unzipped so they can get in and out without consequence. Throughout it all is the constant, soft patter of little mice feet and toenails against the wood. As Kingfisher laid wide-eyed in his mummy trying to ignore their sounds and the fact that one had just ran over the foot of his sleeping bag, a terrible crash came from a falling glass. One of the little creatures had knocked it from its resting place up in the rafters. The impact shattered the glass as well as Kingfishers nerves. It was now midnight and the show showed no sign of letting up. It was maddening and enough was enough. He got up and yanked his tent out of his pack and set it up right in front of the shelter. Within fifteen minutes, Kingfisher was back inside his mummy bag and protected from the varmint gymnastics. That¢s when he heard it. ¢SNORT, SNARL SNARL, SNORT.¢ Mr. Bear had come for dinner. ¢Shitdamnfuck¢ was all he could think. He jumped out the tent and with poles in hands started yelling, which woke the troops and everyone joined in. True to form, Mr. Bear hung back just out of the range of everyone¢s wimpy headlamp and circled again. But the odds were different tonight and it wasn¢t long before it moved off to find a quieter place to ransack. The conquering hikers celebrated openly. But as each returned to their bags to sleep, the sounds that go bump in the night presented each hiker with a silent chill. All just part of the AT experience.As for Kingfisher, it might be motels forever more?(A true story from 2002)