Re: [at-l] Aliens Kidnap Listers from Damascus

[ATnavi@aol.com]

In a message dated 5/24/00 2:14:43 PM Eastern Daylight Time, 
DaRedhead@aol.com writes:
> Did the Florida contingent get kidnapped somewhere around Disney World??

As a matter of fact, YES! <G> Mom & Dad can be persistent sometimes. But now 
that I've emerged from the tourist-trap vortex, here's my take on Trail Days! 
:)
Cheers, Navigator

PS. Y'all should know that Sly & Cheryl are now on their way to the PCT!

TRAIL DAYS 2000
"Hi, Cowpie!"

A young New Zealand lady, hair in pigtails, skirt swishing, wandered up to 
the campfire to chat with her fellow thru-hikers. I'd done a double-take 
earlier in the day when I saw this guy walk by, but sure enough-- that's an 
honest-to-god cow pattie on a gold chain around his neck!

"Where'd you get it?" "Doesn't that stink?"

Just another afternoon on the AT -- at Trail Days. It's crowded this year, 
with hikers spilling out of the traditional campsites at Tent City and The 
Place, filling The Island, tents upwind behind the ever-expanding vendor 
area, along the Creeper Trail, behind cars, filling lawns.

Walking through town is an exercise in reunion. Walk two feet, meet someone, 
hug, swap stories. Arrive at destination too late for it to matter. Karmic 
Trail Magic-- thru-hikers offering cold beer and freshly grilled steaks to 
weekend visitors. Plenty of formal activities crowd the agenda, talks and 
slide shows galore, but so much time gets devoted talking to thru-hikers that 
the optional activities just slide on by.

Rain drives the usual activities into unusual forms. Hikers huddle under 
tarps to watch the slide shows. Torches flutter and sputter in the downpour 
over the drum circle. It doesn't rain on our parade -- just before and after. 
But the marchers seem less organized than former years, class ranks broken, a 
mass of hikers oozing down the avenue, sandwiched between the Shriners and 
the fire department. Only the hard-core hang out for the talent show, pounded 
into gloppy blobs by the pouring skies. All that is old is new again. Beorn. 
Warren Doyle. Baltimore Jack. The Traveling Bills -- clad in matching orange 
workshirts inscribed "Bill," and skirts straight from the Goodwill discard 
bin -- steal the show with a play on a Scottish standard. Pickle and 
Snail-no-More FINALLY find each other, laughing, lying back on the grass at 
The Place after the Big Ruck Photo.

TV crews, reporters, and videocams are omnipresent. Are hikers big news, or 
is Virginia that in need of amusement? 

Surrealism abounds. Take one dead groundhog, one goat dressed in dollar-store 
lingerie, and you get a REAL story out of Baltimore Jack....assorted ants, 
ticks, and spiders dance under the rainfly as rain patters down 
ceaselessly...one whiff of "Eau de Datto" throws off GMC's stride...a man in 
a silver cape stalks off down Main Street, seeking the parade, faux stun gun 
in hand...a long line of hikers queues up, tempted by offers of 
backrubs..."Well, there goes MY innocence," says Cheerio, as Datto, Solar 
Bear, and I discuss what KC said she does for a living...a reporter attempts 
to film us, surreptitiously, at breakfast, as we gather in the aisle for a 
group picture...Pittsburgh and Warren Doyle engage in small talk...Coosa 
isn't anything like I pictured her, but Ryan is right on target...awaken at 3 
AM to the kazoos, drums, and hums of the Damascus Marching Band, a contingent 
of happily drunken hikers staggering around the island...hole up with 
RamBunny in the smoking lounge and discuss how life is like a river, 
ever-changing.

Quiet moments, as well. The still of the night air, the patter of rain on the 
tent, river racing 'round us, murmuring in the darkness. Walking the Creeper 
Trail in the early morning mist. Dusk turning to night. Falling asleep to the 
beat of the island drums.

Damascus. Different. The same.
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