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While I can’t claim to be a native Mainer, I can boast that I know Maine as intimately as one can, being from Detroit (Michigan, that is). During my fifteen year stint as a “from-away” resident, I lived in most of the key Maine spots: Portland, Bar Harbor, Surry, Southwest Harbor, North Haven, Bangor, Greenbush (yep-if ya haven’t gone, ya got to—maybe my $25/month cabin is still there…), Camden, Rockland, Belgrade Lakes, Waterville, Old Town, Stillwater, Orono, and sundry other stops whenever my car overheated or I had to pee. Being a woman with many talents (came in handy, especially when trying to find a job in Maine), I found work as a gardener, nurse, teacher, waitress, bartender, and, yes, even as an unpublished writer. I melded into the Maine economy and adopted some of the Maine life-style as best as I could (I never could master a true “ayuh”, but my flannel shirts were wicked stylish). But, mainely (sic), I came to know the guts and spirit of Maine by exploring its woods via the Appalachian Trail, properly called “The A.T.”.
I am proud to say that I have hiked the A.T. from Grafton Notch to “Khtaadn”, the Thoreau spelling in The Maine Woods, in sections and in one continuous adventure. Whenever I meandered along the highs and lows of the Maine A.T., I marveled not only at the calm and silent beauty of the Maine forests, but also at the unobtrusive maintenance of the path. I appreciated the attempt to keep the A.T. pristine, yet safe; rugged, yet ecologically sound. My enjoyment of this segment of Maine outdoors was definitely enhanced thanks to the Maine Appalachian Club Trail Crews.
Like Thoreau, I eventually had to leave the Maine woods, he no doubt to go on a book tour, me to pay some bills. Yet, while I settled myself as a teacher in a different kind of wilderness, inner city Detroit, I missed the forests and the A.T. I wanted to reconnect with woods and green and rocks and black flies (unlike city drivers with road rage, they can’t kill you). I wanted to show my appreciation for my unforgettable experiences on the A.T. I wanted to become an A.T. crew member.
I decided to venture outside of the Maine A.T., to see how other parts of The Trail measured up. Virginia sounded good, being the keeper of the longest stretch (544miles). I contacted the Konnarock Club in Sugar Grove. The application process was simple enough: provide two references to verify my being fit (heck, I was a marathon runner, a middle school teacher, and a single mom with four sons) and a willingness to take risks (no problem here—I was a hitchhiking survivor); I also had to write a statement about my ability to work cooperatively with a group under extreme conditions (I still had my job, didn’t I? I didn’t explain the “single” part.).
Anyway, I was accepted.
I received my info packet and prepared to arrive in Sugar Grove, Virginia on July 16. The drive from Detroit to Base Camp was uneventful, thanks to a rental car and Books-on-Tape. I tried my sister-in-law’s strategy for keeping hydrated without having to stop to pee every hour: eat grapes. It worked.
From Route 81 West, I exited at #45 and coasted into Marion, VA., home to Mt. Rogers National Recreation Area and 10 miles from Sugar Grove. Hilly and historical , Marion looked like a sweet southern town. Plenty of grandly white porched homes, messy magnolias, mysterious dead-end streets. Only one pay phone, though. I needed to make one last connection with my husband before I hit the woods. He wasn’t home.
Onto Route 16 South, I followed the winding, rolling road to the Sugar Grove Diner, turned left on Flatridge Road, and found Base Camp on the right, just like they said in the brochure. My A.T. crew adventure had officially begun, whether I wanted it to or not; I couldn’t turn back just yet anyway— the rental was almost out of gas and I really had to pee.
The Mt. Rogers National Recreation Area shares its Sugar Grove Work Center with the Konnarock Crew. Rustic but ample, the main building consists of the dining/rec room, office, and an impressive tool room. Other buildings include: a huge kitchen fully equipped with enough refrigerators and storage units to provide the much appreciated sustenance necessary for the Crew Weeks, two shower and bath houses, and a scattering of simple cabins called “pods” where crew members sleep while at Base Camp.
After a tasty and satisfying dinner, we ten crew members assembled for an orientation session. We introduced ourselves and settled into listening to our crew leaders, Jason and Ted, describe what would be our duties for the next week. Our task was to tackle a relocation project near the Blue Ridge Parkway Trail and the Priest, four hours (by van) northeast to Buena Vista, Virginia, nestled in the George Washington National Forest. Our campsite would be about two miles from the work site. It would be strenuous and difficult work, mostly clearing brush, “ side-hillin’, findin’ & diggin’ & movin’ rocks, BIG rocks”. Jason and Ted discussed safety issues (“If ya see a bear, for god’s sakes, don’t holler-it’ll scare ‘em away”;” there’s only two kinds of snakes ‘round here and ya ain’t gonna die from neither of ‘em bitin’ ya”), camp protocol (“everybody takes a turn at cookin’ ‘cept the crew leaders—we just eat.”), and the finesse of preparin’ and visitin’ The Privy (“if you’re the last one to fill the trench, dig another section, but don’t get any shit on the pick”).
We rolled out of Base Camp next morning by 8 AM, twelve adults stuffed into an official United States Government Forest Service van with enough food, tools, and camping gear for one week. A diverse group were we: Paul, a stock broker; Geron and Bob, two fourth grade teachers (husband and wife); Larry, a retired Exxon manager; Frank, a retired cartographer; Joe, a retired machinist; Sam, a divorce attorney; Kara, an Enlish instructor; and Bruce, a new college graduate—all with a common desire to sweat and toil on the A.T.
We headed north on Route 81 and stopped half-way at a Krispy Kreme donut shop (Jason loaded up on three donuts and a Mountain Dew—it was his turn to drive) With about five miles to go, Jason turned off the main drag onto a rough, single-lane road that would be our way into the National Forest. The scenery was stunningly serene and diverse: thick woods, bursts of wildflowers, random clearings for small farms, scattered herds of cattle.
Suddenly, Jason braked hard. “Dammit, we got a flat. I thought that cicada sounded pretty loud.” Seemed the “cicada” was two whistling holes in the right rear tire. Gear and people oozed out of the van. Luckily, our fearless crew leaders had changed tires before and didn’t seem to mind all the advice from those of us watching. We were on our way in no time. Although we now had no spare, we rallied with plenty of good humor, enthusiasm and positive spirit, a trend that would define our crew for the next few days.
The work began the minute the van stopped at our camp, and ended when we arrived back at Base Camp six days later. That week on the A.T. brought me heads up against what I hoped my body would be able to do. I had prepared as best as I could— I had hiked miles with my boots and a pack in addition to my regular rather rigorous exercising. It helped; I felt physically fit and mentally positive each and every day. I was the first one up to make the coffee, and, my cheeriness was even tolerated by those rising a bit later. That’s how accommodating and hell-bent on getting along our crew proved to be.
Each morning we hoisted on our day packs, filled with snacks, lunch, gloves, rain gear, and water and hiked two miles up the Ridgeway to the switchback. We would then commence our work for the day in whatever group Jason and Ted assigned us. I mostly worked with The Rocks. I helped build a ten boulder staircase. It was a thing of utmost beauty, and it proved its worth. We only had to rebuild it six times, thanks to Jason’s high standards.
Cooperation and team effort were key factors in progressing toward the goal of finishing the relocation project. Moving when someone yelled “ROCK!!!” also was paramount. Break times were an essential part of the eight-hour day, a time when we all re-revved for the rest of the work. Knowing The Tools was important (god forbid you bring a Pulaski when what is urgently needed is a Pick while a 200 pound rock is being held up). Understanding, and practicing, the philosophy “leave no trace” became the trade-mark answer to any question of “what do I do with this?”
Living and working in the woods with a group of people one has never met might seem daunting to some, downright unimaginable to many. I took it all in stride, as part of that road seldom traveled. I went, after all, to do something different than be surrounded by pavement and screeching cars. Skinny dipping in a spring fed pond after a week of no showering, trusting the hands holding a huge rock above your head would indeed hold, and sharing an outdoor poop station with strangers made them seem less strange; heck, it was more intimate than most of my dealings with people in Detroit. And being intimate with Nature (which, of course, includes people) was exactly what I needed, and wanted.
Now that I am back in Detroit, I feel rejuvenated. I see traces of people everywhere, and I pick up even more trash than I did before. I notice the shapes of side-hills; I eye rocks and boulders imagining their place in a rock stair; I want to thank all the Pulaski families in Hamtramck; I wear my A.T. crew shirt to church; I am researching the benefits of human manure in compost. Best of all, I plan to go back next year.
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