Backpacker

At the moment, around 10 p.m. on a steamy night in May, as hundreds of ATaficionados are gathered a few miles from the trail at a sprawling campground intiny Damascus, Virginia, Disney is stalking a winding path and towing a boombox that blares electric through the nearby scrub pines. “I’m sexy and I know it,”come the lyrics above a pulsing techno beat. A high, gleeful wail of synthesizersensues, and Disney responds with a sinuous swirl of his midriff. He’s not svelte,certainly, but he is peacock proud. And he’s not alone. Behind him in a looseconga line are two dozen other revelers, each one bearing a bright-green glowstick necklace and a plastic cup of cheap beer, each one mouthing the lyrics ofLMFAO’s 2011 hit.``````I got passion in my pantsAnd I ain’t afraid to show it(show it, show it, show it).``````The line snakes its way into the crowd, injecting its energy into the alreadyraucous scene. This is Trail Days, a yearly coming together of the hiker tribe forfour days of fun. The festival draws thousands of trail lovers and boosters—fromnewbie dayhikers to grizzled Triple Crowners, from gear companies to thismagazine—to the southern Virginia burg for clinics, gear repair and prizes, andmusic. Attendees divide up by allegiance, joining one of the long-established“camps” or, for the unaffiliated, setting up in Tent City. By day—and especially bynight—it’s the biggest party on any trail.Disney represents the faction that comes here to go harder than anyone else.He’s part of a crew called Riff Raff, a loose contingent of 80 or so hikers whodo Trail Days with uncommon verve. Riff Raff is a rowdy bunch, established11 years ago and roughly 75 percent male. Members gather en masse but oncea year, at Trail Days, and they subject their novitiates to a formalized initiationrite. Each worthy Riff Raffer is inducted at a “shirting” ceremony, at which he isbestowed a T-shirt, usually black, with the group’s insignia: a skull in a cowboyhat looming above a crossed set of trekking poles.The AT has always been the social trail of the Triple Crown. Town, pizza, andbeer are never far away. Shelters encourage hikers to camp in groups, and groupsencourage more socializing. Historically, drinking and pot smoking have beenmild phenomena on the trail, easily sidestepped by purists aiming to be at onewith a trickling creek. But today, Riff Raff ’s brethren are not easily avoided.Long-haul foot traffic on the trail has doubled since 2010, now including 4,000aspiring thru-hikers each year, many of them young and unburdened by conven-tional views of the backcountry experience. And there has been a culture clash.David Miller, the author of The A.T. Guide, notes that, since 2015, nine trailsidehostels and hotels have asked to be removed from his book. Many trail towns,Damascus included, prohibit hikers from pitching tents within city limits. Theoutcry from trail purists is mounting.Ben Montgomery, author of Grandma Gatewood’s Walk, remembers stand-``````ing near the summit of Katahdin in 2012 and watchingfour twentysomething thru-hikers celebrate the finaleof their northbound AT journey by tromping arm-in-arm through a meadow of endangered Bigelow’s sedge.“They just didn’t give a shit,” Montgomery says. “If youhave 4,000 people like that on the trail every year, themagic of the AT will die.”This angst about changing trail culture seems to bedirected with particular vehemence at Riff Raff. Thegroup has been described as an outlaw hiker gang, morelike the Hell’s Angels than the Sierra Club.But if Disney is supposed to be terrorizing the otherhikers at Trail Days, proclaiming his sexiness does notappear to be doing the trick. Indeed, during his stay atthe festival, he will outlay some $400 buying beers forfriends and strangers. And as he wends through thewoods in Damascus, he is hailed and adored by RiffRaff ’s counterparts—by the salty old hippies of Billvilleand by the crystal-healing, velvet-clad romantics ofWonderland camp. These folks, too, have vast quanti-ties of beer laid in like cordwood against an Alaskanwinter, and they rise and wobble away from their camp-fire and join Disney in dancing. They writhe and twistawkwardly in hiking boots, ragged shorts, and ash-begrimed T-shirts. Disney grins.When Benton MacKaye, the AT’s founder, first pro-posed “an Appalachian Trail” in a 1921 essay bearingthat name, he famously envisioned a “wooded wilder-ness” retaining “much of the primal aspects of the daysof Daniel Boone.” But “community” was always partof his scheme. MacKaye imagined a trail that wouldconnect a network of farms and camps where city dwell-ers could gather to unwind.The trail and its users have of course evolved in manyways in the decades since, but one thing is clear: The AThas attracted legions of fans, many of whom have strongfeelings about what is “good” or “bad” for the trail. ToDisney’s people, “Sexy and I Know It” is the sound ofprogress, of good humans finding bliss in the wilds. Asthey see it, MacKaye wanted a party in the woods.IN THE EARLY 1980s, when long-distancewalking first became popular, AT thru-hikersrelied on an underground booklet called “ThePhilosopher’s Guide.” The 1983 edition was printed inpurple, on a mimeograph, and contained insights on,for example, the best trail snack food (Parkay marga-rine). The tone of The Guide is insidery and knowing.Reading it, one gets the sense that if serious partyingwas a thing back then, The Guide would have linked upa pub crawl of backwoods watering holes.But drinking is scarcely mentioned, and the bookactually tells readers to celebrate the completion ofa thru-hike by swimming in a Maine lake, calling it“a perfect place for some soul-searching ... a perfectplace to feel the tinge of melancholy.” Andrew Downs,Virginia regional director for the Appalachian TrailConservancy, says, “There was partying on the trail inthe ’80s’ and ’90s, sure, but it was contained and self-policed. If you left trash, other hikers would call you out.In the past decade or so, there’s been a shift, aided bysocial media, into a mob mentality.”“Cell phones and improved coverage allow hikers tobetter locate their cohorts and coordinate their partyplans,” Dave Miller says. “I recall one hiker telling methat he was working on an app specifically for this64 10.2017CHARLES CHESNUTTLEADS A DOUBLE LIFE.In one, he works as a costumedhistorical guide on a cruise ship plyingthe Mississippi through the Big Easy.He’s 37, bearded, and used to be alawyer, which becomes clear wheneverhe opens his mouth. But in this crowd,Charles Chestnutt is Disney, has beenever since he hiked the length of theAppalachian Trail in 2005. And Disney isa fun-loving guy.