Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (40 page)

“Sure.”

I couldn’t see where the horse trail went, but followed him anyway. We walked down the bank of the cascading river, but soon the path we were on ran into dense brush. He cut up the hill, going away from the river and next thing I knew we were bushwhacking. “Is this the horse path?” I asked perplexed.

“I don’t know what it is, but there has to be a route through here somewhere,” he said calmly. We kept slashing until we came up upon foliage so dense a moose might have avoided it. And it was supposed to be almost two miles to get to some railroad track that would cross this river, and then a trek back up to the trail.

“I’m sorry, man,” I said. “I’m just gonna’ go back.”

“No problem, brother,” he said pleasantly. “Only you know what’s good for yourself.” At the moment even that was doubtful.

When I finally made it back to the group at the bank of the Little Wilson Trail, they all smiled knowingly as I related the tale. Fortunately, Stitch and Swinger had just built a log bridge a few hundred yards downstream to get across.

But then, for one of the few times on the trail, a bold impulse, the desire to do more than get from point A to point B, seized me. Perhaps it was because I considered myself a good rock-hopper, or maybe it was because my other attempt at boldness, fording the Kennebec, had been foiled. “See that spot right there,” I pointed to an area right before the water tumbled over and down some rocks. “That doesn’t look as torrential. I’m going to try to get across there.”

I quickly swapped out my hiking shoes for my crocks. As I was walking down the bank to enter the surging stream I suddenly stopped. “I’m just gonna’ go without my backpack to test it out.” It was to prove to be the single wisest decision I made the entire time on the AT, if not my whole life.

When I stepped in I first noticed how rocky and uneven the surface was. It was tempting to try to hurry across, but that was surely a bad idea. The uneven footing and unrelenting current were the essence of the challenge. The water was mountain-ice cold.

I picked out a big rock about fifteen yards downstream that I was planning to dive for in case I got swept up by the current. On the fourth step my foot went an extra two feet deeper than expected, and suddenly the water was above my waist. A loud, collective groan emanated from my audience perched on the bank, as they wondered where the water would be on them. Meanwhile, I wondered where the water would be on my next step. Fortunately, with my hiking pole I was able to probe and get a better idea of what lay ahead. Finally, I got to within a few feet of a big rock on the far side and flung myself on it and crawled out of the Little Wilson River. My audience on the far side gave me an ovation. It may have been my high moment on the AT.

But now I had to go back and retrieve my backpack. When I stepped back in, the male Honeymooner yelled over, “Try it down here and see if you can find an easier place for everybody to get across.” Dutifully, I went down to where a rope had been hung across the stream. This was where the water spilled over the rock and the current seemed the strongest. I got halfway across, but the powerful current turned my legs into jelly. Everybody kept yelling, “Grab the rope.” It was probably good advice, but it didn’t seem a sure bet. And one look down the torrid, white-capped rapids told me it had to be a dead cinch—or else. I turned around and went back to the north bank. Then I quickly ran up to where I had crossed before.

But when I started across this time my legs again felt unsteady, and now I was tired. It seemed dangerous, so I turned around to return to the north shore after a few steps. I lost my balance at the end and had to lunge to safety on the big rock I had arrived at when I had originally crossed successfully. The fundamentals were grim. My backpack was on the south side of the Little Wilson River, and I was on the north side. And I had just failed twice in attempting to get back to the south bank.

Thank God for the log bridge Stitch and Swinger had built. Embarrassed, I hurriedly bushwhacked downstream to try to find it and get back across. After a couple hundred yards I saw where somebody had laid two narrow tree logs from the far bank of the river to a rock in the middle. My task was to jump from the north bank to one rock, and then from that rock to the big rock in the middle. Then I would crawl across the rickety log bridge. It was doable, but there was no margin for error. This far downstream the Little Wilson broadens, which means that in case of a blunder a person’s chances of being helplessly swept away increased.

Cackles had come down to watch with a quizzical look on her face. “Is this the bridge Stitch built?” I yelled out to her.

“I guess,” she shouted back. I executed the two jumps to the middle rock well, and then got on my knees to crawl across the two logs. They seemed somewhat steady, if not a bulwark. I carefully crawled across and was finally back on the south bank of the Little Wilson, where my backpack was after my misadventure. “You did great,” Cackles consoled me, but I was torn about the whole effort.

When we got back upstream to where everybody was, I said, “There was my fifteen minutes of fame. Now it’s somebody else’s turn.”

“How did you hurt your foot?” Hit Man, a hulking Floridian, asked. I looked down and saw blood spilling profusely out of my big toe. Undoubtedly, it was cut by one of the sharp boulders at the bottom.

The maximum effort had tired me, but everybody except the Honeymooners started back downstream with their backpacks for the log bridge, and I followed suit. I was contentedly back in my more familiar follower mode.

One by one, everybody walked carefully over the slick rock to the log bridge and got on their knees with their backpacks strapped on. “Make sure your backpacks are loosely strapped on, just in case,” I called out. Box-of-Fun was second-to-last, followed by me. She teetered over the logs very tentatively. Several times she stopped, unsure of herself on the log bridge. Just a few feet below roared powerful white torrents that would have given vertigo to anyone who focused on it for long. Finally, she made it to the rock in the middle, and then after long surveys of the terrain executed the two rock hops perfectly to the far bank.

Everybody seemed to take it for granted that I would easily re-cross the log bridge, but this time I had my backpack strapped on. Nevertheless, it came off fine, and we had finally all cleared the Little Wilson, even if it hadn’t been pretty.

“All’s well that ends well,” said Hit Man.

“Yep,” I added. “And we should be able to find a good place to camp on the banks of the Big Wilson in three miles, and then hopefully get across tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah,” Hit Man replied. “And we should see Stitch, Swinger, and company camped out on the banks of the Big Wilson.” Surely it was impassable on this day. The next few miles everybody seemed relieved to have dodged one bullet and gotten vivid intelligence on how to handle the next powerful stream.

Anticipation and apprehension built as we started hearing the rush of running water getting closer. Soon we arrived at the banks of the Big Wilson. Stitch, Swinger and company were nowhere to be seen. “Let’s refrain from any morbid jokes,” I said, surprised.

“They must’ve gone across,” Hit Man said. “I reckon we can make it too.”

“God, wouldn’t it be nice,” I said. “The shelter is just a half-mile over this stream.”

It was about fifty yards across, and the white-capped current was moving steadily, but not as torrentially as the Little Wilson had been. “I’ll go first,” Hit Man volunteered.

“No objections here,” I said, having exhausted my quest for glory back at the Little Wilson.

“But I’m going to keep my hiking shoes on, instead of wearing crocks,” he said, sensibly.

The big, burly Hit Man then waded in and moved steadily across as the water never got up to his waist. The Joy Machine soon followed suit with the water reaching their waist, but they did not seem shaken at all. It made a big difference when I followed, wearing my hiking shoes, although the steady current kept me intently focused.

It was 4:30 when we happily arrived at the Wilson Valley Lean-To. We had about ninety minutes of reliable sunlight remaining. Foamer was there to greet us with a Foamerism: “These long days sure are short.” I scoured the immediate vicinity for somewhere to pitch a tent, but the terrain was rocky and inclined.

Then, to my amazement I noticed the Joy Machine making plans to head off, and Hit Man joined in. “How about you, Skywalker?” “This is home for me,” I said with uncharacteristic decisiveness. Off they went with a little more than an hour of sunlight left and five tough miles to the next shelter.

A southbounder arrived at dark, and Foamer and I briefed him on what lay ahead with the Big and Little Wilson Streams. “Doesn’t sound any worse than what I just did,” he said. “The water was up to my chest.”

“Did you pass a threesome on the way here?” I asked.

“Yeah, I was going to warn them,” he said, “but it was getting dark.”

After an hour of hiking the following morning, Foamer and I crossed a stream that fell off down a waterfall for almost one hundred feet, just fifteen yards after it crossed the AT. After we were able to rock hop across I asked, “Do you think this is the stream that guy was talking about last night?”

“Probably so,” Foamer said. “They go down fast overnight.”

“Glad we waited until this morning,” I said. “Fifteen feet off the trail to the right and it’s all she wrote.”

But a mile or so later we were eating our words, as we arrived at another cascading stream. It was only about ten yards across, so we ran up and down the banks looking in vain for a way to get across. Not in the mood to take any chances I took off my socks and put my hiking shoes back on. It was up to my thighs and the current was stiff. Halfway across, Foamer said, “See where the current hits me,” pointing to just below his waist. “It’s probably fallen at least a foot from when they crossed last night.”

When we passed the shelter soon after, I read Cackles’ entry:

Long Pond Stream Shelter—mile 2,076

9-21-05
: Fording a surging stream at night with water reaching your chest is not highly recommended. It’s not even smart.—
Cackles

Foamer and I then ascended seventeen hundred feet, virtually straight up the granite mass of Barren Mountain. At the summit, decked out and having an extended picnic was the Joy Machine. “How are the two nighttime forders?” I asked.

“Oh, you should have seen it,” Box-of-Fun said.

“I doubt I could have,” I responded, “because it was nighttime and there couldn’t have been much of you poking out of the water to see.”

They had forgotten to buy cheese in Monson, and I was carrying three half-pound blocks of Vermont cheese. “Ya’ll deserve a morsel of cheese for your heroics,” I said. Like animals catching a whiff of prey in the Maine wilderness, they hurried over.

The idea of getting caught at night out here in the rocky, mountainous wilderness loomed ever-present, and I cut my break short to reach my evening destination. The Joy Machine, meanwhile, continued lounging and gazing at the sights—a classic adrenaline hangover.