A weather report caught my eye, posted outside the Mount Rogers Visitor Center on the outskirts of Marion, Virginia. It predicted a bone-chilling low of nine degrees Fahrenheit at my planned elevation. However, the promise of temperatures creeping back above freezing in a couple of days offered a glimmer of hope. Today seemed like an opportune time to resupply and indulge in a night of civilization.
I couldn’t help but think of the thru-hiker who once insisted that staying in town was cheating, but he also professed disdain for showering because he didn’t like feeling clean, so to each their own.
With snow blowing around me, I figured I’d get sympathy points and an easy hitch, but no such luck. Without a glance, car after car whizzed past, ignoring both my outstretched gloved thumb and snowflake-speckled beard.
A beaten-down 4x4 sped past. It looked shady, so I wasn't too disappointed. Suddenly, it slammed on its brakes and slid to a reckless halt. It then sped toward me in reverse, the tires spitting gravel as they fought for traction, before skidding to another abrupt stop.
The passenger, a burly man with a scruffy beard, hopped out. “Need a ride, bud?” he asked, struggling to slide the front seat forward until the driver, a wiry man in head-to-toe camouflage, leaned over to help.
"There ya go, hop in," the driver said with a thick Virginian accent. “Sorry ‘bout the mess. I purdy much live in this truck,” offering the familiar excuse that people with messy vehicles often give. I wondered if anyone ever applied the same justification to defend a messy apartment.
I set my pack on some trash and climbed into the backseat.
“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” he said, nodding towards the muscular black pit bull sitting bolt upright on the other side of the bench seat. The dog gawked at me with curious eyes. “He don’t bite. Least I don’t think he does,” he added with a chuckle. The dog put his front paws on my lap and licked my face to reassure me he didn’t.
With a sudden burst of acceleration, we peeled out onto the road, a winding stretch of Virginia Highway 16 flanked by a picturesque tapestry of trees. The driver used every bit of his lane and some of the other, swerving dangerously as he frantically searched for his cigarette lighter. The dog surrendered his attempt to maintain balance and plopped onto my lap. I scratched him behind the ears. He closed its eyes, leaning into my fingertips, before playfully licking my hand.
"Now yer gonna smell like a dog," the driver said.
"Oh, that's fine," I said. "It'll be an improvement."
"Hope ya don't mind, but we gotta make a quick stop along the way. I'll take you into town after that,” he said. Leaning over, he whispered something to his friend, who nodded in agreement.
We veered off the road and entered the parking lot of a desolate, abandoned building, stopping beside a car with two men inside. The driver threw the truck’s gear shift into park, and the passenger hopped out.
"If you weren't planning on going further, I can get out here and try to catch another ride," I said, trying to hide the sense of unease in my voice.
"Naw, don’t worry about it, man. Ain't nobody gonna pick you up 'round here. Nothin’ but dicks in this town, man."
His friend approached the parked car at the passenger-side window, exchanging something in a plastic bag that bore the Hardees fast-food chain logo, but I suspected it contained something other than hamburgers.
"Man, I poured a ton of money into this truck," the driver said, shifting my attention away from the scene outside. The engine idled with a rough consistent rhythm, like an asthmatic chain smoker after a hundred-meter dash. With each breath, the hatch door, fitted with a trash bag for a makeshift window, rattled. I thought to myself, a ton of money? You wouldn't know by looking at it.
"I know it doesn't look like it, but I put a new engine in it, transmission. Had to go cheap on these tires, though. I regret it now. My old tires could stop on a dime, had tread on ‘em like this,” he said, turning to me and showing a two-inch gap with his fingers.
"See, in Virginia you have to get yer vehicles inspected. Ain't no way this thang'll ever pass inspection, but I got some buddies that own garages, see. One of 'em told me if I buy these tires, he'd give me this sticker," he tapped on his windshield at a Passed Inspection sticker. "You know, without makin' sure all the lights work and all that."
His friend climbed back into the truck, clutching the Hardees bag. With a grunt, the rusty door closed, and we merged back onto the tree-lined highway. I wondered what I had just become an unwitting accessory to when the driver met my gaze through the rearview mirror.
“Do a lotta people smoke weed on the trail?” His tone hinted at a deeper interest, more akin to market research than mere small talk.
An idea flickered in the back of my mind of a clandestine enterprise tailored to the weary long-distance hikers burdened by sore muscles and sleepless nights plagued by biting cold. I briefly contemplated offering them some business advice, but didn’t want to give away my suspicions of what just transpired.
Besides, what did I know about it anyway? When I started this hike, I had never even tried an illicit substance. Yet, there’s something about an adventure like this, one that propels you beyond the watchful eyes of society, that quietly coaxes you out of your comfort zones.
One late night, a combination of exhaustion and clouds of bloodthirsty mosquitoes drove Bambi, Thumper, and me into a dimly lit bar in Great Barrington, Massachusetts. The trail began to take its toll on the girls. In a private conversation, Bambi confided that if I wanted to reach the trail’s end, I would eventually have to leave them behind. Deep down, I had already come to the same realization, yet coping with the thought was another matter entirely.
We dropped our packs near the entrance, ordered beers, and settled at a nearby table. Thumper produced a stash of rolling papers and a packet of tobacco. She had found the papers in a shelter a few days earlier. Realizing hand-rolled cigarettes would stretch her limited funds, she tucked them away in her pack.
Bambi began to shuffle our deck of cards. Continuing our game of Rummy was implied when a table was in front of us. We had been playing the same game since Gorham, New Hampshire, 360 trail miles back. Thumper kept a running tally of our scores in the margins of her Appalachian Trail Data Book, where our usual 500-point game had now approached 5,000.
Suddenly, the bar’s front door swung open. A young man walked in and made a beeline for us. He nonchalantly said, “Here’s a nug for the road,” while placing his cupped hand on the table. As he walked away, he revealed what was under it. The three of us were momentarily frozen. Bambi’s eyes widened. She dropped her hand of cards, snatched the weed, and concealed it beneath the table. Before we could even say thank you, the mysterious stranger disappeared into the crowded bar like a puff of smoke.
Thumper, with a tone reminiscent of a guidance counselor’s pep talk explaining the importance of a college education, chimed in before I even had a chance to object. “Come on, you’re not going on a job interview any time soon. There aren’t any cops in these woods. This is the perfect opportunity to try it.”
“My entire life, people have been interested in seeing me high or drunk. What is it about me?”
Thumper opened her mouth to speak but hesitated.
“It’s because you’re normally so logical, hyper-analyzing every decision no matter how trivial. I mean, for fuck’s sake, you make spreadsheets before embarking on an adventure. I’ve never met anyone so uncomfortable in their own skin, yet so terrified to step out of it for even a fleeting moment. You’re stiff and lame, and honestly, everyone just wants to sit back and watch when you finally let go of your inhibitions, because we know that whatever happens, it will be the dorkiest, lamest, most hilariously dorky lame thing our eyes have ever seen. And let me make this absolutely clear: we will not be laughing with you.”
She didn’t actually say any of that. She just closed her mouth after hesitating, stared at me for a moment, and then smirked while letting out a quiet exhalation of amusement from her nose, which told me all those things without her needing to speak.
She wasn’t wrong about this being the perfect time to try weed, though, considering its illegality in every state at the time. The seclusion of the trail practically guaranteed that we wouldn’t get caught. Moreover, the nightly bouts of muscle and joint pain, coupled with the restless sleep that plagued many long-distance hikers, provided an additional, tangible incentive.
“Well, we did find those rolling papers,” I said. “And now this. It can’t be a coincidence. Guys—” I made direct eye contact with each of them. “I think baby Jesus wants to get me high.”
Thumper beamed.
“Well, get in line baby Jesus, we were first,” Bambi said.
Thumper laughed, repositioned herself in her seat, and then leaned forward. “All right, tomorrow morning before we start hiking—” she faked caution by glancing for eavesdroppers over her left and right shoulder and lowering her voice."—we’re gonna hotbox the tent.”
Our 1 AM road walk from Great Barrington back to the trail included a stop at a gas station—the only open store where we could resupply for the next section. Although we already had enough food to get through it, for some reason Bambi and Thumper insisted on stocking up on extra snacks.
Reaching the intersection of the road and the trail, we dropped our packs and pulled out our headlamps, venturing into the shadowy abyss of the woods. After a few miles, we found a clearing perfect for camp. Unfortunately, the mosquito problem persisted. With just my hammock and rain tarp for protection, I zipped up my sleeping bag, leaving only my nose exposed, which by morning, had become swollen and inflamed from merciless mosquito bites.
“Those evil sons of—"
Bambi, hearing I was awake, unzipped their tent. “Cam!” she yelled. “Hotbox!”
Rubbing my swollen nose, I slid out of my sleeping bag and crawled into their cozy two-person tent. Inside, we formed a close-knit circle, all seated cross-legged. Thumper ran her tongue along the edge of the rolling paper, sealing the joint. She ignited one end, took a drag, and passed it to Bambi. Before she took her turn, she demonstrated how she pinched the joint to create a small opening, looking up at me to make sure I was paying attention. She took a puff and passed it to me.
In that pivotal instant, when I could no longer claim to have never tried an illicit substance, I coughed and passed the joint back to Thumper.
Oddly enough, I didn’t feel any different. I wondered if I had done something wrong, or if it was supposed to take a while. Having grown up in the Clinton era, I was well aware that ‘not inhaling’ was a thing. But as the tent became clouded with smoke, Thumper’s hotboxing strategy became clear. As long as I was breathing, getting high was inevitable.
After another round or two, we unzipped the tent flap, allowing the lingering smoke to drift out into the woods to mingle with the chilly morning air.
We proceeded to pack up our camp, but it felt like a silent movie rendition of our usual routine. Seated on my hammock, I crammed gear into my backpack, all the while enduring the relentless assault of mosquitoes. Swatting at them was futile, like trying to swat away the smell in a truck stop men’s room. I continued stuffing gear into my pack, pausing now and then to swipe at the incessant buzzing near my ears or to try grasping or clapping them between my hands.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bambi standing close to Thumper, giving her a mischievous little grin and subtly nodding in my direction.
"What?” I said, continuing to swat at the air.
“Cam’s high,” Bambi whispered to Thumper, trying to stifle a laugh.
“No, I’m not. Honestly, I don’t feel anything,” I said. “God, these fucking bugs!” I grasped at the air and checked my hands for squished mosquitoes.
But as I wondered if I’d been stuffing the same gear into my pack for an hour, it hit me.
Oh, wait. I froze, suddenly aware of how weird I felt. Okay, so, this is stoned.
I had no idea what to expect. I imagined it'd be like drunkenness mixed with that giddy euphoria you get staying up all night with friends, when everything’s inexplicably funnier than it should be. But what I didn’t see coming was that my awareness of the world would hovered inside a fleeting four-second window.
For some reason, I tried to hide this from the girls. I just didn’t want my every move to be looked at expectantly like waiting for a clown to do something funny. Also, every time I began to speak, I feared I wouldn’t be able to complete the sentence without forgetting how it started.
What was I saying? How long has it been since I stopped talking?
Thumper suggested we split up and hike on our own for the morning, which I welcomed. When alone, I didn’t mind the sensation. The trees seemed greener. They weren’t actually greener, per se, but I became acutely aware of their vibrant shade of green. Another plus side of this fleeting four second existence was that I couldn’t delve into my usual neurotic thought patterns, those well-worn pathways etched into my brain after thirty-three years of being me. Rather, I remained fully present, like a forced mindfulness meditation session.
When the rhythmic sound of my footsteps on the trail were no longer mesmerizing enough, I put in my earbuds and shuffled my music. When Pink Floyd's “The Great Gig in The Sky” started playing, a memory of my high school friend, Nathan, resurfaced.
We sometimes listened to this album during our morning drives to school. Occasionally, we would forgo attending our morning classes, instead continue driving around to immerse ourselves in the new music each of us had discovered. We pushed the limits by missing our morning classes thirteen times during our junior year, the maximum allowed to still graduate on time.
Nathan loved Pink Floyd, but I never had the patience for it. Their albums had these long stretches of disturbing noises and repetitive instrumentals that bored me until I skipped ahead to my favorite tracks.
“You just don’t get it because you don’t get high,” Nathan once remarked.
One evening, Nathan and some friends decided to get high and watch Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” on VHS. By the end, Nathan was cowering behind the sofa, peering over it like the images might jump out of the TV at any moment. I definitely didn’t get it and I didn’t want it.
I stopped hiking for a moment to restart the album from the beginning, ready to listen to it again for the first time.
Nathan was a clever guy, but he was never more right about anything. Expressing my opinion about Pink Floyd before listening stoned was like calling the Grand Canyon a boring hole in the ground after having only seen it on a postcard. And just like when I witnessed the Grand Canyon firsthand, I lacked the words to capture the album’s essence that would do it justice. You had to be high to get it. He hit the nail on the head.
While I began to understand the allure of being stoned when alone, when others were present, I longed for an off switch, but I discovered that there was no off switch on stoned.
Out of nowhere, two trail maintainers appeared and introduced themselves. Failing to think of a new trail name, I introduced myself as Nancy Drew.
Please don’t ask me why I’m called that, I silently pleaded, fully aware that attempting to explain it would require a level of focus I didn’t think I could maintain for the number of seconds it would require before forgetting their question.
Have you ever talked to someone on the phone where you momentarily stop listening, and suddenly realize it’s been silent for a few seconds, leaving you wondering if the other person just asked you a question? Conversations while high, I’d discover, felt just like that, but with every sentence.
“How did you get that name!?” the man laughed.
Dammit. Okay, just keep your answer brief.
“Well, you know, if you solve a mystery on the Appalachian Trail, you're going to get a name like Nancy Drew.” I chuckled, continuing to hike and feeling pride for making it through the interaction.
As I continued down the trail, I jotted down some notes in my journal, hoping to capture this elusive feeling for future writing endeavors. When I reread them later, the entries were mostly incoherent. I had written that my consciousness was like a comet streaking through space: “glowing brightly at first, then quickly diminishing into a thin tail, fading to nothingness.” To ensure this perfect metaphor wouldn’t be lost on my sober self, I even sketched a picture of a comet.
Wait, did those trail maintainers say something else? I wondered. Did I just walk away as they were talking?
After contemplating this, I resolved never to smoke pot again.
The next time I smoked pot on the trail, I was in a shelter with six other hikers. They passed around a bong before setting off in the morning. I discreetly observed how the others used the bong so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself when it came my way.
A few hours later, I stumbled upon a wooden trail sign directing hikers to the left for a more precarious path, and to the right for an easier route in case of bad weather. I chose left because right felt like cheating. I drifted in my four-second existence for several hours, or twenty minutes, when I saw a hiker I’d passed earlier now coming towards me. Confused, I spun around to see that same sign pointing left and right.
“Did you take a break or something?” he asked.
“Ah, fuck,” I said, just pointing at the sign for few seconds. “No. I just went in a circle.”
As I listened to him laugh, I grew even more resolute. I’d never smoke pot again. But the next time was purely medicinal, so entirely justified.
One evening in a shelter, a couple hiking overnight passed me their joint, which I first turned down.
Every night, my legs ached, robbing me of sleep, worsened by the dropping temperatures. My feet were getting so cold at night that they kept me awake. I tried tucking hand warmers into my socks, but I still couldn’t fall asleep.
“All right, I changed my mind. Hand it over,” I said, figuring I'd be blissfully unconscious for the parts of being stoned I didn’t like.
It worked like a charm. I slept straight through to the first light of dawn, waking up to find the couple making breakfast.
“Good morning,” the woman said.
“Man, I never sleep this late. That was hands down the best sleep I’ve ever had on a trail,” I said, noticing a slight tenderness on my ankle. Peeling off my sock, I found my skin red and spotted with three angry, dime-sized blisters. It hadn’t occurred to me that you could get second-degree burns from a hand warmer. I read the warning label on the back of the package:
Burn hazard. Immediately remove the warmer if it is too hot or uncomfortable.
Do not use:
· Directly on skin other than the palm of your hands,
· On the same place for an extended period of time,
· In tight-fitting apparel that presses warmer against the body,
· For longer than stated,
· While sleeping,
· On those who cannot feel heat.
Sometimes I’d read warning labels and smugly wonder who the idiot was that required they print it. Turns out, that idiot is me.
"Do a lotta people smoke weed on the trail?" the driver had turned to ask.
A stoplight on Virginia Highway 16 turned red. The driver slammed on his brakes and grimaced while sucking air through his clenched teeth. "Man, I do not trust these tires.”
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah, I've seen a few people smoking out there," I said.
"That's the only way I could ever make it," the passenger said, reaching into the Hardees bag.
"Want one?" To my surprise, he held out a hamburger.
I wondered if that bag contained only hamburgers, but I was no longer interested in weed. Maybe I’ll consider it again if I have trouble sleeping or need to make a movie funnier, but for now, I’ll put it out of my mind.
Although rough around the edges, these good Samaritans got me to town safely where I enjoyed a long hot shower and experienced the second deepest sleep I had on the trail.