3. Bears hate cheese

-In support of adding ‘stepth’ to the dictionary-

Person of the week: John G

After such a long day, sleeping on the ground was a bit of a disappointment. Granted, we had sleeping pads; I had bought mine at Costco for $30: a heavy, self-inflating beauty that was probably better suited to car camping. Though I’m 6’7’’, my feet only barely hung off the end. Meanwhile, Chandler had borrowed a collapsible, lightweight pad that was significantly thinner and, though he’s quite a bit shorter than I, ended just above his knees when he rested his head on the top edge. Not to mention he had returned from 5 weeks in Australia just 3 days prior. Poor, sweet Chandler. We managed though, climbed out of our tent sometime in the mid-morning, broke down camp, and said our goodbyes to Trey. With about 8 miles on the schedule for the day, we were Hawk Mountain bound on our first full day on the trail.

The mileage that day is mostly a blur now. I do remember that—as should have been obvious after camping at the top of a mountain—the first part of the day was almost entirely downhill. The easy terrain was very welcome, but also lulled us into a false sense of capability as we put the struggles of the previous day out of mind. Encountering ascents later in the day was that much more upsetting after skipping down slopes in the morning.

Despite all that, our momentum landed us at Hawk Mountain—our intended campsite for the night—around two in the afternoon, quite a bit earlier than we had expected. As we approached the campsite, we decided to check out the map over lunch and decide whether continuing on that day would be feasible. Before we came into the clearing surrounding the shelter and tent area, the sight of blue nylon—another tent—through the trees let us know that we’d be making friends over lunch. Rounding the corner, we saw a scrawny, shirtless man, his body—face included—completely covered in tattoos, hunched over something at a picnic table. As we got closer, we saw that he was resewing the stitch on a leather sheath for the hatchet that lay next to him. We cautiously introduced ourselves, and he happily welcomed us to the site. He told us that his name was John G.

I quickly left Chandler to better make John’s acquaintance while I went to fill the water filter in a nearby stream. After walking for a good while and finding no water, it occurred to me that I may have taken a wrong turn. I backtracked to the campsite and announced my failure; John offered to show me the way. As it turned out, I hadn’t even started on the right path. John led us along though, telling us about his time at Hawk Mountain all the while. He had been there for quite some time, cleaning up copious amounts of trash to send out with the rangers and repairing the shelter. He pointed out a few bushes along the way whose berries he frequently picked, which piqued my interest about how he consumed water. I asked if he had a filter of his own, to which he responded, “I just drink straight from the stream. I figured if I can survive Brooklyn tap water, I can drink anything.”

(Editor’s note: John G was a very kind man, but I can say with a good bit of confidence that his reasoning on this matter was not sound. Drinking untreated water from forest streams is a great way to contract giardia or other diseases. Please treat your water, even if you happen to be reading this from Brooklyn.)

Our water filter full, we trekked back to the campsite, filled our bottles, and sat at the table with John while we ate our meal of peanut-butter-and-honey tortillas and granola bars. He told us about his time on the trail, about Brooklyn; how, after two serious car crashes, he was unable to get behind the wheel without having a seizure and needed some time away from it all. He told us about some of his tattoos, the most memorable being the Seinfeld logo on his calf, a tribute to one of his friends: “I’ve just got this friend who loves Seinfeld, and I call him up and I’m like, ‘Dude, it’s a beautiful day out, lets do something outside,’ and he’s like, ‘Nah man, I’m watching Seinfeld.’”

As much as we enjoyed our time with John G, we decided it would be particularly beneficial to get ahead of schedule on our first full day; we also couldn’t imagine how we’d kill 6 hours or so at the campsite before bed. Selecting a campsite that was within reasonable reach—I think it was 6 more miles—we traded John G two granola bars for a Payday bar that he didn’t want and continued on our way.

If I remember correctly, those extra 6 miles included the infamous Sassafras Mountain. Though not particularly tall, the steepness (Can we make ‘stepth’ a word? Like, as deep is to depth, so steep is to stepth? Let me know what you think.) of the ascent had earned Sassafras a reputation; so much so that Ron had told us about his interest in selling t-shirts to hikers that said “Sassafras kicked my ass.” Although slightly terrified, Chandler and I were eager for the opportunity to put that behind us sooner than we had planned.

Sassafras did, in fact, kick our asses, but we came out on the other side better for it. We set up camp at a beautiful streamside campsite and started making some noodles for dinner (backpacking essentials: olive oil and parmesan). In my preparatory reading, I had studied quite a bit about wilderness bear safety and etiquette, the hallmark of which is to avoid leaving foreign smells around your campsite; some sources even recommend cooking your food 100-200 feet from camp. Chandler and I, though earnestly trying to take good stewardship of nature very seriously, were severely unsure of the specific applications of some of these guidelines. So, when we were sitting on a log eating noodles about 10 feet from our tent and one of us dropped the parmesan, spilling a decent amount on the ground, we both went stiff and stared, lacking any conception of what the situation implied about our safety and obliged us to do, but sure that there must be some implication. After an extended period of still silence, one of us casually spoke: “It’s all good. Bears hate cheese.”

Despite this epiphany, our bear and scent related issues were far from over. Crossing the stream in the quickly fading light, I sought a good branch from which to hang our food bags. I found one, tied one end of our rope around a stick, and tried to throw the stick over the branch. The rope got tangled up in several branches. In a misguided effort to liberate it, I tried to throw the other end over, effectively entangling all of our rope—except the small piece I was using as a belt—in a tree. Unable to pull it down, I took out my knife and cut it at the highest point I could reach. After two days, 40 of our 50 feet of rope was lost.

By that point it was already pretty dark. I spotted a low, broken branch and decided to go through with the horrible idea I’d originally planned in my ignorance to use every night: I went to get Chandler and our food bags, returned to the far side of the stream, and told Chandler to get on my shoulders. After 14 miles that day, I forced my knees to straighten under Chandler’s weight and he hung the food-filled drawstring bags from the remnant of what was once a tree branch. Glad to have that problem solved, we crossed back over to the tent side and went to covering our bags for the night. But the problem wasn’t solved. Unexpectedly, Chandler spoke:

 

“Shit.

 

I forgot the peanut butter was still in my pack.”

 

Now in pitch blackness, we crossed the stream one last time. I squatted Chandler up so he could reach the bags and set him back down so he could put the peanut butter jar inside. Then, I squatted him again to place the bag back in the tree. It was awful.

With a protective barrier of bear-repellant cheese surrounding camp, we laid down to close out day two, a proud 6 miles ahead of schedule.