Date: 2003-05-11
From: Campbell Shelter

To: US 220, Troutville-Daleville
Miles today: 15.4
Weather: moderate rain

Hey! It's 7:35 am, and I've just walked over the 700-mile mark. Almost one third of the Trail.It ought to be stated for the record; everybody knows it, but no on speaks of it. It is entirely possible to walk 700 miles up and down mountains and still have cellulite. Nobody said life was fair.I slept lightly, and heard it raining in the night. I had just drifted off to sleep again when Daniel's 5:00 am watch alarm went off. Groan! Oh well, I am awake now, might as well eat. Then, having eaten, might as well pack up...I am, astoundingly, walking at 6:05 am. What an innovation! The humidity is high, but the air is cool at this early hour, and the climbs come easily. I see the sun rise, then struggle and be swallowed by clouds. The birds are very active at this hour. A pair of mourning doves coos me up the first hill.The bugs have come out in full force the last several days; I guess it's the heat. There are flies that won't shake off, inchworms, and face-hazing gnats that get themselves inhaled deep into the lungs on big climbs.As I ascend, the wind picks up and blows the bugs away. I'm buffeted by big gusts on Tinker cliffs, some fabulous rocky overlooks rimming the Catawba-Daleyville corridor.I spent most of the day walking atop the cliffs, and the gusts knock me around so strongly I now must drop my pack before approaching an edge. It is not an easy thing to hang out in this large wind. It always sets me a little on edge.I wonder why I cannot get easy with this wind. It's more than the natural concern of falling limbs. Perhaps it is reminiscent of the winds of change that have swept though my life. I haven't gotten fully at ease with those either. We do so like to know exactly where we are going. And I don't. A crystal ball, please.At one shelter, Notes has left a message for me in the register. He and the Brits are getting a room in the EconoLodge. Did I want to share the cost? The thought of another shower and some pizza is more tempting than tenting alone.As I start dropping low a few miles from town, the sun comes out. The Trail goes under a massive powerline, strung from mountain to mountain. As I pass under it, the structure buzzes and crackles in a most loud and ominous way. Can that be healthy? Look, ma! I'm sterile...At a Trailhead, I stop to read some geological information about the cliffs I'd just walked over. Clearly, an enthusiast with the local maintaining club took the time to share local knowledge:"These mountains are two hundred million years old. But the rocks of which they are made go back three million hundred years further," back when Virginia was a swamp on the equator, and Africa was headed for a crash with Virginia "giving Virginia a 30 million year jolt. Deep underground, these mud flats - now layers of compacted stone - heaved and rippled and cracked... Africa left. The plunging waves of rock now became our Appalachian mountains.""As one hikes out of the Daleville-Catawba corridor to the north...to Fullhardt Knob, one enters the Blue Ridge Mountains, which have a very different history. The rocks are much harder, crystalline rather than sandy, non-fossil-bearing, are much, much older and probably volcanic in origin. But that's a different story."Recent rains have rendered all slippery, including the clay dirt path as I approach town. The center of the path is a wet churn of leaves and clay, so I try to stick to the sides, aiming for every little bit of organic matter to give me some traction on the greasy clay. Of course, on the sides the blackberry bushes snake out to grab you with their brambly thorns. In spite of my edge-hugging caution, my feet shoot forward on one downslope, and I am skidding through the grease on my butt into the brambles. Great! I am covered with sticky clay on one entire side! Who will give this Clay Person a ride to the Motel?I scrape as much off with a stick as possible, then fine-tune the clean-up with some poplar leaves, which I know are not the slightest kin to poison ivy. There! Now I only look like a wild, unwashed bag lady, and not a cave woman.The air near town in these lush meadows is hot and laden with moisture. The sun has come out now, and the wind has died. I frequently mop my brow with my Teddi towel. The land is purely alive here, weedy growth already rampant at the warm 1,300 foot elevation. The air is filled with the sound of bees and the scent of the wild roses that line the path. In spite of the mudslide, I am in a fine humor.When I cross Tinker Creek (does author Annie Dillard - "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" - live close by?), I see the Econolodge is near. What relief! I stop at a gas station first and chug a big chocolate milk. I suppose I miss dairy most on the Trail. Chocolate second.When I get to the motel, I start to laugh. The desk clerk looks at me quizzically. I don't know who to ask for! All I possess are Trail names. How is he going to know who Tanglefoot, ProudFeet and Notes are? I finally explain I'm looking for two British guys, a father and adult son. Yes, he knows the Brits. A call upstairs, and I am admitted to the heavenly domain of hot water and clean sheets.After a shower, I make a quick trip to Pizza Hut with the Brits, who are really quite a comedy team. I am enjoying their upbeat company. The very likable section hiker Turn-Around joins us, so it is a pleasant meal. When we return, I make my calls and do the pocketmail thing. The guys are watching a James Bond flick, and then "The X-Men" on HBO. It's like a college dorm, with food and drink and television and much editorial comment.As I drift off to sleep, I am glad I don't have to explain to my mother how absolutely normal it is on the AT to be sharing a motel room with three strange men. And two of them foreign nationals!