immediately soared. I was even considering trying to sleep in the shelter for the first time, despite ample warnings about mice. “What’s the status on these shelters?” I asked.
“Expect something between a Swiss chalet and an outhouse,” Scottie Too Lite replied.
The AT shelters are decidedly rough-hewn, three-sided structures that are open on the front side. Their wooden sleeping platforms sleep anywhere from four to twenty-five, and availability is on a first-come basis. They are quite popular, especially with thru-hikers, despite the hazard of serial mice-infestation. They run on average about every ten miles. Many hikers religiously planned their hiking schedules to arrive at a shelter late in the day, and the spirit of camaraderie tended to be high as everybody recounted their day’s toils.
“This is the area where Eric Rudolph hid from police for years after bombing the Atlanta Olympics,” Pockets said. “He was even on the Appalachian Trail some of the time.”
“How the hell could you ever catch somebody in mountains like this, anyway?” I remarked.
“But remember the main reason they couldn’t find him,” Scottie Too Lite interjected. “He was a hero to all the hillfolk around here. Everybody helped him hide.”
“Hey now, we’ve come a ways since John Wilkes Booth was given safe harbor after shooting Lincoln,” I protested.
“We’re sure glad to finally hear it,” Scottie smiled. Fortunately, the stereotype of the backwoods, armed, militia-prone crackpot was not in much evidence on the AT.
Sure enough, when darkness fell I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet seemingly doing gymnastics all over the rafters and under the sleeping platform. However, none of the creepy scenarios of mice on the forehead, or even worse, materialized. The shelter kept me shielded from the wind despite being open on one side, and I resolved to sleep in them more often.
At Winding Stair Gap a mother and father were having an emotional farewell with their daughter, Tigress. They had planned to try to thru-hike with her, but the mother had been shocked by the mountainous terrain and dropped off after thirty-one miles at Neel’s Gap. Tigress had continued on with some others until meeting up with her family here at Winding Stair Gap on U.S. 64. Her mother was now making a final plea for her daughter to get off the trail, but her daughter was determined to continue. Tigress was a brown-haired, freckled, young woman in her mid-twenties with a distinctively innocent look about her. After chatting with them a bit she said emphatically, “Skywalker, will you please tell my parents I’ll be okay?”
“She looks like a lot safer bet than me,” I said. “Have you hiked much, Tigress?”
“Yes,” she emphasized. “I’m a wilderness therapist. I lead groups of recovering drug addicts on outdoor trips.” Her mother didn’t look convinced, but they had a tearful departure and Tigress headed off north alone.
I ran into Tigress again a night later at Cold Spring Shelter after trooping all day alone. Far from looking threatened or out of sorts, Tigress seemed to be having the time of her life in the company of her all-male retinue.
A jolly, confident, healthy-looking fella’ in his mid-twenties from Montana named Rooney was entertaining everyone at the shelter with his stories about his thru-hike the previous year.
“Skywalker, the shelter only holds six,” Rooney said when he saw me looking around for an open spot to put my sleeping bag. “You can have my spot.”
“That’s all right,” I responded, “I’ll just sleep at a right angle to all of you at the entrance to the shelter.” This was a group of folks I liked.
The humor took a turn to the bawdy side. I told an obligatory southern incest joke, and there was demand for more. The entertainer in me won out. What the hell . We were in the middle of nowhere, and they seemed to love them .
Captain Hook asked, “Is it really true, Skywalker,
“Expect something between a Swiss chalet and an outhouse,” Scottie Too Lite replied.
The AT shelters are decidedly rough-hewn, three-sided structures that are open on the front side. Their wooden sleeping platforms sleep anywhere from four to twenty-five, and availability is on a first-come basis. They are quite popular, especially with thru-hikers, despite the hazard of serial mice-infestation. They run on average about every ten miles. Many hikers religiously planned their hiking schedules to arrive at a shelter late in the day, and the spirit of camaraderie tended to be high as everybody recounted their day’s toils.
“This is the area where Eric Rudolph hid from police for years after bombing the Atlanta Olympics,” Pockets said. “He was even on the Appalachian Trail some of the time.”
“How the hell could you ever catch somebody in mountains like this, anyway?” I remarked.
“But remember the main reason they couldn’t find him,” Scottie Too Lite interjected. “He was a hero to all the hillfolk around here. Everybody helped him hide.”
“Hey now, we’ve come a ways since John Wilkes Booth was given safe harbor after shooting Lincoln,” I protested.
“We’re sure glad to finally hear it,” Scottie smiled. Fortunately, the stereotype of the backwoods, armed, militia-prone crackpot was not in much evidence on the AT.
Sure enough, when darkness fell I heard the pitter-patter of tiny feet seemingly doing gymnastics all over the rafters and under the sleeping platform. However, none of the creepy scenarios of mice on the forehead, or even worse, materialized. The shelter kept me shielded from the wind despite being open on one side, and I resolved to sleep in them more often.
At Winding Stair Gap a mother and father were having an emotional farewell with their daughter, Tigress. They had planned to try to thru-hike with her, but the mother had been shocked by the mountainous terrain and dropped off after thirty-one miles at Neel’s Gap. Tigress had continued on with some others until meeting up with her family here at Winding Stair Gap on U.S. 64. Her mother was now making a final plea for her daughter to get off the trail, but her daughter was determined to continue. Tigress was a brown-haired, freckled, young woman in her mid-twenties with a distinctively innocent look about her. After chatting with them a bit she said emphatically, “Skywalker, will you please tell my parents I’ll be okay?”
“She looks like a lot safer bet than me,” I said. “Have you hiked much, Tigress?”
“Yes,” she emphasized. “I’m a wilderness therapist. I lead groups of recovering drug addicts on outdoor trips.” Her mother didn’t look convinced, but they had a tearful departure and Tigress headed off north alone.
I ran into Tigress again a night later at Cold Spring Shelter after trooping all day alone. Far from looking threatened or out of sorts, Tigress seemed to be having the time of her life in the company of her all-male retinue.
A jolly, confident, healthy-looking fella’ in his mid-twenties from Montana named Rooney was entertaining everyone at the shelter with his stories about his thru-hike the previous year.
“Skywalker, the shelter only holds six,” Rooney said when he saw me looking around for an open spot to put my sleeping bag. “You can have my spot.”
“That’s all right,” I responded, “I’ll just sleep at a right angle to all of you at the entrance to the shelter.” This was a group of folks I liked.
The humor took a turn to the bawdy side. I told an obligatory southern incest joke, and there was demand for more. The entertainer in me won out. What the hell . We were in the middle of nowhere, and they seemed to love them .
Captain Hook asked, “Is it really true, Skywalker,
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