Read Online AWOL on the Appalachian Trail by David Miller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Miller
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like clouds.
I am worn from the effort of covering sixty-seven miles in three days since leaving Hot Springs. Over these days, other than at the shelter last night, I've seen more bears than hikers. I look forward to rest and the company of people in the town below.
Near the trailhead there is a bunkhouse and a small store. The place is called Uncle Johnny's Nolichucky Hostel, run by a man of the same name. A few miles into town, Miss Janet runs a hostel. Word has spread among hikers that the competition between these hostels has gotten ugly. I had planned to stay at Miss Janet's. Her listing says to "call from the trailhead" to get a ride into town. The pay phone at the trailhead is on the porch of Uncle Johnny's.
Last year a hiker calling Miss Janet from this phone was chased away by Uncle Johnny. One guidebook removed a reference to Uncle Johnny's Hostel on account of complaints from hikers. So I sheepishly try calling Miss Janet from Uncle Johnny's phone and get an answering machine. I loiter a while and try calling again. No one is there. I start the walk into Erwin, sticking my thumb out whenever a car passes. I need to get out to the highway, walk a few miles up to the next exit, and find my way through town to Miss Janet's. I make it to the highway by the time a van stops for me. There's a sign on the side of the van: "Uncle Johnny's Hostel." The driver is Uncle Johnny himself. Before getting in I come clean: "I'm going to Miss Janet's Hostel."
"That's okay, get in. I won't take you to her doorstep, but I'll get you close." Uncle Johnny's tone is repentant. His business has been damaged by the guidebook omission and by negativity coursing through the hiker grapevine. I am the beneficiary of his contrition as he strives to get back into the collective good graces of thru-hikers. Still, he drops me off at a gas station near the highway. It's more of a walk across town than I want to make this late in the day. By now I've learned that jaunts made in cars are deceptively far on foot. Possibly drivers assume that hikers don't mind trivial walks. If you walk twenty-seven miles in a day, a few more blocks should make little difference. Not so. All off-trail mileage is anathema.
A young man in a pickup pulls up to a gas pump just before I start walking. Pickups are ideal rides since I can throw my smelly pack (and self) in the back.
"Do you know how to get to the Sonic drive-thru?" Uncle Johnny had told me directions to Miss Janet's, the last part of which was to go one block behind the Sonic. I'm asking for information that I already know, but there is a point to this.
"Go up to the light and turn right, then it's up the road, on your left."
"How far do I go after I turn right?" I choreograph this question with a move to sling my pack on my back, wilting under the weight and the prospect of a long cross-town walk.
"Do you want a ride?"
Finally he catches on.
Unlike any other hostel I would see on the trail, Miss Janet's is on a street in town among other homes. It is a framed house with wood siding, a picketed front porch, and a crawl space below. It is locked, no one is home, and a sign on the door says that they've gone to Damascus for Trail Days. My mail drop is inside.
I walk over to an eclectic Mexican restaurant, Erwin Burrito, and eat a burrito the size of a small dog while listening to a soundtrack of Johnny Cash singing covers of Depeche Mode and Nine Inch Nails. I consider my options. It's been a long day, and it's still light outside. I'm eager to see other hikers; maybe I could take a zero tomorrow and stay with the crowd at Miss Janet's when they return tomorrow night. I could resupply and get cleaned up. But before buying anything, I want to see what's in my package.
Back at Miss Janet's, I walk around the place, looking for a way in, trying not to look like a criminal. I climb through an open window into a bedroom. The bedroom has been converted into a bunkroom, with a pair of bunk beds fashioned
I am worn from the effort of covering sixty-seven miles in three days since leaving Hot Springs. Over these days, other than at the shelter last night, I've seen more bears than hikers. I look forward to rest and the company of people in the town below.
Near the trailhead there is a bunkhouse and a small store. The place is called Uncle Johnny's Nolichucky Hostel, run by a man of the same name. A few miles into town, Miss Janet runs a hostel. Word has spread among hikers that the competition between these hostels has gotten ugly. I had planned to stay at Miss Janet's. Her listing says to "call from the trailhead" to get a ride into town. The pay phone at the trailhead is on the porch of Uncle Johnny's.
Last year a hiker calling Miss Janet from this phone was chased away by Uncle Johnny. One guidebook removed a reference to Uncle Johnny's Hostel on account of complaints from hikers. So I sheepishly try calling Miss Janet from Uncle Johnny's phone and get an answering machine. I loiter a while and try calling again. No one is there. I start the walk into Erwin, sticking my thumb out whenever a car passes. I need to get out to the highway, walk a few miles up to the next exit, and find my way through town to Miss Janet's. I make it to the highway by the time a van stops for me. There's a sign on the side of the van: "Uncle Johnny's Hostel." The driver is Uncle Johnny himself. Before getting in I come clean: "I'm going to Miss Janet's Hostel."
"That's okay, get in. I won't take you to her doorstep, but I'll get you close." Uncle Johnny's tone is repentant. His business has been damaged by the guidebook omission and by negativity coursing through the hiker grapevine. I am the beneficiary of his contrition as he strives to get back into the collective good graces of thru-hikers. Still, he drops me off at a gas station near the highway. It's more of a walk across town than I want to make this late in the day. By now I've learned that jaunts made in cars are deceptively far on foot. Possibly drivers assume that hikers don't mind trivial walks. If you walk twenty-seven miles in a day, a few more blocks should make little difference. Not so. All off-trail mileage is anathema.
A young man in a pickup pulls up to a gas pump just before I start walking. Pickups are ideal rides since I can throw my smelly pack (and self) in the back.
"Do you know how to get to the Sonic drive-thru?" Uncle Johnny had told me directions to Miss Janet's, the last part of which was to go one block behind the Sonic. I'm asking for information that I already know, but there is a point to this.
"Go up to the light and turn right, then it's up the road, on your left."
"How far do I go after I turn right?" I choreograph this question with a move to sling my pack on my back, wilting under the weight and the prospect of a long cross-town walk.
"Do you want a ride?"
Finally he catches on.
Unlike any other hostel I would see on the trail, Miss Janet's is on a street in town among other homes. It is a framed house with wood siding, a picketed front porch, and a crawl space below. It is locked, no one is home, and a sign on the door says that they've gone to Damascus for Trail Days. My mail drop is inside.
I walk over to an eclectic Mexican restaurant, Erwin Burrito, and eat a burrito the size of a small dog while listening to a soundtrack of Johnny Cash singing covers of Depeche Mode and Nine Inch Nails. I consider my options. It's been a long day, and it's still light outside. I'm eager to see other hikers; maybe I could take a zero tomorrow and stay with the crowd at Miss Janet's when they return tomorrow night. I could resupply and get cleaned up. But before buying anything, I want to see what's in my package.
Back at Miss Janet's, I walk around the place, looking for a way in, trying not to look like a criminal. I climb through an open window into a bedroom. The bedroom has been converted into a bunkroom, with a pair of bunk beds fashioned
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