Fuzzy Wuzzy

As the childhood rhyme goes:

"Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear.
Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't fuzzy was he?"

That twist of the tongue was an inseparable companion to my very own stuffed Fuzzy Wuzzy. It was an odd pairing indeed, because if you knew Fuzzy like I did you would know that he was fuzzed, and fuzzy he was. Brown fuzz in fact. Now that I think of it, the misappropriation might not end there as I'm not entirely sure that Fuzzy was a bear. It's quite possible he was a rodent of some kind. Regardless, Fuzzy was my bear-rodent, and the jingle stuck all the same.

Recently I rediscovered my childhood friend in the Shenandoahs. It takes some misappropriation and an ounce of imagination, but just replace brown fuzz with black, stuffed for real, and whittle down bear-rodent to just plain bear. Yes, you are left with a black bear.

My first day in Shenandoah National Park was warm. In the heat of the afternoon the trail was winding through some mountain laurel thickets lined with blueberry bushes. A rustle off to my right caught my attention, but I ignored it as another foraging squirrel. The rustling persisted, and I soon realized whatever it was was much larger than a squirrel. Looking over I saw the upper profile of a bear's back and ear only ten paces away, rising just taller than the laurel bushes. I stood quietly and watched. As I did, one ear became two as the head turned toward me to investigate. After sizing me up the two ears soon merged back to one and the bear slowly sauntered off, disinterested in my presence. Had I not known that I would be seeing Tera the next day, I would have positioned for a picture; I thought more than twice about it. But reason prevailed, and I didn't want to make my first Appalachian bear encounter an unpleasant one, and risk spoiling my reunion with Tera.

The next day I rose early to get to the campground where I would be joining Tera. Not five minutes after leaving the shelter I stopped in my tracks. The trail gently curved to the right and about 25 yards ahead was the backside of a bear. I stealthily took out the camera, and while setting up for the picture the bear looked at me, paused, and quickly saught cover in the bushes. By the time the shutter clicked, the bear's headquarters were all that were documented.

Day three in Shenandoah was my first day hiking with Tera. I had told her of my recent bear encounters and hoped another would soon arrive. The morning passed with nothing but a rattlesnake. Then, fifteen minutes from our stopping point, we spotted two cubs playing, chasing each other through the woods. As one climbed a tree, I again took out my camera. While the picture isn't quite in focus and you have to zoom in to discern its features, I got my first picture of a bear. Not knowing where momma bear was I didn't stick around for a better one.

If the Shenandoahs keep providing run-ins with bears, I'm hopeful that a better picture is yet to come. I'm sure Fuzzy Wuzzy would have warm fuzzies all over because of it.

Two is Company

It's been two days now that I've been hiking solo. For the past few weeks I've been hiking with a brother and sister from Ohio, and another hiker from North Carolina. We've had fun together, but agendas don't always match, and it came time for me to move on in order to put in some longer days.

The good news is that not all goodbyes are permanent. I don't know when or if I'll see any of my recent hiking partners again, but I do know something better. The goodbye that Tera and I exchanged at Springer Mountain is almost expired, and on Sunday it will only be a memory.

Amidst a busy season at work, Tera has spent the last few days, even weeks, prepping for our hello. That's because this time it's not going to be just a weekend in Hot Springs like back at Easter, but two weeks of hiking ... together. No more waiting for cell reception on a ridge to say, "Hi." No more goodnight texts. No more eating meals alone.

So just like I did in late March, Tera is now checking to make sure she has all she needs, and arranging it all in her pack to make sure it fits. She's even done some walking with a weighted pack to break in her legs and her new shoes. And that's in addition to all of the trail support she has continually offered me.

All that preparation will help us hike together for two weeks, and I'm looking forward to it. A lot. It will have been almost two months since I left, with one all too short weekend in between. There's a lot for each of us to catch up on, and a lot for Tera to learn about life on the Appalachian Trail. I'm eagerly anticipating Sunday, and in the meantime am doing my own preparation: hiking some longer days to get to our meeting spot on time.

I can't wait. It'll be a new chapter to my trail hike, and likely one of the best.

Valleys and Shadows

Valleys and mountains are inseparable, and the Appalachian Trail has plenty of each. As often as you enjoy the views and open sky from a mountain's summit, you also walk through ravines, gulleys, hollows, and valleys, some of which struggle to see sunlight. The social side of the trail also has its peaks and valleys, and yes, a few of its social ravines are cast in shadow.

Take, for example, the life of Nick Grindstaff. He traveled west to win his fortune but was robbed of all his money and beaten along the way. He then returned to Iron Mountain, found along the AT, becoming one of the region's most famous hermits. A chimney-like monument now stands near where he dwelt, made out of the stone from his cabin. His epitaph reads, "Lived alone, suffered alone, and died alone." Aside from the irony of the memorial, it doesn't take long to take pity on the man who chose such a lonely life. In fact, it's hard to imagine him being anything but miserable, to one degree or another.

I also stumbled across an abandoned, half-collapsed tarp shelter tucked away in a thicket of rhododendron. Though nearly hidden from view, I spotted it while fetching water in a nearby stream. Taking a closer look there were old propane tanks strewn about, one still attached to a rusted heater. Sleeping bags also littered the ground, suggesting perhaps that a family tried to find shelter here in the cold of winter. While it's hard to know why the tarp shelter was built or who lived there, it doesn't seem like a stretch to assume that the story around it would be marked by brokeness.

That's not to say the shadow side of the AT is isolated to things past. Day to day, the prevalence of drugs on the trail is at times disturbing, though not surprising. Marijuana is as common as cigarettes, although neither seem to lend themselves toward hiking 2,000 miles. There are older hikers who have never fully let go of their 60's experience, in part reliving that era on the trail. There are also young hikers trying to recreate the "hippie" lifestyle, though I am skeptical that they really understand it as anything more than "free" sex and drugs.

I wish marijuana was the extent of AT drug culture as it's easy to ignore and it's users are typically laid back and easy going. Meth also has a presence on the trail, with rumors of nearby labs tossed about every now and again. The most conspicuous situation I experienced involved meeting two hikers who made me incredibly uneasy. Their dilated pupils were distracting, their mannerisms were abrupt and seemed uncontrolled, and they were barely able to carry on a conversation without offending. I soon found out they were strung out on coke that day, and that is likely just the tip of the iceberg.

A while back I stopped at Standing Bear Farm to resupply and get out of the rain. It didn't take long to realize that a variety product was being moved and sold out of the back of the main house. I suspect that's common at a number of the hiker-oriented hostels.

It's hard to mention drugs without giving a nod to alcohol. Because of its weight, drinking tends to remain in the towns, but it is still part of AT culture nonetheless. Some hike just to get to the next town and have a drink, usually more. Others carry Evan Williams or some other bottom-shelf liquor because the towns don't come quickly enough. Many of the shelters near road crossings and towns have a vibrant night life, and there has been more than one hiker who has found his tent not to be vomit proof, the next day discovering that hiking with a hangover is quite miserable.

All that to say, with all the good that the trail offers, it also has known a dark history and hosts some culture that I would imagine Benton MacKaye never anticipating in his original vision for the trail. Where there are mountains there are valleys, and it is a rare valley that is without shadow.