3/31/17-Mile 152.8 Brown Fork Gap Shelter
Dear Andrew, Today I have been on the trail for a fortnight, and I’m mostly the same except now I casually drop the word “fortnight.” I think I’m starting to get my “trail legs,” which means my body has begrudgingly accepted that I’m going to make it do this shit every day. Hiking this trail has meant the insane dichotomy of being intimately in tune with my physical well-being (do I need food? Water? Sleep? Usually all three) while simultaneously ignoring the blaring red alarm that sounds with every step. It is shrill and high-pitched and sort of sounds like this: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS DID YOU KNOW YOU COULD DRIVE THIS DISTANCE IN 23 HOURS BUT YOU ARE WALKING FOR SIX MONTHS LIKE A DAMN FOOL ALSO I’M HUNGRY AND THIRSTY AND TIRED AND- But as loud as the alarm is, I still want to be here. I don’t think I can explain why, yet. This is a culture unlike any other I’ve ever known and the only unifying characteristic is that everyone is somewhat unfit for society. There are college dropouts who are too philosophical to choose a major (study PHILOSOPHY, I tell them), retired blue collar workers trying to reclaim their vitality, fathers reconnecting with sons, sons proving they’re different than their fathers, middle-aged mothers yearning for adventure, and of course, lots of fellow 20-somethings who can’t quite figure out why they exist, yet. It’s good company, but mostly it’s weird company. The strangest character I’ve met is a pot-bellied man with a tangled, filthy, gray-white beard who is usually so stoned his sentences do not make sense. He ties back his scraggly hair with a karate bandana and always wears blue scrubs-which has earned him the name “Papa Smurf.” He looks and acts like a Vietnam army nurse who defected and has been living in the jungle ever since, and also he only eats marshmallows. He hikes excruciatingly slow and yet inexplicably he has been sighted up and down and all over the trail-even after passing him I’ll find him a few days later, crouching on the side of the trail, tearing into his marshmallows like he’ll never eat again. Either Papa Smurf is teleporting, or a diet of weed and marshmallows is the secret to a successful thru-hike. Oh, also-I have a trail name! Everyone here sooner or later abandons their boring real person name (I have met an unseemly amount of Johns and Jakes) for a silly nickname that is born out of an identifying characteristic or story. Some of my friends go by names like Ice Pak, Stretch, Abstract, Shaggy, Oh Well, Lamb Chop, and Minnie Mouse. And then there’s me- Lobo. As you probably know, this is “wolf” in Spanish, which came out of a conversation in which I mentioned working at the wolf sanctuary and has stuck ever since. It is thrilling to have a new name at 23, and perhaps that is why being out here is so liberating-you can be whatever the hell you want to be. I am making friends whose real names I don’t know, and the best part is that doesn’t matter. Tomorrow I will hike into Fontana Dam, NC- the last stop before six days in the Smokies. It’s the highest elevation in the whole trail, which means snow is possible and cold is definite. But if Papa Smurf can do it, so can I. Love, Laura P.S.-That knee brace I picked up has been doing wonders!
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LettersThese are the letters that Laura has sent her brother over the course of her hike. They are faithfully and painstakingly transcribed in their entirety. They are meant to keep people updated on how many facts she has learned about trees. Archives
July 2017
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