Date: 2003-04-28
From: Partnership Shelter

To: Atkins, Va.
Miles today: 11.6
Weather: clear sky

When the Mt. Rogers ranger station opens at 8 am, I am waiting. No, they say, no one has turned in a jacket. They don't know which club maintains the Trail thru here either. But if I would leave a number...I get on the phone with Hammer and ask if he will let the local App. Trail Club know, since they are out maintaining and are the likely ones to stumble across my jacket. He agrees.In truth, I fear the jacket fell out of my pack when I got off the Trail to pee. Who remembers where they stop to pee? It's one of life's million of forgettable details. If the jacket is off the Trail, perhaps it will never be found.SOBO hiker "180" asks if the ranger ploy produced results, and when I shook my head sadly, he repeated his promise to keep his eyes open. Hikers are good people.I saddle up and head out to my food drop in Atkins, which should be at The Relax Inn. No ID needed there. Notes and Blazin'J and Joe ask if I want to split my room, and of course I do. I'm lost in America with no cash.In truth, I had followed my mother and great aunt's advice and had stashed a bill in a separate place at the start of the hike. It was enough to get me to Pearisburg. It was time to crack it out.Joe and J' hitch into Marion to collect their food drop. Notes catches up with me, hikes patiently at my pace and earnestly discusses Life and Trout Fishing in a quite intelligent manner all morning. I have to say, his conversation and company takes my mind off my feet and financial woes. He speaks often of his girlfriend Caroline, who is going to join him for the second part of his hike. "She's quality," is his description. Sweet, eh?The climbs come easily with the distractions, and before we know it we are at the Settler's museum, really an old country schoolhouse complete with readers. I love that history like this is on the trail. The schoolhouse is open, unguarded. A sign invites hikers to stop in, wander around. Another sign reproduces a list of school whipping punishments: lying, 7 lashes; boys playing with the girls, 4 lashes, taking the Lord's name in vain, 10 lashes, playing cards, 10 lashes. We can hear the rumble of I-81 now, though we are still 2 miles away, and make haste to the Dairy Queen at Groseclose. Yes, it's right on the Trail.When I used to envision AT town stops, it was always this scene in the DQ I imagined. A frosty root beer float - or maybe a chocolate malt - followed by a double bacon cheeeburger and fries. Here was one Trail fantasy fulfilled.I check into the Relax Inn while Notes hitched into Atkins to get his food drop at the post office. Groseclose is basically a truck stop on I-81.I collect my pocketmail and learn I can replace my lost license online, and that the bank has a freeze on my credit card until I give the word. I can get my debit card replaced, and arrange to have it sent to Dave Hicks, ahead on the Trail. Hammer has alerted the proper ATC people.Things are falling into place. I can keep walking, and don't have to go home to straighten this mess out.The White Brothers are here too tonight, and we chat on the bench outside our rooms, in the spring sunset, comparing foot horrors. We decide I win this round, and take a picture of my foot.And then I get an e-mail from "180" - "Your jacket is found," he said. A southbound couple picked it up, and was hiking into Damascus, where they would turn it in to the police there. Halleluiah! He used his pocketmail and cell phone to give me the news fresh from the Trail. "Have I made your day?" he wrote. Yes, indeed.Next, Carolyn emails - the ranger called to tell her the jacket was in transit. Then, another hiker, NOBO Bohemia Jack, calls from Partnership shelter to tell me he's heard of my predicament, and that he wanted to make sure I knew the good news. He tracked me down with that infallible hiker logic that just knows where to find someone on the Trail. Notes high-fives me.Hikers are good people. I am proud to be part of this community. Would this happen in the big city? Hikers grok the concept: there for the grace of God go I. It could happen to any of us, and we'd all want some good soul to pick up our jacket, extract the wallet, and find the owner.Thank you everyone who played a part in this little drama.I guess the under-the-pack-lid storage is out for now. Ha!