Date: 2004-05-26
From: Waynesboro, VA

To: Blackrock Hut
Miles today: 20.0

Shenandoah National Park.   Thru-hikers have been talking about it since Georgia. Anytime we agonized over the difficulty of the section we were on, we dreamed of Shenandoah National Park and of all of the promises that were waiting to be fulfilled once we arrived.   After all, Shenandoah National Park is easy.   In fact, it's flat.   And there are waysides for all of the tourists. Concession stands that line the trail. One every two miles or so.   And on the rare occasions that the trail changes in elevation, stairs and ramps are built to relieve stress on hikers' already weary ankles. Even when the elevation only changes 18 inches!   And when immigrants sailed to America by the hundreds of thousands in the late 19th century in hopes of a better life, there had been rumors of the streets being paved with gold.   And they believed it.   After being dropped off by a man named Tom--another one of Waynesboro's Trail Angels--I begin my hike toward the Promised Land. Eight miles later, I stand at Jarman Gap--one of the many places the AT crosses Skyline Drive. But this particular junction is special. Crossing the road and entering the forest on the other side, I make my entry into Shenandoah National Park.   I decide, upon entering the park, to keep my eyes and ears at full alert while making as little noise as possible. There is a specific picture I¢ve been hoping to get on my thru-hike, and SNP, with its strict laws regulating the protection of its wildlife, is likely to provide the opportunity. I just never would have expected for it to happen so soon.   A mere .1 miles into the park, I stop walking and concentrate my attention to the left of the trail--the direction I had heard the sound. Your ear can tell the difference between a twig snapping and a branch breaking and for a branch to break at ground level, something with enough weight has to step on it.   In other words: something big.   At first all I see is a large, black spot in the middle of the woods. Easily it could be mistaken as shadows, but my eyes outline the black mass as it disappears behind a tree trunk and reappears on the other side to form the profile of a bear.   Cool.   I feel no fear. Caution, perhaps, but not fear. Caution and an accelerated heartbeat. The bear is on all fours and is pretty far away. He hasn¢t even noticed me. I doubt he¢ll even show up on film from that distance, but that¢s no reason not to try.   QUIETLY I slide off my backpack, gently resting it against the base of a tree, and unzip the top pouch. Grabbing my camera and slowly removing it from its ziplock protection, I look up to find the subject of my picture.   Gone. Simply vanished. No sounds. No trace whatsoever.    Stealthy little bugger. My bear picture will have to wait.   The day becomes muggy as I climb and descend slope after slope, wondering where the ¢flat¢ begins. I begin to curse all the bastards that filled my head with empty promises. I curse myself, too, for believing them. I should know better by this point.   This trail is never going to get easy.    And it sure as hell is never going to get flat.   I swim through the humidity and imagine how nice rain would feel right now. A nice, fresh shower slicing the muggy afternoon air, cooling my body and washing the dirt off of my face and arms. I do more than just ¢imagine¢ it; I find myself wishing it.   And, as they say, you should be careful what you wish for.   In the distance, I hear thunder. The rumblings, soon accompanied by flashes of light, roll closer and closer, and I¢m, once again, climbing upwards. With only a few miles left of my day, I pick up the pace hoping I can beat the storm to the shelter.   And the heavens open up. Buckets of rain pour on me by the second. In less than a minute, not a dry spot can be found anywhere on my body or clothing. Even my Gore-Tex boots are soaked through.    After 20 minutes of hustling, I slow down and laugh at myself, wondering what the hell I¢m running for. Shelter? What good would it do me? I can¢t possibly get any wetter. Indeed, after stepping in an ankle-deep puddle, my foot actually feels drier.    As I hit the blue-blazed trail to the shelter, only one thought replays over and over in my mind: Please let there be room. The last thing I want to do is pitch my tent in the rain and crawl my wet, dirty self into it. I just want a dry place to sit, eat dinner, and go to sleep.   Please let there be room.   Reaching the end of the blue-blaze, I stand staring at a filled shelter. My eyes dart back and forth, quickly scanning the bodies occupying my would-be haven. I recognize none of them. They all stare back at me, unblinking, jaws slightly agape. In a weak, defeated voice, I ask.   Is there room for one more?   More staring. They don¢t seem to know what to make of me. I¢m not even sure they¢ve heard me.    Finally, in a tone that suggests deep empathy, a guy who later introduces himself as ¢Prozac¢ speaks up.   ¢Yeah,¢ he says. ¢We can make room.¢      I don¢t bother getting into dry clothes yet or unpacking my backpack. My body is exhausted and I just sit at the picnic table in the rain, watching an unalarmed bunny eating greens by the fire-circle not 10 feet away. Within the park boundaries, he¢s relatively safe. I¢m quite sure he knows this, but his eyes remain fixed on me none-the-less. When I¢m asked why I don¢t come into the shelter, I try not to sound sour as I explain that it doesn¢t really matter. I¢m already wet anyway. My backpack and pack-cover, along with the hat and bandana I tied to the hip-strap, is filthy with mud.    ¢You should probably get into some dry clothes,¢ says Prozac.   I thought Shenandoah National Park was supposed to be flat, I reply.   ¢Oh no,¢ he says. ¢Shenandoah National Park isn¢t flat. It¢s easy--especially north of here--but it¢s not flat.¢    Prozac has hiked sections of the trail before, including the 90 miles of this park, so I trust what he says. And at least he¢s not telling me that the rest of the park is flat. I wouldn¢t believe him. In Georgia, we were told Virginia was flat. In Southern Virginia, we were told Shenandoah was flat. I¢ve finally lost hope in ¢flat,¢ and it¢s probably for my own good. I have a new faith on the trail, and its doctrine is simple: ¢Flat¢ just doesn¢t exist. I believe this now. Better late than never.   ¢Now, Pennsylvania!¢ Prozac continues. ¢Pennsylvania is flat.¢