Connected in Places

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aww ~ june 2, 2010

non-subject: a certain place

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I feel rusty writing tonight.  Sometimes I avoid entering the story. I don't know why that is.

When I was backpacking last week, when I was alone, I noticed that I felt separate from my body.

My physical body moved forward. It had to; there was no other way to get to the next road, to get to the next people. I so much enjoyed the people on the trail. I was a Southbounder; most backpackers are Northbounders on the Appalachian Trail.

I walked toward the spring right after Vandeventer Shelter, which is around 7 miles north of Watagua Lake Shelter, the spring I'd been told was a bitch to get to so I predetermined not to make the halfish-mile descent to the water.  As I approached the halfish-mile descent trailhead, a young woman sitting on the AT awaiting her backpacking buddies to bring up some thirst-quenching beverage, exclaimed, "Southbounder!"

My immediate feeling was that she thought it awesome to meet upon a Southbounder.

I had run into only one other Southbounder, Stairway; that's his trail name. I got the impression that Stairway is homeless and lives on the trails all year. He hiked Florida and Georgia in the winter months and now was hiking southbound from Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. Every month he gets a direct-deposit government check, not much but enough to sustain anyone on the trail.  Not a bad way to be homeless, if one has to be.  Stairway is a regular attendee at Rainbow Festivals around the US.  I'm not even sure what Rainbow Festivals are. I had thought they were gatherings for something to do with gay rights. Stairway shared that the gatherings are for artists, writers, and musicians and that Jerry Garcia had left the Rainbow people something like 23 million dollars to help fund them and carry on the tradition.

Stairway had a very Southern hillbilly-type accent and he talked a lot. He wore jeans and carried a Marlboro backpack with his guitar strapped on the outside. His below-shoulder length hair was disheveled and gray, with a beard to match.  A hippie right out of the 60's. When I met up with him, he talked almost non-stop; I just wanted to unload my pack and lay flat on the nearby picnic bench. So I did while I listened with interest to Stairway's stories including how much his government check was every month.

I had met Stairway some eleven miles north of the Vandeventer Shelter, back where the trail crossed State Route 421. He was standing in a gravel parking area with a picnic table beside a spring; a pipe allowed the flow of the crystal clear water from the ground. The gravel parking area was small, room for maybe two cars. Stairway was pondering thumbing a ride into Boone, about a 45-minute trip via vehicle, to buy some boots. He prefers hiking boots. I prefer hiking shoes.

After a 20-minute rest, I left Stairway back at 421 with a cordial thanks and farewell and maybe I'd see him again on the trail.

The folks I met up with at the Vandeventer watering hole were young adults, not hippies from the 60's. "Southbounder!"  The gal sure seemed excited.

Then she introduced me to a dog she called Cinjy. Cinjy had followed them 9 miles from Hampton, TN.  Since I was heading to Hampton, the gal wondered if I would mind taking Cinjy along with me, back to Hampton.

Cinjy. She looked like a herding dog. Short legs. Long hair like a collie except that it was reddish-brown, like the color of a dachshund. Friendly personality.

"Sure; I'd love the company." I had gotten lonely on the trail. "I just ate my last jerky. Do you have something I can coax her with?" The Northbounder willingly gave me some coaxing jerky.

She also gave me the phone number of Cinjy's owner, Mark.

The hikers had gotten Mark's name and number by calling the phone number on Cinjy's tag which connected to Cinjy's vet who gave them Cinjy's owner's number. The lady had talked to Mark but he didn't seem concerned; Cinjy regularly followed hikers.  But this group had been feeding her and now she was 9 miles from home.

Perhaps 18 miles is a short distance for a dog.

Cinjy, the trail dog. I wonder if anyone had given her a trail name. She could be "Wander Dog." "Wander" with an "a" instead of an "o."

Cinjy walked in front, looking back and stopping from time to time to wait for me. She liked to snap at bees.

Well, so much for entering the story and writing what I had in mind. I thought I was going to write about the first time I met Dr. Wierwille, the founder of The Way.  I've written it before; it was on my mind again today.

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