Date: 2011-04-29
From: Iron Mountan Shelter

To: 0.5 miles before Saunders Shelter
Miles today: 35.0
Weather: scattered clouds

(In which I meet Creeper Jay, reach Damascus, and leave Damascus)I wake up relieved to find my food and gear unmolested by rodents or particularly sneaky bears, and surprised to find the weather chillier than it's been since the Smokies. I am 26 miles away from Damascus, the single most anticipated town on the trail, self-proclaimed Trail Town USA, so with some extra motivation from the weather, I take down my tent and leave camp at a brisk pace.I meet almost no one all morning, but do pass a late middle aged hiker taking a break off the trail shortly before the first shelter. I nod to him, but he seems not to notice and I walk on to stop for brunch at the first shelter. Most shelters have a scattering of graffiti, names and dates of previous hikers, but this one has evolved into a shrine of Bob Peoples lore. "When Bob Peoples clears trails, the trees love him so much he doesn't need a saw, they gladly part for him", reads one saying. Others include, "Bob Peoples hangs the bears up at night, so he can sit down to a candle-lit dinner and a peaceful night's sleep", "The AT took six months off to hike Bob Peoples", and "Bob Peoples' real name is Robert Peoples".* * *While I am having brunch and admiring the sayings, the man who had been taking a break walks by. He doesn't stop to check the register, which seem odd for a hiker, but he does seem to make good time up the hill. I see that he wears unusually high gators, carries bright red trekking poles and has long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. I finish my brunch and start hiking again, continuing my brisk pace. Despite my speed, I don't catch up to the other hiker for two hours, when I see him stopped for another break at a small Boy Scouts' shack. I go over to inspect the shack and he gets up to leave."Going to Damascus today?" I ask, curious about his speed. "I'm not generally in the habit of discussing where I'm going", he says straight-faced. I chuckle, thinking of the standard (but true) answer I usually give to the same question, which is that I never know where I'm going until I get there. "Ah, secret plans!", I say. "What's your name?" I ask. "I didn't catch yours", he replies, again without smiling, and I can't help but burst out laughing. "You're closed-mouthed!" I say. "I'm Portrait." I hold out my hand and he ignores it. "I think I'll be leaving now", he says, and walks away. I shake my head in wonder, thinking what a strange, strange man this Closed Mouth is.I hadn't intended on breaking at the shack, but I don't want to follow immediately after Closed Mouth, so I give him a few minutes. Nevertheless, I am hiking slightly faster than him, as I was before, and in a bit I catch up again, this time while he is hiking. I click my trekking pole on rocks intentionally to alert him of my coming, but he seem not to notice, and ignores me when I cough. Eventually I say, "Sure is nice weather", yet still he continues silently hiking. Perhaps part of the problem before was simply a difficulty hearing, I think, trying to come up with a simple explanation for his behavior. But the after several seconds have passed he says without turning, "You may pass". The trail is narrow and he keeps on hiking, just slightly slower than my Damascus-or-bust pace, so I have to quickly scramble over brush alongside the trail to pass him.Perplexed and still not knowing his name, I grin and call out, "See you up the trail, Closed Mouth!" after I have passed. His voice is quiet and utterly without humor when he replies, "What did you just say?" My 'hearing difficulty' theory has long been abandoned, but I turn and smile again when I repeat myself so that he can see that I mean no offense. I have stopped to reply, but he keeps hiking toward me. "Kindly do not address me, stranger", he says coldly. For a split second I think about making a reasoned reply about not having any other name to call him, but my common sense finally kicks in and I continue hiking instead. He, however, continues talking as he follows me. "Quit being a trouble maker", he says, "or you will find yourself off the trail", and there is icy hatred in his threat.I hike just fast enough to slowly leave him behind, then when I am out of sight my speed, already faster than normal, approximately doubles. I fly by the next shelter, pausing only briefly to give the hikers resting at the shelter a heads up that the hiker behind me doesn't take too kindly to attempts at conversation. I continue my new absurd pace and catch up with and pass Captain Planet, a fast hiker whom I have been following in the logs. I relay my encounter to him, slowing my hiking only marginally as I talk over my shoulder to him. "Ah, I see you've met Creeper Jay", Captain Planet says. "He's tried to convert me to Christianity several times, and has a habit of occupying half of an entire shelter and refusing to move his things when more people arrive. He won't tell anyone where he's from either, and he really, really doesn't like having his picture taken." I think about my collection of portraits, simultaneously relieved not to have tried taken his picture and disappointed not to have some sort of visual reference.I continue hiking the 10 miles to Damascus at my break-neck speed, adrenalin flowing, not so much out of fear as from being creeped out. I dislike that phrase intensely, and have never once found it previously applicable, but find it the perfect fit for the extreme sense of unease and discomfort my encounter left me with.* * *I reach the center of Damascus, some 26.5 trail miles from where I started that morning, before 4pm. The town itself is surprisingly small, seemingly no bigger than Hot Springs, and half of the buildings seem to be churches. Each makes me think of Jay and I shudder. I find the hostel, called "The Place", which is itself in a church building. When I walk in I find hard wooden bunks and a man preparing to mop the floors. When he sees me he points to a broken table and begins a tirade against hikers. "See that? Some drunken hiker probably did that. Worthless hiker trash. Out in the real world they're just called bums and junkies, but they start walking and all of a sudden they become ¢hikers¢. Most don't even pay for this place, they're just stealing." I've read in the guidebook that the hostel doesn't employ a caretaker, and that it is donation only, and I wonder whether this man is himself a hiker as well. I think better of asking, however, and instead follow my new life motto: "Don't interact with the crazies".I leave to explore the rest of the town, taking my camera and Kindle and leaving the hiking gear on a bunk. (The system is somewhat nonsensical in that you can reserve a bunk only by leaving your gear, which according to signs in each room must never be left unattended.) I go first to the Dairy King to buy the root beer float I have been looking forward to all afternoon. The Dairy King is closed, though it only 4pm, and the only nearby food seems to be from the gas station. I look at the racks of snacks like the ones still in my pack but twice the price and buy only a bottle of juice to drink as I continue exploring. The library, where I had hoped to upload photos, is also closed, a sign blaming flooding problems and offering no idea as to when it might reopen. I finish my juice so that I can enter the outfitter. They do not seem to have OPSaks, the only item I had hoped to purchase, and the rest of the gear, as in all of the other trail town outfitters, is completely uninteresting to an ultralighter.When I return to the hostel I realize that I have the same feeling of suffocation that I had experienced in Neel's Gap and Hiawassi. Other than resupplying and chatting with hikers, whom I hope to see later on the trail, this town seems to have nothing for me, and I am filled with an overpowering desire to leave it as soon as possible.I have to resupply first, and the grocery store, inconveniently, is half a mile away. It is not yet 5pm so I walk there unsheltered from the sun, and realize that, having looked forward to Damascus all trip, I have no idea what comes next on the trail, where I will next resupply or how much food I'll need to get there. I err on the side of caution, buying 10 to 12 pounds of groceries. Combined with the 3 pounds of food still left in my food bag, this would likely be more than enough to get me through the 100-mile wilderness in Maine, the longest stretch without a resupply opportunity on the entire AT, let alone whatever Virginia has in store.Even with my minimal summer gear, the food is so voluminous as to require leaving the top of my pack unrolled, Pringle cans poking out, and the side pockets stuffed. I carefully put on my pack, heavier than it ever was with winter gear, and hope that I am not exceeding the 20 pound recommended carrying limit, though I fear I might.Having intended to take my first zero day in Damascus, I instead leave town at 6pm on the day I arrived, and leave unsure as to whether I will return for Trail Days as I had long planned.* * *When I start hiking again, things are not quite all right with the world, but at least they are better. Perhaps hiking is for hikers as smoking is for smokers, a way to relax and shed the accumulated tension of stressful situations. I think about Jay, and though I know that the best defense against Trail Creeps is proximity to other hikers, which I am leaving, I hope that I will not meet him again.Perhaps because of my long break in Damascus, I have plenty of energy and hike until the last light is about to leave the sky. From a sign I know that I am only half a mile away from a shelter, but chose to stop short and camp, in part so I can stay up to eat and write, and in part because I have not quite relaxed to the point where I would want to be around other people.I don't know what the trail ahead holds, but tomorrow I will venture forth once again to find out -- this time, perhaps, with a bit more trepidation.