A Walk in the Woods

had not dropped out. Chicken John had it now--though I couldn't for the life of me recall
why. It had been months before, way back in Georgia, that I had first heard of him.
"So why do they call you Chicken John?" I asked.
"You know, I don't honestly know," he said as if he had been wondering that himself
for some time.
"When did you start your hike?"
"January 27th."
"January 27th?" I said in small astonishment and did a quick private calculation on my
fingers. "That's almost five months."
"Don't I know it," he said with a kind of happy ruefulness.
He had been walking for the better part of half a year, and he was still only three-
quarters of the way to Katahdin.
"What kind of"--I didn't know quite how to put this--"what kind of miles are you doing,
John?"
"Oh, 'bout fourteen or fifteen if all goes well. Trouble is"--he slid me a sheepish look--"I
get lost a lot."
That was it. Chicken John was forever losing the trail and ending up in the most
improbable places. Goodness knows how anyone could manage to lose the Appalachian
Trail. It is the most clearly defined, well-blazed footpath imaginable. Usually it is the only
thing in the woods that isn't woods. If you can distinguish between trees and a long open
corridor through the trees you will have no trouble finding your way along the AT. Where
there might be any doubt at all--where a side trail enters or where the AT crosses a road--
there are always blazes. Yet people do get lost. The famous Grandma Gatewood, for
instance, was forever knocking on doors and asking where the heck she was.
I asked him what was the most lost he had ever been.
"Thirty-seven miles," he said almost proudly. "I got off the trail on Blood Mountain in
Georgia--still don't know how exactly-- and spent three days in the woods before I came
to a highway. I thought I was a goner that time. I ended up in Tallulah Falls-- even got
my picture in the paper. The police gave me a ride back to the trail the next day, and
pointed me the right way. They were real nice."
"Is it true you once walked three days in the wrong direction?"
He nodded happily. "Two and a half days to be precise. Luckily, I came to a town on
the third day, and I said to a feller, 'Excuse me, young feller, where is this?' and he said,
'Why, it's Damascus, Virginia, sir,' and I thought, well, that's mighty strange because I
was in a place with the very same name just three days ago. And then I recognized the
fire station."
"How on earth do you-- " I decided to rephrase the question. "How does it happen,
John, exactly?"
"Well, if I knew that, I wouldn't do it, I suppose," he said with a kind of chuckle. "All I
know is that from time to time I end up a long way from where I want to be. But it makes
life interesting, you know. I've met a lot of nice people, had a lot of free meals. Excuse
me," he said abruptly, "you sure we're going the right way?"
"Positive."
He nodded. "I'd hate to get lost today. There's a restaurant in Dalton." I understood
this perfectly. If you're going to get lost, you don't want to do it on a restaurant day.