Becoming Odyssa - Jennifer Pharr Davis [74]
13
DIVERSITY
US 522 (FRONT ROYAL), VA, TO
PEN MAR PARK, MD/PA—95 MILES
The transition from rural Virginia to the mid-Atlantic is drastic. The trail continues to level out as the roads, attractions, and amenities increase. After hundreds of miles of remote farmland, this stretch feels overstimulating, but the historical landmarks that line the trail are a welcome addition. For close to one hundred miles, the trail feels more like an outdoor museum than a long-distance foot path as the land tells of the great triumphs and tragedies of American history.
I already had a bias against most weekenders, but after my night at Manassas Gap Shelter, I decided I didn’t like section-hikers much either.
A common piece of advice on the trail is “trust your instincts.” I heard people talk about instincts concerning weather, animals, and ability, but I thought the most important time to trust your instincts was with people. And although my mood was already tainted after parting ways with the boys and Magic Momma, my gut clearly said that I was not going to like the couple I met at Manassas Gap Shelter that evening.
As I approached, they were so wrapped up in themselves that they barely acknowledged my presence.
“Hey there,” I said.
The man just turned and nodded his head.
“Are you two thru-hiking?” I asked.
“No, we’re section-hiking,” he replied gruffly.
A section-hiker, by definition, is only doing a portion of the trail. They may piece together all the sections to eventually complete the entire trail, but usually they just fall into a strange purgatory of doing more than weekenders but less than thru-hikers.
It seemed to me that, as a thru-hiker, I should be able to pull rank over a weekender or section-hiker. But I was discovering that the weekenders and section-hikers thought they were just as important as me, if not more so.
For example, the couple I met tonight—on this, their second night out—decided to tell me that I was doing everything wrong. They criticized my gear, my miles, and my diet. Granted, that last one might have been deserved.
“Is that your hiking stick?” the woman asked in a condescending tone, pointing to my mop stick.
“Sure is,” I said. “It cost three dollars and it’s made it almost two hundred and fifty miles so far.”
“Well, I doubt it provides much support,” said the man.
“Actually, it’s great. You should try one sometime.”
“And you wear an external-frame pack?” asked the woman.
“Looks like I do.” I was beginning to feel less polite.
“Why are you wearing running shoes?”
“Because boots are too heavy and they hold in moisture.”
“Boots are better for ankle support.”
“Yeah, but they’re not designed for thirty-mile days.”
“You’re doing thirty-mile days?” she asked with surprise in her voice.
I knew that would impress her. “Yup,” I said proudly.
“That’s stupid! There’s no way you’ll make it to Maine doing thirty-miles days.”
“Well, I made it through Virginia doing them—and I liked it.”
“What do you eat, then?”
“Snack foods, mostly. Peanut butter and jelly, cheese, salami, Nutella, trail mix, granola—basically anything.”
“Yeah, but what do you cook for dinner?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t cook?”
“Nope. Don’t like doing dishes.” I said this as they were wiping down their dishware to prepare for supper.
I would have been less annoyed with the section-hikers if they’d been doing it right. I mean, at least I knew what I was doing wrong. I realized that my gear was old and far from top-of-the-line, and that my diet could have been healthier, but that said, I had still hiked a thousand miles. These two were on their second night, and they were carrying a bear canister. Who carries a bear canister?
It was the first one that I had ever seen, but I immediately knew what it was. Its barrel shape and high-tech, indestructible material designed to keep bears from eating the food stored inside made it unmistakable. No one on the AT carried a bear canister. Everyone hung their food from trees or from the bear cables near the shelters. If you carry a bear canister on the AT, you might as well