amplified patter of rain on synthetic material. Worst of all, you don't even stay dry; the
waterproofs keep out the rain but make you sweat so much that soon you are clammily
sodden. By afternoon, the trail was a running stream. My boots gave up the will to stay
dry. I was soaked through and squelching with every step. It rains up to 120 inches a
year in some parts of the Smokies. That's ten feet. That's a lot of rain. We had a lot of it
now.
We walked 9.7 miles to Spence Field Shelter, a modest distance even for us, but we
were wet through and chilled, and anyway it was too far to hike to the next one. The Park
Service (why does this seem so inevitable?) imposes a host of petty, inflexible,
exasperating rules on AT hikers, among them that you must move smartly forward at all
times, never stray from the trail, and camp each night at a shelter. It means effectively
not only that you must walk a prescribed distance each day but then spend the night
penned up with strangers. We peeled off the worst of our wet clothes and rooted for dry
ones in our packs, but even stuff from deep in the pack felt damp. There was a stone
fireplace built into the shelter wall, and some kindly soul had left a pile of twigs and small
logs by the side. Katz tried to light a fire, but everything was so wet that it wouldn't burn.
Even his matches wouldn't strike. Katz exhaled in disgust and gave up. I decided to make
some coffee, to warm us up, and the stove proved equally temperamental.
As I fiddled with it, there was the singing rustle of nylon from without and two young
women entered, blinking and bedraggled. They were from Boston and had hiked in on a
side trail from Cades Cove. A minute or two later, four guys on spring break from Wake
Forest University came in, then a lone young hiker who proved to be our acquaintance
Jonathan, and finally a couple of bearded middle-aged guys. After four or five days in
which we had seen scarcely a soul, suddenly we were inundated with company.
Everyone was considerate and friendly, but there was no escaping the conclusion that
we were hopelessly overcrowded. It occurred to me, not for the first time, how delightful,
how truly delightful, it would be if MacKaye's original vision had been realized--if the
shelters along the trail were proper hostels, with hot showers, individual bunks (with
curtains for privacy and reading lights, please), and a resident caretaker/cook to keep a
cheery fire dancing in the grate and who would invite us, any minute now, to take our
places at a long table for a dinner of stew and dumplings, corn bread, and, oh, let us say,
peach cobbler. Outside there would be a porch with rocking chairs, where you could sit
and smoke your pipe and watch the sun sink into the lovely distant hills. What bliss it
would be. I was perched on the edge of the sleeping platform lost in a little reverie along
these lines and absorbed with trying to get a small volume of water to boil--quite happy
really-- when one of the middle-aged guys drifted over and introduced himself as Bob. I
knew with a sinking heart that we were going to talk equipment. I could just see it
coming. I hate talking equipment.
"So what made you buy a Gregory pack?" he said.
"Well, I thought it would be easier than carrying everything in my arms."
He nodded thoughtfully, as if this were an answer worth considering, then said: "I've
got a Kelty."
I wanted to say--ached to say--"Well, here's an idea to try to get hold of, Bob. I don't
remotely give a shit." But talking equipment is one of those things you just have to do,
sean pound
(Sean Pound)
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