Date: 2003-04-05
From: Allen Gap

To: Campsite 3 miles beyond Little Laurel Shelter
Miles today: 8.0
Weather: moderate rain

Early, I rose up from the dungeon/monk's cell bedroom to go to the bathroom on the floor above. Passing the spacious kitchen, I saw young Paul making himself a peanut butter sandwich from Peter Pan Peanut Butter - my brand! I thought they might use just organic, saltless, ground-in-the-store, trans-fatty-acidless peanut butter, but no! Real junk, high-sugar PB! Yahoo!This was good news. I had asked Paul yesterday if I could purchase a couple of PB&J sandwiches made from their substantial brown bread - I crave good bread on the Trail - and he promised to ask. If they used Peter Pan, well, things were looking up and it was scarcely 6:45 am.When I came out of the bathroom, Paul met me at the kitchen door with two huge, plastic-wrapped sandwiches. They must have weighed a pound apiece. "These are for you," he announced. "I'm really sorry I forgot you and I want you to have these. And I'll take you back out to Allen Gap today for free."Well! The Trail is just like that. Something happens that I think is bad, and it just turns itself inside out and shows its silver lining. I was impressed with this 19-year old's accountability. "I'm sorry" wasn't enough for him; he wanted to put things right. I was so surprised and pleased, I gave him a hug. Rupture healed.The first order of business was an early breakfast at the Smoky Mountain diner. In walked Heather and Andy {Fly-by-Night and Smooth Navigator.) They had gotten off the Trail at Mountain Moma's (sic) when Heather's grandmother died, missed the big snow that slowed us all down, and got back on and caught us.Next order of business: ibuprofen, and new shoes. I hated like hell to trade in my current trail warriors, they have been my most successful backpacking pair to date. I have also purchased enough trail shoes in the past year that felt great in the store but hiked horribly in the woods. So I was skeptical about this new-shoe venture, but it needed doing. My old-friend Montrail Wasach shoes had been duct-taped and super-glued together since the Fontana. Why not buy the exact same pair? I tried that last year, twice. Exact same brand, style and size, and they never fit the same. I was told that the manufacturing process had changed. Aargh! I finally find a pair that cradles my funny feet, and they go and change it?But Wayne at Bluff Mountain Outfitters spent a lot of time fitting, explaining and offering. In the end, he put me in a pair of Montrail Java Gtx - the very first pair of trail shoes I'd ever bought, the very pair that burned the snot out of my toes {and still does; I might add - they haven't worn out yet). BUT, he fitted me in a pair one-and-a-half sizes larger than my original pair. Are my feet growing or was I just oblivious? I'll never know. The Javas felt the best of all the pairs, so they joined the LiteShoe remuda. I know some people think Gortex in shoes is a waste of money, but I never had wet feet in my original Javas.I mailed my old grey mare shoes home to a well-deserved retirement, pastured out to light duty. After the rocky, shoe-destroying, 270-mile Long Trail, many prep hikes and the first 270 miles of the AT, these game workhorses had earned a restful "puttering about town" status. Good-bye old girls, you served me well.I settled up with Elmer, a ridiculously low $60 for three days lodging and three gourmet meals. Then Paul drove me to Allen Gap. He spoke a little about his immediate future, which includes a stint with Americore, then off to an organic farming school near Boone, then the Peace Core/agriculture. A really interesting kid. For sure, I did not have a service orientation at age 19 - life was all about ME. At the gap, I snapped a picture of Paul and his shuttle car, then saddled up and rode off into the sunset. It was a mostly uphill climb for the first six miles.Resting on a log on one of these uphills, I am struck by the abundance of striped maple trees in these woods, indeed all along the AT so far. Striped maple is a lovely little understory tree I learned to recognize just last fall. Before that, it literally didn't exist for me; now I see it everywhere. Perception is selective!Timber folk dislike this little beauty and call it a trash tree because it grows swiftly, like alder, and its little trunks have no economic value. But to me, the striped bark is as striking as the green stems and the slender, yellow limbs. At eye-height, this species mists the forest slopes with the subtlest green. In fall, the leaves turn a most compelling, clear yellow forming a glowing roof over the lucky traveler's head on sunny days. One man's trash is another's treasure, I guess.I stopped by the shelter about 5 PM to get water, but there was still gas in the tank so I walked on until 7. Towards the end of my stint walking in the cool dusk, I pass a weird structure built high on the mountain, a 1950s version of an alien spacecraft. Actually, it is a microwave tower. I wonder if my innards will simmer a bit if I camp within range. The feet performed tolerably well today. Toes were getting a little hot spot here and there in the new shoes, but just resting shifted the heat. I wonder if these might not be a good hot weather shoe, but it's too early to know that. Today, after 8 loaded miles, the Javas get a cautious thumbs up.I found a campsite alone just south of the peregrine cliffs. I had walked this section last April with my friend Ruth Marwitz, and remembered a spot she'd camped at. Perfect at this late hour. As I walk a section I'd hiked previously, I can't help but think of those I'd done it with. Ruth with her flashing smile and unexpectedly wicked sense of humor is one of my favorite hiking partners. If walking the AT doesn't burn me out on backpacking, perhaps we will have another adventure.There is a lazy slice of moon out tonight, on it's back, it's hollow belly facing upward. I believe it is waxing, working on becoming full before long. Like that.As darkness takes over my world, I hear faint voices on the mountaintop near the microwave tower. I recall walking up there last year and seeing a road. Locals must be camping nearby. A barred owl wakes up and starts its call: "Who cooks for YOU?" It rules the night, at least until a jarring sound suddenly floats down the slope to my camp: the roar and gunning of an engine, followed by jarringly loud rap music! The bass booms downslope, though the partyers must be at least a mile away.This goes on until well past 2 am. Eventually the music is switched off and the party grows silent. In the end, the owl has the final say, as owls have had throughout the millennia. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer it.