MOWGLI
09-10-2003, 18:44
I saw a photo of Weary with TJ aka Teej in the photo album on this site. Several years ago (11/20/2000) Weary answered a question on a public forum (Trailplace) with a very nice response. I liked what he said so much that I saved it to a Word document. I post it here for you to read. They are his words, not mine. I hope he does not mind me posting what he wrote again.
". Is the AT a wilderness trail or is it a tourist trap?"
Neither.
THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL, is a nearly 2,200-mile footpath that stretches from Georgia to Maine, bisecting most of the wildest country remaining in Eastern United States. The trail follows the bony backbone of the Appalachian Mountains, the eroded remains of peaks that once stood higher than Everest.
The trail is many things. It's 40,000 white blazes on trees, rocks and fence posts; and an estimated five million footsteps. It's also spectacular mountain vistas, wild forests, and great beds of wildflowers -- trillium, delicate mountain bluets, wild iris, pink lady slippers, trail side mayflowers, startling bright blaze orange azaleas, and brilliantly white flowering dogwood.
The trail is walks through national parks and forests; walks past hill farms and woodlots, and occasionally down main streets of quiet mountain towns.
The trail is brisk cold days of early spring, March snows, chilly April rains, the heat of summer and the beauty of a New England autumn. It's walks above the clouds, through the clouds -- and occasionally into cloudbursts.
The trail is a giant black snake, imitating a rattler, rustling dry oak leaves as a hiker eases by; and its two bear cubs scurrying up twin saplings, while the old sow disappears into the brush -- only to be heard scuffling in the distance, circling to protect her babies.
The trail is the sound of a partridge seeking a mate, drumming on a hollow log, sounding like a malfunctioning chainsaw to one puzzled hiker.
It's the cry of a pileated woodpecker, its red crest flashing through an ancient and decaying forest, the faint gobbles of a wild turkey on a brisk spring morn, and the slow circling of a hawk, seeking its supper. And it's a tiny, gray bird flying through the feet of a startled hiker from a trail side nest, filled with the mouths of hungry nestlings.
The trail is the hulks of four 60-year-old cars rusting away in an ancient farm pasture, now part of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.
And it's a cooking pot one chilly spring morning in Georgia, and the yodeling of a coyote heard from a remote mountain shelter.
The trail is also 4,000 volunteers clearing blowdowns, brush and thistles while battling black flies and mosquitoes — and sometimes angry hornets — part of the greatest volunteer recreational project in history.
And it's four million day hikers, out for a summer's walk. Some two thousand thru-hikers, of which a 100, maybe 200, will actually reach the trail's end on Katahdin.
The trail each year attracts a community of people: a few thousand with a dream of walking through these wilds for months on end from a wooded mountain in Georgia, north through spring, summer and early fall, to a barren and often icy summit in Maine; many more just out for a day, a weekend or a week of respite from civilization.
The trail is a community of hikers enjoying the beauties of nature, and sharing concerns, blisters, adventures, sore toes, sprained knees, and the wonders of a wild country. It's two 20-year-olds jogging to catch Solo Sal, a 62-year-old retired school teacher who had left her tent poles behind.
It's an 80-year-old-retired grocer in North Carolina offering a hiker from Maine "a ride to the top of the hill." Some hike alone, others with friends, lovers, relatives -- or strangers met a few moments, or a few days earlier on the trail. All share a common experience, a common adventure. All join in each others successes and tribulations, share meals when supplies run low, and lament the mishaps and illnesses. Trail registers are filled with words of encouragement for those left behind.
Like the hay mowers on Robert Frost's New England hill farms, the people who hike the trail, hike together, "whether together or apart."
". Is the AT a wilderness trail or is it a tourist trap?"
Neither.
THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL, is a nearly 2,200-mile footpath that stretches from Georgia to Maine, bisecting most of the wildest country remaining in Eastern United States. The trail follows the bony backbone of the Appalachian Mountains, the eroded remains of peaks that once stood higher than Everest.
The trail is many things. It's 40,000 white blazes on trees, rocks and fence posts; and an estimated five million footsteps. It's also spectacular mountain vistas, wild forests, and great beds of wildflowers -- trillium, delicate mountain bluets, wild iris, pink lady slippers, trail side mayflowers, startling bright blaze orange azaleas, and brilliantly white flowering dogwood.
The trail is walks through national parks and forests; walks past hill farms and woodlots, and occasionally down main streets of quiet mountain towns.
The trail is brisk cold days of early spring, March snows, chilly April rains, the heat of summer and the beauty of a New England autumn. It's walks above the clouds, through the clouds -- and occasionally into cloudbursts.
The trail is a giant black snake, imitating a rattler, rustling dry oak leaves as a hiker eases by; and its two bear cubs scurrying up twin saplings, while the old sow disappears into the brush -- only to be heard scuffling in the distance, circling to protect her babies.
The trail is the sound of a partridge seeking a mate, drumming on a hollow log, sounding like a malfunctioning chainsaw to one puzzled hiker.
It's the cry of a pileated woodpecker, its red crest flashing through an ancient and decaying forest, the faint gobbles of a wild turkey on a brisk spring morn, and the slow circling of a hawk, seeking its supper. And it's a tiny, gray bird flying through the feet of a startled hiker from a trail side nest, filled with the mouths of hungry nestlings.
The trail is the hulks of four 60-year-old cars rusting away in an ancient farm pasture, now part of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park.
And it's a cooking pot one chilly spring morning in Georgia, and the yodeling of a coyote heard from a remote mountain shelter.
The trail is also 4,000 volunteers clearing blowdowns, brush and thistles while battling black flies and mosquitoes — and sometimes angry hornets — part of the greatest volunteer recreational project in history.
And it's four million day hikers, out for a summer's walk. Some two thousand thru-hikers, of which a 100, maybe 200, will actually reach the trail's end on Katahdin.
The trail each year attracts a community of people: a few thousand with a dream of walking through these wilds for months on end from a wooded mountain in Georgia, north through spring, summer and early fall, to a barren and often icy summit in Maine; many more just out for a day, a weekend or a week of respite from civilization.
The trail is a community of hikers enjoying the beauties of nature, and sharing concerns, blisters, adventures, sore toes, sprained knees, and the wonders of a wild country. It's two 20-year-olds jogging to catch Solo Sal, a 62-year-old retired school teacher who had left her tent poles behind.
It's an 80-year-old-retired grocer in North Carolina offering a hiker from Maine "a ride to the top of the hill." Some hike alone, others with friends, lovers, relatives -- or strangers met a few moments, or a few days earlier on the trail. All share a common experience, a common adventure. All join in each others successes and tribulations, share meals when supplies run low, and lament the mishaps and illnesses. Trail registers are filled with words of encouragement for those left behind.
Like the hay mowers on Robert Frost's New England hill farms, the people who hike the trail, hike together, "whether together or apart."