The Bear's Den Lodge is almost at the mid point of the 2,167 mile long Appalachian Trail, often called "the AT". Originally built in 1933 as an opera diva's hideaway, it's one of the most impressive hostels in the Eastern Region with its grand fireplace and turrets. Yes, turrets. The lodge rests in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains, part of the Appalachian chain, 983.7 miles north of Springer Mountain in Georgia and 1164.7 miles south of Katahdin Maine. To reach the actual halfway point on the AT you just need to hike north to the Pennsylvania state line and go north a few miles.
I checked in at the front desk, paid the agreeably cheap $3.00 camping fee and went about setting up house. I was very impressed with how easy the whole process was. Feeling quite brilliant for the accomplishment I swam my way through the pea soup mist and into the hiker's room in the basement, filled with bunk beds and the mountain fresh aroma of feet and Folgers.
Hikers look forward to the Den because the shower is strong and laundry is done for the insanely low price of $1.00 (folding costs an extra $1.00). There's even a pile of donated clothes you can choose from and wear while your laundry is being done. The same kind of clothes you would see in a missionary style clothing drive in Borneo, mismatched colors and faded sports emblems on sweatshirts. The sheer mathematical number of original fashion statements one could make from the pile were, to say the very least, mind numbingly dizzy.
Ladies and gentlemen, the experience of dropping in on the Hiker's Room never disappoints. On any given evening the room brings together a most diverse group of people. There were two hikers from Hawaii, one named Gandalf and the other some generic name that was reminiscent of the vague gnome-elf-Tolkien-Lord of the Rings vein that I know little of and frankly am quite happy to let stay that way. Two other men were there, one from Philadelphia and the other, parts unknown. All were as nice as pie and as sweet as syrup. ( I have come to learn that everything reminds you of food on the AT ). Talk soon turned to the trail and how tough the day was with the rain. Gandalf was a teacher who previously climbed Kilimanjaro and recounted his adventure. This was of particular interest to me since I was headed to Africa's tallest mountain in a few months. Another hiker known as "Wildman" had also been to Kilimanjaro and, endearing me even more, Nepal! Who would've guessed that in the middle of nowhere would I meet someone who knows what it means to smell the scent of burning human bodies on the banks of the Bagmati river? Remembering some mulberry bushes outside Wildman ran out to get some. He brought in a handful and they were extraordinarily delicious. I was not, according the wild one, supposed to overlook the flavor of the stems. He was right.
You have probably heard of the trend amongst hikers of the AT: nicknames. Everybody has one on the AT and sadly you do not get to pick your own. I say sadly because I would loudly protest my inevitable moniker of "Camping Savant". Hearing these guys talk, and by this time there were about six through hikers here, it was obvious this was not their first encounter. Some had known each other for several weeks as they alternated between walking behind and overtaking each other. They talked of other hikers like "Bramble" a former Army Ranger who was making the Scottish proud by hiking in a kilt. If anyone knew the particular plaid pattern, or more curiously if he was wearing anything underneath, they weren't divulging the information. There was a hiker named "Homeboy" who never stopped to enjoy the vistas or scenery: he powered his way up the hills like a machine and scrambled down the hills equally quick. He had a habit of humiliating the present company by consistently overtaking them, leaving them in his dusty wake and he was, amazingly, 71 years young. After a short time another gentleman walked in looking haggard and worn out. His beard and moustache made him the twin of Cuban strongman Fidel Castro. Turned out he was a local man who shaved, showered and slept at the Bear's Den because it was cheap. It's tragic that he was not a hiker because given his appearance and the fact that he was obviously high on something other than life, I would've called him "High Fidel-ity"
Taking leave of the hikers I decided to go outside to my nylon condo and enjoy the night. When I left the room the party upstairs was still in full swing. A girl scouts troup shrieked up a prepubescent ruckus with at least one girl vowing to say up til midnight. Their party reminded me of times when my daughter Diana would have her little girl get togethers when she was ten. Know this: ten year old girls have a shrill shriek that nothing in nature or technology can or would want to duplicate. I perked up and was immediately quite happy that I was staying outside amongst the monsters. At least if they showed up at my tent I would know to direct them to the smorgasbord of giggly Girl Scouts through the Den's front doors. Unfortunately, there would be no brownie troup for the imaginary monster's dessert.
Outside the rain was coming down very gently and steady. Glancing outside I saw a sight I won't soon forget: a foggy, ominous, verboten darkness . Werewolves howling on the Scottish moors kind of dread. Jack the Ripper stalking the London streets portent. The fog was moving rapidly across the land and the lights from the lodge pierced the milky mist, reflecting off the suspended drops giving an other worldly foreboding to the forest and everything in it. I half expected to see ghosts marching on top of the lodge battlements.
Thoroughly amazed with nature I settled inside my sleeping bag. I pulled out my shortwave radio, started tuning at random and engaged in re-experiencing golden technological moments from my youth in rural Kentucky. Being a geography enthusiast from a young age I still love to read about other cultures. The shortwave shifted that interest into fifth gear as I would listen to Voice of the Andes from Ecuador, the Voice of America from Europe and the BBC. It didn't matter that I couldn't understand half the things I heard, considering that hillbilly was my native tongue. I remember stumbling across a station that seemed to do nothing but criticize the United States. More interestingly was the fact that this station knew things that were not being reported in our own media. Events like the US Navy's seventh fleet amassing off a small Caribbean nation. That station was Radio Havana from Cuba. It was the first time I realized that the United States was not universally loved. Those supposed news events on the Voice of America and other stations were, in fact, propaganda.
Lying in the tent I learned that President Ronald Reagan had died and from Radio France International no less. The news traveled from California to France and back to my tent high on a Virginia mountaintop . Continuing my journey I got re-acquainted with my old childhood friends. BBC, Radio New Zealand and Radio Japan were still there. Unlike during my youth there was a greater selection in the shortwave bands universe due to the fall of communism. I listened to Radio Prague and Radio Tirana: both stations that were broadcasting from places that previously were behind the Iron Curtain.
In my youth every thing about the Eastern bloc countries was mysterious. In Kentucky you never saw news footage from these places and one could only guess at what life was like there. One thing is for certain, those countries did take to capitalism quite well and I'm living proof, I was robbed twice in three days in early post communist Budapest. Although the Eastern Bloc is no longer mysterious there is still plenty of intrigue on shortwave. Progressing through the frequencies I ran across one old friend who was still very much alive and kicking: the shortwave numbers station. A mechanized female voice that just kept reading numbers: 63542..253455..12126..
Let me say this right now for the record, when you're in a tent, alone in the woods, in the rain, in the middle of the night and you hear cold, mechanized reading of numbers in your ear, you are creeped out.
What purpose do these numbers stations serve? Are they numeric instructions to spies? Do numbers stations exist to spread deliberate disinformation? Probably both. These stations have been on the air for several decades now and many countries operate them including, allegedly, the US whose transmitter, if it does indeed exist, operates, according to some, just outside Washington DC in the hills of Virginia, maybe. The FCC will not confirm the existence of US numbers stations.
Some of the talent behind the number readings are legendary. There is the Lincolnshire Poacher of England's MI6 so named because of the English folk song that plays on a calliope before he reads the numbers, ostensibly because the calliope sound allows agents to find the broadcast more easily . Other times you know something serious is being conveyed as happened during the aborted coup against Boris Yeltsin in 1991. Russian number stations just repeated the number "5" over and over for hours. And the worst run of all? The Cuban stations. They operate on a shoestring and it shows. There have been times when the numbers feed and Radio Havana would overlap. What the Cubans lacked in tech savvy they made up for in sheer entertainment value. One reader, known as the Cuban babbler, would sing her numbers at dizzying speed. I could probably tell you more about the Cubans but by this time "High Fidel-ity" had retired for the night and wasn't in a condition to answer questions.
Then there is WBNY the Voice of the Rodent Revolution. If you are lucky you might find them broadcasting at the 6950 Khz frequency on the US East Coast. Their transmissions open with the song Peter Cottontail followed by numbers and instructions read by either Commander Bunny or Melvin Mouse. The self proclaimed goal of the Rodents? To overthrow the ape-human rulers.
A grand daddy long legs resting on the tent above my face was the first thing I saw waking at 8:30 am in the new time zone I officially designate as the Appalachian Trail Time Zone (ATTZ). Everything happens very early in the ATTZ. Emerging from my tent I was greeted with an overcast sky and the air smelled fresh just as it should after a prolonged rain. I noticed the temperature was quite pleasant, not too hot or cold, and thought about how nice a day it was turning out to be as I started breaking down my tent. There was another climb going on in miniature on my tent. Two slugs were scaling their way up the fabric, at a glacial pace. I thought briefly about something I had heard about slugs: allegedly pouring salt on them will kill them slowly and you can hear them scream. In a previous time when I wasn't aware of the infallibility of karma I might have tried it out. The slugs would live to climb Mount Kelty another day.
Firing up my stove I started boiling water for coffee and really began to realize what a wonder the modern camp stove is. It only took a few minutes to boil water for my coffee concentrate and in just a few minutes after that, I stirred up scrambled eggs to go into some egg and pre-cooked bacon sandwiches. I don't normally eat eggs and bacon in the morning but some traditions just endure in the wild.
Taking the short connector trail from the lodge you soon come upon the AT and the Bears Den Scenic Rock Overlook. It's quite a stunning view of the Shenandoah Valley and if you're there on a clear day you can enjoy a most exquisite sunset.
My goal on this day was to head south on the AT to the Sam Moore shelter and return. It's about six miles all together, but it's six miles on what hikers call the "Rollercoaster", one of the toughest parts of the AT that follows a route below the developed ridgeline and crosses a succession of side ridges and hollows in a long series of tiring ups-and-downs. It's much more taxing than a linear, level six miles.
The AT through the rollercoaster is rocky and crossed with exposed tree roots. The trail was to serve as a walking meditation. Normally I cultivate a mindful-awareness through sitting meditation but that certainly isn't the only way one can develop inner calm. Six miles of watching every single step has a way of being relaxing on the mind and brutal on your calves. The Blue Ridge area eastwards to Washington contains massive numbers of equally massive rocks weighing several tons. What catches the eye most immediately about these rocks is that there is oftentimes a layer of quartzite in them. Previously, very previously, about 550 million years ago, this area was covered by a shallow sea and sediments of sand, clay, fossil shells and mud started to accumulate. About 360 million years ago, probably before you were born, the continent of Gondawanaland decided to plant a hard and violent kiss against the North American continent, then part of the continent Laurasia, and the Appalachian Mountains were born from the collision. The Appalachians were of dizzying heights in those days, taller than the Rockies are today. Millions of years of rain and erosion have whittled them down, quite literally to molehills from the mountains they once were. The tallest peaks of Maryland, West Virginia and Pennsylvania are rather close to each other with the tallest of the three being Spruce Knob in West Virginia clocking in at 4863 feet. That is a lot of wearing down, if you consider that there several peaks in the Rockies over 14,000 feet. If the dwindling remaining majesty of these peaks do not impress, then think about this, the altercation between the continents was so violent that the sand became quartzite, the clay became phyllite and the fossil shells and mud turned into limestone. That is how the quartzite sandwich came to be, it marks the violent altercation between continents. Even more remarkable is that this isn't the first set of Appalachian mountains. Prior to the continental collision, they had been built previously to dizzying heights and worn down to mere hills several times.
A few miles into my walk I had to cross a stream. The trail has come right down to the water's edge and sure enough there was a white blaze painted on a tree on the opposite bank. A part of me just wasn't thinking clearly, of course the trail would cross a stream. Hopping from rock to rock, I managed to get across, dry boots intact only to be met a few yards later with the sight of two blowdowns blocking the trail. A blowdown is quite literally just that, trees that have been felled across the path. I had met a few through hikers by this time, all had warned me about the blowdowns. It was quite difficult negotiating them, I certainly had a new respect for those steadfast troopers that had to cross them hoisting heavy backpacks, especially since the blowdowns were on a section of the trail that was on a steep hillside. Barely climbing over the first one I soon realized the folly of not owning a trekking pole that many hikers use. They are so versatile for support, crossing streams, pushing aside obstacles, flushing grouse, snakes and other trail hazards. I quickly remedied my situation by breaking a stick from the first blow down and faster than a politician can deposit his bribe money, I was over the second blow down. I left the stick against a tree that was decorated with an AT blaze so that the next hiker might have some assistance across the blowdown, all the while knowing that the next hiker would probably be me on my way back to the Den.
