A Walk in the Woods

enthralling. The interior was dark and leaky, with a mud floor like chocolate pudding, a
cramped and filthy sleeping platform, and scraps of wet litter everywhere. Water ran
down the inside of the walls and trickled into pools on the sleeping ledge. Outside there
was no picnic table, as at most other shelters, and no privy. Even by the austere
standards of the Appalachian Trail, this was grim. But at least we had it to ourselves.
Like most AT shelters, it had an open front (I never really understood the thinking
behind this--what principle of design or maintenance necessitated leaving one whole side,
and all the occupants, open to the elements?), but this one was covered with a modern
chain-link fence. A sign on the fence said: "BEARS ARE ACTIVE IN THIS AREA. DO NOT
LEAVE DOOR OPEN." Interested to see just how active, I had a look at the shelter register
while Katz boiled water for noodles. Every shelter has a register in which visitors make
diarylike entries on the weather, the trail conditions, or their state of mind, if any, and
note any unusual occurrences. This one mentioned only a couple of odd bearlike noises
outside in the night, but what really caught the attention of the shelter's chroniclers was
the unusual liveliness of its resident mice and even rats.
From the moment--the moment--we put our heads down that night there were the
scurryings and scamperings of rodents. They were absolutely fearless and ran freely over
our bags and even across our heads. Cursing furiously, Katz banged around at them with
his water bottle and whatever else came to hand. Once I turned on my headlamp to find
a packmouse on top of my sleeping bag, high up on my chest, not six inches from my
chin, sitting up on its haunches and regarding me with a gimlet eye. Reflexively, I hit the
bag from inside, flipping him into a startled oblivion.
"Got one!" cried Katz.
"Me, too," I said, rather proudly.
Katz was scrabbling around on his hands and knees, as if trying to pass for a mouse
himself, enlivening the dark with a flying flashlight beam and pausing from time to time to
hurl a boot or bang down his water bottle. Then he would crawl back in his bag, be still
for a time, curse abruptly, fling off encumbrances, and repeat the process. I buried myself
in my bag and pulled the drawstring tight over my head. And thus passed the night, with
repeated sequences of Katz being violent, followed by silence, followed by scamperings,
followed by Katz being violent. I slept surprisingly well, all things considered.
I expected Katz to wake in a foul temper, but in fact he was chipper.
"There's nothing like a good night's sleep and that was nothing like a good night's
sleep," he announced when he stirred, and gave an appreciative guffaw. His happiness, it
turned out, was because he had killed seven mice and was feeling very proud--not to say
pumped up and gladiatorial. Some fur and a nubbin of something pink and pulpy still
adhered to the bottom of his water bottle, I noticed when he raised it to his lips.
Occasionally it troubled me (I presume it must trouble all hikers from time to time) just
how far one strays from the normal measures of civility on the trail. This was such a
moment.
Outside, fog was stealing in, filling the spaces between the trees. It was not an
encouraging morning. A drizzle hung in the air when we set off, and before long it had
turned into a steady, merciless, deadfall rain.
Rain spoils everything. There is no pleasure in walking in waterproofs. There is
something deeply dispiriting about the stiff rustle of nylon and the endless, curiously