Date: 2016-05-14
From: Groundhog Creek Shelter

To: Catpen Gap
Miles today: 14.5
Weather: clear sky

Today, I cried for the first time on the Appalachian Trail. At Fontana Dam last Saturday, I picked up my most recent food drop from the Post Office. As usual, Alison had sent me five days' worth of food. It would last me from Sunday through this past Thursday. My plan was to resupply on Friday at Standing Bear Farm, a hostel that, in addition to having a bunk room, sells hiker food from its on-site store, has a shower room, offers hikers the use of a kitchen for food preparation, and runs a shuttle service. It provides a significant service to the hiker community. When I got to Standing Bear on Friday, a large group of hikers had gathered to share a shuttle van that afternoon to Damascus, Virginia, for Trail Days, an annual thru-hiker festival weekend. As a result, the pantry was a little bare when I went to shop. I did the best I could, but was not terribly happy at my menu for the next two days. I wasn't too concerned, though; before you know it, I would be in Hot Springs on Sunday, enjoying robust meals with Alison, Holly and Katie. I could certainly make it through two days. My 17.6 mile hike on Friday was a bit tough, especially the section after Standing Bear Farm, where I ended the day with a five-mile climb, gaining 2,500 feet, to summit Snowbird Mountain. I was really beginning to feel the pace I had put on over the past four days. That night, I prepared my first Standing Bear Farm-purchased meal: Ramen noodles with an added packet of tuna. Not awful, but not my idea of a badly-needed nutritional meal at the end of a long day. This morning, I followed my usual whey protein drink with a Carnation Instant Breakfast, always good if you're in a pinch for time, but not a recommended "meal" before a day of thru-hiking. With my stomach less than normally filled, I headed off for a 14.5 mile hike. For the first time on my AT adventure, my legs felt heavy from the get-go. Sure, they've been tired at the end of a day, but never at the beginning, like today. And, to make me even unhappier, I didn't have my normal on-trail snacks of Cliff Bars and my homespun concoction of dried apricots, almonds and yoghurt-covered raisins that I adore. Instead, I had two small, chewy granola bars and a store-bought trail mix composed of mostly chocolate. As the morning progressed, I was getting a bit anxious. I wasn't moving at my normal pace, my trail legs were AWOL, and I envisioned a repeat of all this on Sunday. I really didn't want to pull into Hot Springs, running on fumes and in a sour mood. Aside from a well-placed public toilet, and my returned cellphone, I had come across Trail Magic exactly once in the prior 22 days on the trail. With the "hiker bubble" at least four weeks ahead of me, most people interested in performing trail magic had already come and gone. In March, in particular, so many thru-hikers start their journeys that the campsites and shelters are packed with upwards of 75 hikers a night. This is commonly called the "hiker bubble" and lasts between four and six weeks in March and early April. And if you were looking to be a "Trail Angel" and surprise thru-hikers by grilling hamburgers, offering pizza and beer, or any number of countless ways of providing "trail magic", you would do it during the hiker bubble. (My definition of trail magic: an act of kindness or good fortune bestowed unexpectedly on a hiker by the "trail", usually by Trail Angels.)So, with my late April start of the AT expressly designed to miss the hiker bubble, I had no thoughts of receiving any trail magic. But, frankly, up until today, I didn't really feel the need for it. I was eating well, and had been in town enough to feel well fed. Besides, when my cellphone was returned to me in an amazing show of hiker community cooperation, I probably used up every trail magic chit to which I was entitled for the entire 2,189 mile journey. So, coming out of Brown Gap this morning before heading into yet another climb, this one to the summit of Max Patch, I was totally unprepared for what I was seeing at 11:45 am. There, just off State Road 1182, was a parked SUV with its lift gate open, having already deposited a folding table, gas grill, cooler, assorted food, and three young men into the parking area adjacent to the AT. The three young men were tending to two hikers, one of whom, Fantasy Feet, I had met before. The other was new to me. One of the three Angels was grilling brats, another slicing watermelon, and the third handing out one's choice of beer or Powerade. I was astonished. I could not believe my luck. This was the kind of trail magic you just can't explain, and I really needed it. It was simply perfect. Field of Dreams perfect. I was moved, emotional. The young men, Flounder, Captain Pants and Hoot, were childhood friends from Greenville, South Carolina, and had driven up for the day to perform trail magic. They had thru-hiked together in 2015, and simply wanted to engage again in the magic that is the AT. One, Captain Pants, graduated in 2013 from a smallish college hard on the banks of the Connecticut River halfway up the state of New Hampshire, and wore its hooded sweatshirt. As I heartily enjoyed two brats, two slices of watermelon, a Powerade and a package of cookies, I took in their effortlessly offered company. Their easy way with each other was endearing. Their bond of life-long friendship had been borne during their formative years, and they clearly kept fond memories of their thru-hike together. With my fair share of the food gone and my spirits lifted immensely, I asked for a few photos. The happiness and camaraderie evident in the photo above you can't fake. From left to right, that's Hoot, Blue, Captain Pants and Flounder. These three young men made not only my day, but quickly became a cherished memory that will help fuel me for the remainder of my 2,189 miles. With deep appreciation and gratitude, thank you, guys. One more note. Before saying good-bye to my hosts, I turned to the sole remaining hiker there, the one I had not yet met. He looked to be in his late fifties, had his long hair parted in the middle, and wore glasses. I asked him his name. His reply, "Wildman."Back on Long Island when I was growing up, my dearest neighborhood friend during my primary school years was Jackson Main. We called him Wildman as we all got older. He was gentle and kind and carried himself with a boyish enthusiasm that he held on to with all his might. He succumbed to cancer at age 49. Jackson, our Wildman, had his hair long and parted in the middle, framing the glasses he wore. He would have turned 59 this summer. Just how many Trail Angels were at work out there? Today, I cried tears of joy on the Appalachian Trail.