[at-l] Hiker Story, continued---

[lbooher at pure.net (Leslie Booher)]

      Postscript: Theft at a shelter. . . and its aftermath 
      news@TimesRecord.Com 
      12/31/2004 
      Hiking the Appalachian Trail
      By Sarah Holt, Times Record Contributor

      On July 25, I walked off the Appalachian Trail into William Brien Memorial Shelter, just south of Bear Mountain, N.Y. There was plenty of room in the shelter. Only one guy had laid out his sleeping bag. Still, it was going to be a clear night, so fellow northbound hikers Buckeye, Big Stick, Erik, Dave and I all decided to tent.

      The stranger in the shelter insisted that my buddies and I sleep in the shelter with him.

      "There's plenty of room! Look, there's even bunks!" he kept saying.

      I assumed he was hiking a section of the Appalachian Trail; he wore jeans and a cotton T-shirt, not the lightweight hiking clothing of a thru-hiker. But I'd made up my mind, and the stars were coming out. I went about setting up my Tarptent. Big Stick, Buckeye and I hung our food bags in the shelter, above the reach of rodents. We didn't socialize much because the section-hiker was bedding down for the night.

      The next morning, I broke down my tent, packed my pack and went to retrieve my food bag. It was gone. So was the section-hiker.

            We invite our readers to join former Times Record reporter Sarah Holt on a 10-day series of articles recounting her adventures during a six-month, 2,174-mile hike along the Appalachian Trail. Look for each day's installment. 
      At first I was confused. Hikers can almost always trust other hikers. You're all sharing an adventure and commiserating together. No distance-hiker steals another's gear.

      Also, there's little chance of switching gear. A distance-hiker knows every item on his or her back. It's not like the guy could have fumbled around in the early morning dark and taken the wrong bag by accident.

      He didn't leave a bag, so I knew it was no mistake.

      The thief was heading south. He'd grabbed my bag, left my friends' bags alone and split. I concluded he must have been pretty hungry to steal what I had, some leftover pitas and a knawed-on hunk of cheese. Maybe he was even some kind of "homeless" dude temporarily living on the trail.

      Two days' worth of food was no big loss for me, especially since I was resupplying at Bear Mountain, but I always hung up anything with a scent: cook pot, alcohol stove, titanium spork, toothbrush, toothpaste, vitamins, Leatherman knife, Camp Suds, Buzz Off. Everything had disappeared with the food.

      What a bummer! Like most of my friends I was hiking on a budget, and now I'd have to replace all that stuff.

      Plus, Bear Mountain was a park headquarters, not a town. It would be a while - probably until Kent, Conn., - before I could get to an outfitter.

      Meanwhile, others jumped to help. Big Stick let me eat his oatmeal, out of his pot, with his utensil. He also generously handed over half his multi-vitamins, a Pop tart, and three Snickers bars - enough to get me to Bear Mountain that day.

      In Bear Mountain, Erik called his dad in Massachusetts to priority-mail an extra alcohol stove to Kent for me. The Bear Mountain P.O. lady took pity on me and let me call home to ask my dad to send me another little knife. Then she made me popcorn and poured me a glass of orange juice.

      I thought to myself, "The loss is bad ... but look at all the good coming out of it."

      Fast-forward to Aug. 21, the day I followed the Appalachian Trail into Hanover, N.H. I had long since replaced all necessities. I'd also e-mailed friends, describing the petty theft and the outpouring of generosity in its wake. It was all in the past, anyway. I was moving on!

      In Hanover, I checked e-mail at the Dartmouth Outing Club. Mary Parry, a trail angel from Duncannon, Pa., whom I'd added to my mailing list, had sent me a message. 

      "Go to the post office in Hanover," it read. "It's very important."

      Good timing! How did Mary know when I would reach Hanover?

      I walked to the post office. Two things awaited me there. The first was a huge - and I do mean huge - cardboard box. It contained about 30 pounds of hiker food: pop tarts, fruit roll-ups, mac-and-cheese dinners, instant coffee, cocoa, Ramen noodles, Lipton dinners.

      The second thing was a large envelope. It contained my old cook pot, stove, and Leatherman. And a letter.

      I opened the letter. It was from the hiker who stole my food bag.

      "I won't try to justify, explain or rationalize what I did," it read. "I just want to apologize to you for what I now know was wrong of me ..."

      The sender had made it all the way down to Duncannon, Pa., carrying my stuff.

      Somewhere along the line, he did a spiritual 180. He confessed what he'd done to another southbound hiker. That hiker got ahead and happened to mention it to Mary in Duncannon. When the regretful thief reached her town, Mary offered to help him redeem himself.

      From my e-mails, she knew the stolen food bag was mine. (The thief had no idea whose bag he had stolen; we'd barely exchanged words at William Brien Shelter.)

      The two worked out a plan. The hiker scrubbed Mary's apartment clean to earn the food to send me. Mary guessed when I would arrive in Hanover from the course of my occasional e-mails. They bought food and packaged it up alongside the relinquished items, and mailed it to Hanover. Mary just happened to have emailed me the day before I arrived there.

      There was so much food I was able to give plenty to Big Stick, who had shared his food with me when I needed it. There was more left over, too, for other hikers around me: Sunshine, Gaia, SkiBum. This was awesome!

      Some say there are no coincidences.

      I don't know.

      Either way, it makes a great story, so I forgave the guy.

      His new trail name is Saved.