Day 2 on the trail. We're damp from hiking in the rain. We already smell pretty ripe. Our stings itch. Christy's hand is getting grossly puffy. But we "embrace the suck" and hike the necessary 8 miles to the next shelter on our map with the hope that this time, there would be room for our sleeping bags. No need for a sympathy self de-pantsing required.
I was clearly not excited at all for a space in the shelter.
We reached Deep Gap without incident, and it seemed those woodland spirits were ready to spare us from what I'm sure would have been a sleepless night in our soggy tent. The shelter at Deep Gap was built for roughly a dozen, and its only occupants were an engaged couple from Dallas. We learned that they make an annual trip to the Appalachian Trail to do 3-day section hikes. They just happened to be hiking the exact mileage we were completing for the weekend. We never actually got their names. So I will refer to them as "Armadillo" and "Lone Star" for the rest of this story, the former being the woman because she was as quiet and skittish as the armored mammal. Other hikers were making camp when we arrived, but they chose to pitch their tents away from the shelter. Claiming our spots just inside the shelter door was like calling "shotgun" when there are no backseat passengers.
"Rescue"--the hiker with the solar system tattoo sleeve--arrived not too long after we topped off at the nearby water source. And without "Sugar Bear" around, we'd have our chance to get to know this rather mysterious being.
"Nice ink," I nodded toward his forearm. It's no big secret that the way to start conversation with a stranger with tattoos is to simply toss them a compliment about whatever it is they let someone scribble permanently on their skin. I would know. As soon as my students notice I have tattoos, conversation gets super interesting. Except, it's usually because they somehow mistake my arrowhead tattoo for another shape. And even after showing them a picture of the National Parks arrowhead that inspired it, they'll stick with their gut: "Uh, it still looks like an upside-down tree to me."
OK, so maybe my students aren't so much complimenting my ink work but more trying to make sense of it. But my point is: tattoos are great conversation starters.
And it was no different with "Rescue". We learned that he was down from Chicago, hiking different sections of the AT whenever he could get away from his work in real estate. He was divorced with two sons in their twenties. Lightweight with his gear and clothes, but not his comfort items: cigarettes and books. When I later noticed how thick his book was, I decided it must outweigh his tent. He was equipped with a good heart and a dark sense of humor. Easily our favorite hiker to encounter on this trip.
Dinner at the end of a long hike is a great unifier of strangers on the trail. It creates an instant community where you compare how many miles each person pulled that day or learn how many yellow jacket stings everyone got (a contest we clearly won, but didn't want to) or pass around scraps of food to avoid throwing them into the woods. Because, you know...bears. Some hikers won't even use toothpaste for fear the minty freshness--even when spat out hundreds of yards away from their campsite--will attract a bear. But I figure humans in sleeping bags are as close to gourmet burritos as a bear can get, so it doesn't matter if my breath is minty or rank. He will eat me if motivated.
When I couldn't finish my pad Thai at dinner, "Armadillo" laid claim to the leftovers. A portion of mashed potatoes may have reached every of the 5 dinner guest plates. So did a helping for everyone from my bag of gummy bears. Christy and I sat on the opposite side of the shelter porch from "Lonestar" and "Armadillo", and "Rescue" had made a comfy spot for himself at the picnic table below us. We learned that two of the campers in a nearby tent were "Armadillo's" future father- and brother-in-law, as they kept coming to the porch to borrow a lighter for starting up a fire for themselves. I wondered if their tent was still wet from the previous night's storms. I did notice that they were not the kind of assholes who avoid toothpaste on the trail.
Of all the consumables shared, it was my flask of campfire whiskey that sealed the deal with "Rescue". The Texans turned down the chance at the chest-warming nightcap. So Christy and I moved to the picnic table to clink my metal shot glasses with the hiker from the midwest. And for the love of Neil deGrasse Tyson, getting up close to"Rescue's" solar system sleeve was an experience in itself. You'd almost be willing to pay admission to view the fine piece of art on the man's arm.
The sun went down, and it was time to turn in. "Rescue" had requested a space in the shelter with us and the Dallas couple. Since we was a loner, he opted for sleeping in the loft while the rest of us took the main floor. But he wasn't quite ready for sleep yet. He sat at the picnic table with a couple of his Marlboros, reading his book by the light of his headlamp, while the rest of us made our first attempt at sleep.
Typically, Christy and I will stay up late, running the spectrum from expanding our minds through deep conversations on mature topics to giggling over dirty words like we're still 12. Considering we were sharing a sleep space with a young couple who wouldn't even share their real names with us, we shut our traps and tried to go to sleep immediately.
Except, nature planned on being dramatic that night.
While everyone is lying there, all snug in their sleeping bags with the exception of noses and a hand hanging out to text their loved ones back at home, we hear movement in the loft over our heads. It starts out as a light little pitter patter. Almost quiet enough to make you question that you might be hearing things. We choose to ignore it because whatever is making the noise, they won't come near the humans, right?
[Insert uncomfortable laugh here]
Then there was full on scampering. Like, possibly a dozen sets of quadrupedal creatures running across the boards like they're setting up for a full on coup against the temporary shelter residents. And it didn't help that they start to fight and cuss at each other. I mean, if mice can cuss, that's what this sounded like. You've got one mouse, probably a female who's trying to build a nest for her soon-to-be litter of hiker harassers, and she's yelling at her husband, "I smell an ankle-high nylon down below! This will do nicely for our offspring. Go down there and fetch it for me!" And he's all, "Dammit, woman! You know I fucked up my back last week trying to swipe that spicy trail mix from the guy who used it as his pillow. You and your random-ass cravings!" The rest of the mice are rolling their eyes at this point because this couple always fights out in public. They just want to loot whatever the dumb humans haven't strung up in their bear bags.
The four of us nervously laughed from our sleeping spots. Yeah. Everything is fine. It's just mice. They will stay in the loft.
And then "Armadillo" bolts out of her sleeping bag, screaming, "OH MY GOD, IT FELL ON MY FACE!"
Shit. What? A mouse...fell...on her FACE?
I'm pretty sure the wifey mouse had had it with her hubby giving her sass and decided to do herself a favor by pushing him over the edge of the loft. And poor "Armadillo's" face was his landing pad.
By now, we're all out of our sleeping bags, turning on every lantern we've got handy. "Lonestar" is doing the protective man thing, cradling his fiancee in his arms and trying to track the fallen critter all the way down to the foot of her bag. Of course, he finds nothing. And "Armadillo" is just standing there, involuntarily twitching to shake off the feeling of mouse ass against her mug.
"Rescue" leaves his book on the picnic table and walks into the shelter, stifling laughter after hearing the commotion. He offers to climb the ladder to see how many mice are in the loft. When he gets to 6, we ask him to stop counting. He requests a spot on the main floor with the rest of us. We oblige and start to rearrange our spots to make room.
But how are we supposed to sleep if mice are just going to rain down from the heavens of the shelter? Christy sees she has a couple bars on her phone and does an internet search.
"Mint," she reports. "Mice hate mint."
"Yeah, but where are we going to get mint?" the Dallas couple asks.
Christy shrugs. "I have gum."
Shit you not, guys. Christy pulls out a pack of gum, and the 5 of us are divvying up the sticks to set up a perimeter around each of our sleeping spots. Kind of like pouring salt around the outside of your house to drive away bad energy, except this smells a lot better. And we make use of the wrappers, too, because those smell like mint, and we figure it's the smell that deters the furry bastards. So WHY NOT?
Please imagine this scene for me: Five full-grown, college-educated adults, all of which are sleeping in hundreds of dollars worth of camping gear and sweat-wicking fabric, having trained their bodies for weeks in preparation for the strenuous terrain and keeping track of their daily distance down to the tenth of a mile. And the each of them is surrounded by roughly 3 or 4 bright green sticks of gum and silver wrappers like they're warding off drunk ghosts instead of tiny little mice.
Poor "Armadillo" was chewing a piece of gum in case another mouse decided to go kamikaze over where she was lying, which made absolutely no sense since gravity is stronger than a minty cloud coming from your pie hole. But then we all found ourselves going against logic and chewing pieces of gum, too.
Nerves stripped and shaken, we all somehow managed to fall asleep.
The next morning, a few of the campers that had slept in tents nearby came up to the shelter to inquire about all the noise we made during the night.
"Yeah, it was mice," we reported. "But we laid out sticks of gum to keep them away because we learned they hate mint."
"But bears love mint," one guy laughed.
Well, shit. Another night of avoiding being a bear's gourmet burrito. But only narrowly this time.
Also, one of my ankle-high nylons was missing. Damn those mice.
Over breakfast, "Rescue" asked us where we got the trail names "Buzz Butt" and "Buzz Arm". When we told him they were given by "Sugar Bear", he shook his head.
"That guy is way too PG for my taste," he said. "And those names suck. Do you care if I rename you both?"
So not only were we earning trail names on this trip, we were earning trail name upgrades.
"Rescue" thought for a minute. He turned to me first. "Because the number 13 is one of those weird, superstitious numbers, and that's how many stings you got, that's what we're going with for you. 'Thirteen'."
Sold.
Then it was Christy's turn. "You know how 'Hell Boy' has those giant hands in the movies? You're now 'Hell Girl'. My sense of humor might be dark, but I think those names are way more fitting."
Christy's hand was double the size from the day before. Paint her red and give her horns, and she was the perfect "Hell Girl".
We only saw "Rescue" once more on the trail after we all left the shelter. We passed him where he stopped to refill his water supply. He was pissed because we mentioned we were getting off the trail for cheeseburgers, and he was staying on another couple of days. But he wished us happy trails. We wished him a safe flight back to Chicago.
"Armadillo" and "Lonestar" were waiting for their shuttle back to town where we had left our getaway car. They were peeling off their socks and getting into sandals while they waited. We did the same before getting in the car to drive to McDonalds.
The Adventures of "Hell Girl" and "Thirteen" were supposed to continue in April of 2020 with a section hike on the AT with 3 other girlfriends. Unfortunately, the pandemic got in the way of that.
Nonetheless, no ill experience on the trail--be it with yellow jackets or mice or (almost) bears--will stand in the way of our desire to trek up and down mountains. And now, with badass trail names.
"Hell Girl" and "Thirteen", badass hiker chicks.
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