[at-l] AT Story in Boston Paper

[Snodrog5@aol.com]

Going the distance: Hikers chase a 2,150-mile dream
along the Appalachian Trail
09/02/98
By STEPHANIE SCHOROW
Comes a point, said the man known as "Goob," that you go from hiking
on the Appalachian Trail to living on the Appalachian Trail.
Somewhere between Springer Mountain in Georgia and Katahdin Peak
in Maine, your backpack melds with your body. Your soles turn as
tough as tire treads. The rhythm of walking becomes as ingrained as
breathing. You don't think about how much of the 2,150 miles is left --
only about the 10 more miles to do today.
"The trail throws everything at you to make you leave," said Goob, also
known as Kevin Breashear, a 35-year-old salesman from Peoria, Ill.
Despite his modified mohawk, Goob has the breezy geniality of a born
pitchman. He is a "through-hiker," one of the approximately 300 souls
who each year, for reasons even they cannot articulate, spend six
months hiking -- no, living -- on the trail.
Reveling in the cool air and good smells of last 8 miles. I'm absolutely
thrilled by the sounds of the wood thrush. I'm putting in a formal
request to be one in a future life. -- Nutbar
-- Trail register, October Mountain Shelter, south of Dalton, Mass.,
Aug. 12.
Cherished lore says the Appalachian Trail follows ancient Indian
footpaths. Actually, its configuration owes more to the imagination of
civil servant Benton MacKaye of Shirley, who first envisioned in 1921 a
14-state path through countryside and wilderness. By 1937, the trail
was in place, patched together by private and public entities. But not
until 1948 did one man -- the redoutable Earl Shaffer -- walk its entire
length in one season. This year, the 79-year-old is doing it again.
Every year, about 1,600 of the 3 million to 4 million people who hike the
trail attempt to emulate Shaffer. Only about 20 percent succeed. Most
through-hikers start in Georgia in March or April and head north,
hoping to reach Katahdin by Oct. 15. A small but growing minority
starts in Maine in spring and aims to reach Georgia by winter.
For a few weeks in August, the two groups cross paths along the 88.2
miles of the trail in western Massachusetts.
After a long hike I decide to soak my feet in the lovely Finerty pond.
Oh, it felt so good in the cold clear water until I noticed I had 2 1/2 inch
leech on top of my right foot. It took 3 swipes to dislodge the little
bloodsucker. So beware all you southbounders -- there are leeches in
them thar ponds.
October Mt. Shelter trail register, Aug. 12
It's been a hard day's hike and at the October Mountain Shelter,
southbounders One Pole, Hacksaw and Mountain Man and
northbounders Light Weight and Rooster are trading important trail
information. They speak of weather and steep sections. Places to get
cheap beer and powerfully big breakfasts. Who's still on the trail.
They talk about Earl Shaffer, the godfather of going on. Model T, the
64-year-old on his third hike -- he's videotaping his trek as his wife
won't let him do it again. There's 32 Flavors, the girl wonder who can do
30 miles in a day. The Family -- a woman and her five children ages 10
to 21 who are home-schooled on the move -- "They're kind of like the
Brady Bunch," hikers say.
Humans can live without TV news, radios, newspapers and the
Internet. They can live without hot showers and soft beds. But they
can't live without gossip. Rumors spread along the trail with a speed
that amazes observers. Word-of-mouth is supplemented by messages
scribbled in trail registers.
Gonna miss camping with you all tonight. I hope you all bathed before
Finerty Pond.
October Mountain, Aug. 12, Bugbite, Granny Low, 20/20
Appalachian Trail names -- and everyone gets one -- read like roll call at
the Rainbow Family: Rain Dog, Spinner Bait, Bones, Free Bird,
Tangerine, Three Poles, Outta Chocolate and Cuppajoe all passed
through Massachusetts this summer. The custom got started in the
early '80s; no one is really sure why. But colorful monikers are as
practical as they are lyrical. As Rebecca "Ripple" Patt, 21, of Atlanta,
explained, "The AT is a social thing. It's HARD to be alone." The
names are both introduction and memory devices; they bind hikers to
the AT tribe.
Long Distance Man (Tim Anderson of Winchester, Va.) was named by
his daughter when the 52-year-old former air traffic controller decided
to do the hike. Screamin' (Aaron Joseph, 20, of Ohio) got his from his
first-day enthusiasm. Doc (Bryan Beckwith, 26, of Marshfield)
performed the Heimlich maneuver on a friend choking on whiskey. And
Woog (Steve Knickerbocker, 29, of Philadelphia) got tagged when he
walked into a group thinking up the world's stupidest trail name.
The names "fit so well with the leveling effect of the trail. No names, no
occupation. Just a hiker," said Brian King, spokesman for the
Appalachian Trail Conference, which helps maintain the footpath.
Many actually are, in effect, just hikers. The AT attracts a tribe in
transition: graduated from college, retired, between jobs, chasing a
dream.
"Why am I doing this? I always wanted to do this. I'd wake up in the
middle of the night and a voice in my head was saying, 'This time next
year you gotta be on the trail,' " said Mitch "Guided by Voices"
Harden, 23, of Marietta, Ga. "So I saved up about $1,100 and I'm
running up the credit card."
Whatever the motivation, walking becomes a job, a day's hike is the
daily grind. Like any office, the trail has its own jargon. "Slackpacking"
means having someone transport your pack ahead. "Yellowblazing" is a
car ride. Hikers speak of "trail magic," the food, lifts or help that appear.
A Dalton man is renowned for feeding hikers gourmet ice cream
smothered with whipped cream and sprinkles.
Hikers never refuse food. Walking 14 to 25 miles a day, strapped to a
30- to 50-pound pack, most struggle to keep on weight. Long Distance
Man has gone from 190 to 170 pounds; Screamin' from 170 to 155. "I'm
afraid to weigh myself," he said.
Hiking the AT may seem a spiritual journey but, as Goob said, puffing
on a Camel, "It's not about health, it's about adventure." Many hikers
take up smoking. Some joke their bodies wouldn't rot due to the
preservatives ingested from so much freeze-dried food.
At night, bathed in the glow of white-gas stoves, the hikers talk less of
the meaning of life than where to find good burgers. Perhaps their great
quest is simply to finish what they started. Nathan "One Pole" Rogers
has no doubt he will: "You'd have to cut my legs off. And then I'd
probably still crawl."
 
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