The scene: Hot Springs, NC. A sweltering afternoon in early May. A lone, weary hiker cuts a pathetic profile trudging out of the woods past the verdant front lawns on the west side of town. An grand old house with a HIKERS WELCOME sign beckons him from a distance. "F--k me," the man mutters to himself in a thick New Jersey brogue. "I'm already down to 10 bucks and it's gotta last til next Sunday." That furtive and gloriously unplanned Oreo bubble-bath binge in the motel in Gatlinburg had really sent his finances in the wrong direction. Down the garden path. Down a .3-mile steep blue-blaze ending at a dry spring covered in bear scat. Oh well. He would have to bypass the vulgar luxury of town yet again. Practice for the next 1900 miles, he assured himself.
If only I had a good hiking friend, he reflects. One who was as hardy and tough and all-around badass as me. But alas, there had been that blow-up at Standing Bear when his best buddy had made the polite suggestion that they splurge on a few otter pops. Really, how could that guy have had the gumption? I thought we had shared a common ethic! Of Spartan ruggedness, of the most pure asceticism! And then there was the charming hiker-chick in Franklin who had been getting on well with him, until she joked that his trail name might be a little arcane for the masses. Boy, had he blown his lid then. He sort of regretted it.
But he knows that ship has sailed--and, what's more, he still has to find a spigot and a low-hanging branch for the setup of his Dromedary shower system--a particularly ingenious design, he commends himself once again. As he scans the few buildings in his vicinity, his eyes descry a most arresting scene, off in the distance through the stagnant spring air. A band of happy hikers, sitting in front of their Alpine Court Motel double, a few beers in their hands, TV flickering in the dark background of their room, clothes laid out to dry on the pavement, smiles ... yes, smiles and laughter spread all over their faces. A debate rages in the lone hiker's head, but it's about as one-sided as the elections in his hometown always turned out to be. On the one side is the belief, severely crippled by a few short weeks of experience, that all these weaklings, these libertines surrounding him--and what's more, those loathsome Mongoloids on WhiteBlaze--are truly a lower form of humanity whose company must be eschewed entirely. On the other side is the suspicion, which started as a whisper in Hiawassee and has strengthened now to a deafening roar--that maybe, maybe all those people have a point.
He saunters almost apologetically to the merry band in front of the motel. "How you doin'?" he asks, eyes downcast. "Mind sharin' one of those beeahs with me?"
"This one's all yours!" a friendly tanned and bearded face responds. "Cheers!"
And with that, Saprogenic's thru-hike truly began. The end.
Originally Posted by Odd Man Out
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