AWOL on the Appalachian Trail by David Miller

except for a few spoonfuls of grits so I wouldn't look completely barbaric.
    The AT heads north from Damascus on the Creeper Trail, an old railroad bed running parallel to a sizeable creek. The AT cuts into the woods and runs up and down the hills parallel to the Creeper Trail, staying so close that I can often catch an enticing glimpse of the wide, level path below. Twelve miles later the two paths end up at the same spot.
    I walk leisurely most of the day. Over the past week, I have been constantly stretching to reach one destination or another. Today I am starting out with an unplanned foray into Virginia. I spend time chatting with a trail maintainer. He is out with a sickle, battling kudzu for ownership of the trail. It starts to rain, so I pull in to Lost Mountain Shelter. I meet two other thru-hikers who are staying here tonight. Old Bill is a fiftyish police officer from England. Crash is a, Ilf his age.
    Old Bill has a compendium of motivations and goals. He decided to hike in part because of job dissatisfaction. While in North America, he'd like to see New York City and Washington, D.C., and he talks of venturing into Canada. This all cannot fit into the time he has available if he hikes the entire trail. Old Bill admires another hiker who he perceives to be having a more spiritual adventure, stopping and lounging in his hammock whenever the mood strikes him. Old Bill would like to spend more time contemplating. He is also proud to be fit and is aware of the hike as an athletic challenge. It probably worries him that meandering along the trail could have the negative connotation that he can't keep up with the young bucks.
    Crash, Old Bill, and I walk much of the next day together. In the early hours, fog and sun fight for control of the skies. There is a light drizzle. By the time we enter Grayson Highlands State Park, the sun has the advantage. There is a sign marking a side trail to the summit of Mount Rogers. Crash pulls out his guidebook and reads, "Left one-half mile to summit. No views."
    "I think not," Old Bill says. We get a laugh out of the invitation to walk another mile out of our way to visit yet another mountaintop covered with trees. The AT is sometimes referred to as the "green tunnel" for the endless miles of trail that are shrouded by trees. Another reason that we pass on the side trail is that the next ten miles are a highlight of the southern section of the AT.
    Much of the trail through Grayson Highlands is grassy and open. For the first time I can see long stretches ahead, cutting through the grass and up conical hills. Rocky outcroppings erupt from the hilltops. Some craggy monoliths stand over twenty feet tall. The trail passes through a body-width split in a huge boulder, in a tunnel-like pass of about thirty feet. The isolated trees are shapely evergreens. Trees and scrubs in this region gather around the rocks, projecting a landscaped appearance.
    Wild ponies roam the park, keeping the shrubbery in check and providing us with this welcome break from the green tunnel. We pass three herds, all with about a dozen ponies and some foals. The most daring of the ponies approach us for food; one chews on the loose end of my salty shoulder strap.
    As we exit the park, we pass through herds of cattle. Late in the day, we pause at Wise Shelter, a large, comfortable shelter with a clean privy. It looks like the three of us would have the place to ourselves, but we move on to Old Orchard Shelter, which is old and full. A mile of the trail between the shelters is intertwined with a shallow, ill-defined stream, so I end up saturating my shoes in ankle-deep water. My feet feel bruised from the rocky trail.
    A hiker is in the shelter, lying "rest-in-peace" style, wearing headphones. I recognize him as Russ, the hiker I last saw plotting a blue-blaze around Standing Indian Mountain. I have not seen him since and assumed he was well behind me.
    "Russ! How'd you get here?" I ask.
    Russ lifts an earphone and