Christy and I made it to Tray Mountain in the middle of the afternoon, itching worse than Tyrone Biggums looking for his next fix. We had stopped more times along our hike that day than normal because we couldn't resist the relief brought by every application of Benadryl. Plus, each time we sat down to smother ourselves with magical anti-itch cream, we'd find new welts we hadn't noticed before. What we thought was one sting on Chris's hand turned out to be two, and her hand would eventually double in size. Adding strange locations to the welt on my ass cheek, I also found one in my armpit.
(If anyone tries to tell you deodorant will double as insect repellent, don't believe them.)
We had hoped that our night camping at Tray Mountain would be in the shelter since the forecast called for rain. And I hate waking up to rain while camping more than I hate snaking a drain full of hair and soap slime. Unfortunately, the shelter was already full of backpackers. I was tempted to drop trou once again in an attempt to vie for a sympathy spot under the roof. Instead, we grudgingly hiked just past the shelter (with my pants on) to set up camp and seek sympathy from the spirits of the forest instead so that we might end up with a dry night.
By the time we pitched our tent and assigned ourselves seats next to the fire ring, a large gentleman with a smiling white beard and trucker's cap stopped by our site to say "hello". He was on his way to the water source for a refill.
"Greetings! The name's 'Sugar Bear'." Something told me he didn't have any other mode than "happy".
Something else you should know about the trail is that if you hike long or often enough, you earn a trail name. You can't name yourself. Hikers like me anticipate getting their trail names the same way children anticipate getting their first puppy. (Ask the women I hike with--I bring it up every time we hit the trail how "this trip could be the one we get names". I'm used to their eye rolls by now.) Usually, your trail name is bestowed upon you for your uniqueness. Like "Nine" for the hiker missing a finger or "Pokey" for the one who eats too slowly.
"Sugar Bear" being our new friend's moniker was clearly given to him because of the combination of his size and personality. His smile never drooped. In fact, I couldn't help but wonder if his favorite Halloween costumes were a tie between Winnie the Pooh and the Kool-Aid man. "Are you the ladies who got stung so badly on the trail this morning? Everyone around here has been talking about you two!"
This is the other part of hiking etiquette I forget about: that news travels faster than a mudslide. And according to "Sugar Bear", our story had made us instant legends. We were the Ladies who Survived the Swarm and Hiked Despite their Wounds.
"Yep, that's us."
We shared that Chris had endured about 7-8 stings, and I had a baker's dozen. His eyes were wide with excitement because he clearly had been ready for our arrival so that he could offer us something. Once upon a time (probably when his beard still had color), he had heard that wet cigarette tobacco made an excellent homeopathic poultice that, when applied to a sting, would draw out the "poison". We insisted we were set with our Benadryl cream. But he whipped out his baggie of Pall Malls, handed over a cigarette and a half, and told us to let him know how it worked when we saw him later.
Let me make something clear: this remedy does not work. In fact, it's about as useful as a football bat, and I'm sure we looked like a pair of idiots as we tried to apply loose, spit-soaked tobacco on various parts of our bodies. We had too many places to administer the nicotine paste, and the loose shreds of tobacco were sticking to everything. We still took photos of our attempts simply to prove we tried when "Sugar Bear" asked for results.
And for those wondering: no, I did not try this remedy on the sting on my ass cheek.
We wouldn't see "Sugar Bear" again until the next morning when everyone was breaking camp in the rain and making a space under the shelter for a dry spot to have breakfast. Not to be surprised, he was the gravity that attracted the orbiting conversation with fellow breakfasting hikers.
"Good morning, ladies!" he smiled upon seeing us squeeze into an empty dry spot. "How'd my cigarettes do for ya?"
"Sorry, 'Sugar Bear'. We tried." He didn't seem to consider the loss of his cigarettes a waste, but he did tell everyone all around how he had shared his resources for the greater good. The other hikers wanted to hear the story directly from the source, each one wincing when they saw the size of Christy's mitt and laughing when they heard I took one on the butt.
There was one hiker who was giving distance while keeping an ear to the conversation. I had noticed him because of his tattoo sleeve. It was of the solar system. Stunning art, really. He was making quick work between getting his gear packed and having a breakfast of coffee and Marlboros. The earlier you get out, the earlier you get a spot at the next shelter. So I figured we would see him again later that night at our next stop. He was not falling into "Sugar Bear's" lighthearted conversational trap. Once he was gone, "Sugar Bear" inquired about the guy by trail name: "Rescue".
Christy and I wanted to get on the trail, as well. But "Sugar Bear" wouldn't let us go without exchanging contact information. As he wrote our real names into his trail guide, he asked if he could be the one to give us trail names.
I'm surprised I didn't jump into his lap like he was Santa Claus and offer him suggestions of name combos I had been playing with in my head. This was the moment I had been waiting for these last few years.
"Sugar Bear" started with me, putting his hand to his beard and pursing his lips in thought. "I've got it! You should be 'Buzz Butt' since that's the prize-winning spot to get stung."
It didn't fit with any of the name combos I had dreamed of, but I didn't care.
"I love it!" I replied, knowing that "Buzz" being a part of my trail name might make one believe the Georgia Tech was my alma mater when I'm actually a Bulldawg. I wasn't about to ruin this moment.
"OK, great! And your friend here..." He thought some more. "She can be 'Buzz Arm' since that's where she got stung. Kind of like a combo of 'Buzz Aldrin' and 'Stretch Armstrong'."
What a freaking weird combination. I didn't like her name as much, but whatever. Christy seemed happy. "Sugar Bear" giving us our trail names came was an honest effort, and it clearly made him happy to be the one to name us.
Christy and I, best friends and hiker buddies, finally had a new way to introduce ourselves on the trail. We hiked in the rain all morning, saying our names out loud a few times to get a feel for how and if the words lolled off our tongues.
We wouldn't know until that night, another hiker had a plan for our trail names.
Thanks for sticking with this story! Part III coming soon to wrap up the tale.
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