Wilson Creek shelter gradually comes into view as I approach through the late summer foliage. I’ve hiked here via Black Horse Gap from the Day Creek trail-head, and this is my turnaround point. As I step into the hazy sunshine of the clearing I see a young bearded fellow sitting at the picnic table in front of the three-sided structure.
His full backpack sits next to him on the bench, ready to go. Even the coated rip-stop nylon rain cover is cinched around it; there’s nothing amiss. There’s only one item out of the pack and sitting on the table in front of him: a cell phone. This stretch of the Appalachian Trail is not heavily used and on this late Sunday afternoon I didn’t really expect to find anyone here, but there he is.
He has the unmistakable look of an AT through-hiker. He must be southbound, for this is the time of year for them to be in this part of Virginia. (In the Springtime it’s the north-bounders that I meet on this narrow path winding their way up, over, and around these Blue Ridge Mountains.)
By this time of the year the south-bounders have left behind the Maine wilderness, the White Mountains of New Hampshire, Vermont’s Green Mountains, and the long rocky ridges of Pennsylvania, to name just some of the vast terrain they’ve traversed since leaving Mt. Katahdin. Virginia’s 570-some miles of the AT represents almost a fourth of the total trail length, and by the time a south-bounder gets to Wilson Creek shelter he is considerably over halfway to Georgia’s Springer Mountain, the trail’s southern terminus.
So this guy sitting there at the picnic table is well on his way to his goal. I guess. I don’t really know. He didn’t want to talk.
“Hey! How are you? Great day, huh?” I offer as I approach and plop myself down at the opening of the well-kept shelter. He mumbles a response, but not much of one. He doesn’t look at me. He moves hardly at all, except for his hands which he slowly clasps and unclasps. His elbows rest on the weathered table, along with that oh so conspicuous phone with its orange case.
He seems distant; not mean but not friendly either. I attempt casting a few more pleasantries but get less-than-meager responses, so after downing a half liter of water I linger not and head out the way I came. I say good bye to the quiet bearded one but if he responds in a like fashion I don’t hear it.
Hmmmm…I ponder as I hike the four miles back to the car. What was up with that? Was the guy upset that I was disturbing his peace? Was he sad? Was he angry? Was he just pensive; lost in thought? Was he filled with regret or melancholy? If so, why?
He looked fine physically, as fit as are all of those through hikers. His pack was full and orderly, containing, I presume, pretty much everything he needs for extended living on the trail. What a shame, I thought, to be apparently unable to enjoy this gorgeous day on this lovely stretch of trail, but beyond that the freedom and independence of the long distance hiking experience. The big picture.
Then my thoughts settle relentlessly on the cell phone, nay, the recent-generation smart phone, which had lain so prominently on the picnic table, like a question mark on a blank page. Had our man received bad news? Did his girlfriend just break up with him? Did his mother die? Did he learn that he doesn’t have a job to return to after all? Or did he find out that the weather forecast for the next week is crummy? Then I remind myself that I’ve fabricated and extrapolated a lot from just a two-minute encounter, but still I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy. Here he is out in nowhere in the natural world and it seems he just can’t escape the often mind-numbing clutter of our so-called civilized world.
Instant communication, instant connection with the entire world, from just about anywhere – including much of the Appalachian Trail – is what we’ve got. Whether you want it or not. Whether this instant communication is a good or maybe not-so-good thing doesn’t matter. It’s here, and it’s here to stay.
Do I argue that my AT hiker friend should travel without a smart phone? Part of me does. But another part says, “Oh, of course you should have a phone with you – not only for convenience but in case of an emergency . . . I mean, we have the technology . . . might as well use it. Why on earth not?”
Then the other part of me pipes up and says, “No thanks, I’ll take my chances, thank you. I’ll talk to you soon . . . Sometime . . . Later . . . Maybe.”
– Johnny Robinson
