Going to Town (February 26, 2011 - March 4, 2011)

"Stopped in for lunch after the most terrifying hitch ever with sidewalk surfers from Virginia Beach. Retreating to the safety of the woods." Dos XX, Jamie and Sloth-Dog, 7/2/10, John's Hollow Shelter

"A narrow victory as Landfill ate the 10 McDoubles and apple pie (4600+ calories) in the time allotted to claim victory...All it cost me was 12 hours of moaning on the grass by the YMCA, gasping for breath and praying for a merciful death." Landfill, 6/1/10, Calf Mountain Shelter

"I washed these clothes?" Little Foot, 6/13/10, Calf Mountain Shelter

Doing What I Do at the Laundromat (April 27, 2011)

Going into town usually requires hitch-hiking and hanging out at seedy places like Dollar
General and the laundromat. Sometimes you stay overnight in a cheap hotel with a bunch of hikers crammed into the room. If the town has an all-you-can-eat buffet for fat Americans, you take full advantage. The only respectable place you hang out is at the outfitter to buy $50 name-brand hiking shorts and $400 sleeping bags. Many of these towns are quaint mountains towns, i.e., Damascus, Hot Springs, and Harper's Ferry, and the rest are sad places with lots of overweight people and unemployment.

The day before our first town visit in Hiawassee, we ran into 2 local hog hunters. Are you hunting? JT Hill asked.

Yeah, the one not named Harold said.

These dogs have been to war, I said. The pit bulls were covered in massive scars, some of them fresh. The bloodhound was clean, though.

How do you catch them exactly? Guido asked.

The chasin' dog is that one. The one not named Harold pointed to the brown bloodhound. These dogs hold him down. He pointed to the white pit bulls.

One of the white dogs started humping another dog. The man who spoke and wasn't named Harold kicked the dog. He's got the same problem I had. We asked him about the dogs' scars. He showed them off proudly. Sometimes, they die. Hey, Harold! Remember when they killed Obama? Harold nodded. Not the president, now. That's a dog I'm talkin' about. We asked about killing the hogs. With a knife. We slit his throat.

That puts hair on your chest, Sensei says.


Nah, Harold would look like a bear if that was so. We left. Harold stayed silent.

We make it to town and stay at a hostel run on donations by a local pastor, Gary Poteete. It's unseasonably warm in February, in the 60s, and we enjoy the sun. Later we hitch-hike into town and eat at the Chinese Buffet. Then later we go to Ingles where I buy way too much food to overcompensate for nearly starving the first week in the woods.

In between towns we share camp with a local guy named Mayor Puff 'n' Stuff. He lights a fire big enough to burn the entire forest down, smokes Marlboro Red 100s, mixes several enormous rum drinks and then gets so high he can barely crawl back to his tent to pass out with his crazy black labs.

By now it's just the 4 of us hiking together, JT Hill, Guido, Sensei and I. A few days later it starts getting cold and we catch a ride into Franklin, NC for another resupply. I've brought so much food from Hiawassee that I don't really need much from the grocery store. We eat at a Shoney's Buffet this time.

I get so tired at night now I can barely concentrate. During the day I distinctly recall thinking that if a bear attacked me I wouldn't have the strength to fight him off. There is a constant fear that not only will I see a bear but that I will just submit into the easiest position for him to slit my throat and end the encounter. Hopefully, the bear will have the same finishing move as Harold and the hunting dogs. Despite these irrational fears, I'm feeling cocky about how well we're doing. I tell the outfitter in Franklin that hiking isn't rocket science. We're nearly there.

Only 2,072.4 miles left. We have no idea what we're about to get ourselves into here.