The Appalachian Chronicles: Shades of Gray, Page 2

  Chapter I

  May 26th

  9:30 am

  Half-listening to Max whistle, I sat checking mileage estimates for our next week of hiking. He slowly circled his cup above the few remaining embers of our fire, while I tried to make out his tune. The song sounded as if it was an octave too low and each note was drawn-out, perhaps, an extra eighth or quarter. I couldn’t tell if the tune was meant to be a soothing one, like the sound of a parent softly singing a child to sleep; or, if it was a lonely message to someone who had been lost long ago. The truth is I couldn’t tell if his song had any intent at all, but I could see as he gazed into the fire that there was something longing in his eyes.

  When clipping along the trail at an energetic pace, Max typically whistles classic sounds from the 60’s and early 70’s. Nearly a half-generation younger, I prefer the sounds of the late 70’s and 80’s. While Max saunters along whistling “No Where Man”, I’m often pounding the trail a few hundred yards ahead and breathlessly singing “Running on Empty.” On a rare occasion we might find common ground in a tune like “Let it Be” or “Stairway to Heaven”. Somewhere along the way, though, a subtle change had come over Max. It was as if the many long, and sometimes lonely, days on the trail had allowed something from his past, something repressed, to creep back to the edge of his consciousness. And, for the last few weeks, at the beginning and end of each day, especially when he sat alone engaged in mindless activity, his repertoire was more spiritual.

  He swirled his cup again and I listened carefully. He was whistling “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” I wanted to ask him why he had chosen that tune, but I felt that any inquiry would be a rude intrusion, so I was content to wait, believing that in time the answer would be revealed.

  Suddenly stopping in the middle of his song, Max gave me a distracted look. “Where do we go today?” he asked.

  “Matt’s Creek Shelter.”

  “How far?” Max learned weeks ago that each day’s destination was chosen in part to maintain a minimum daily mileage. Today’s distance was average, and the hike was mostly downhill.

  “It’s a little over twelve miles and three thousand feet net change in elevation. Minus three thousand feet,” I emphasized.

  “Three thousand,” he said, sounding a bit more cheerful. “Sounds like my kind of day.”

  A slight breeze was blowing from the northwest. The cool temperature and the clear horizon promised a good day for hiking. I looked at Max and drawled, “Yeah. Looks perfect to me.”

  Max began to swirl his cup over the fire again and he asked, “Matt’s Creek. Who do you suppose Matt was – or is?”

  I folded the waterproof trail chart and slipped it into my pack and considered Max’s question. I often wondered who or what the various landmarks along the trail were named after. I knew the significance of some names – like the nearby Spyglass Hill, where Confederate sentries kept a lookout for Union troops that marauded up-and-down the Shenandoah Valley during the Civil War. But there were many others – lonely places named after people like Tinker or Campbell. These names, I realized, represented a piece of history. A creek first used by a man named Tinker to meet a basic need for water; or, perhaps, a shelter bearing the name Campbell, after an almost forgotten soldier who died for his country. There were hundreds of these creeks, cliffs, and shelters along the Appalachian Trail, but I knew little about their history and even less about people they honored. I was contemplating my previous lack of curiosity when a loud sound ripped through our tranquil morning ritual.

  KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

  Max jumped up and asked, “What was that?”

  “I don’t know – thunder?”

  “Don’t think so,” Max said as he looked overhead.

  KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

  “Man!” I exclaimed.

  “Explosives. A quarry, maybe?”

  I looked at Max and said, “Come on, let’s climb up there.” I pointed to a nearby ridge and began to run. Max poured out his coffee and followed. The ridge was probably a hundred feet up, steepest near the top, and there was a side-trail with several switchbacks.

  “Sounded like a cannon. What do you think it is?” I shouted.

  “I don’t know,” Max hollered. We took a shortcut across the first two switchbacks; but the hill was too steep to shortcut the others.

  KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm! I stopped to listen to the sound echo through the mountains.

  We ran as hard as we could. Max and I were panting. My legs and lungs burned, and the loose soil and rocks sliding out from under my feet slowed me down. I wanted to ease up, but I lifted my knees and pumped my arms. I was three-quarters of the way up the side trail and Max was not far behind.

  KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

  Rounding the final switchback, I looked out over the horizon. In the distance I could see the peak called Sharp Top, but couldn’t see anything that would account for the thundering sound. I stopped running and began to walk. Gasping for air and disoriented, I tried to determine precisely what direction the sound was coming from.

  When I crested the ridge and looked across the wide valley I saw multiple lines of people below. Some were wearing what I presumed were uniforms with dark shirts or jackets and blue trousers. Others wore lighter uniforms. There were lines on either side of the field facing each other. A few of the men were scattered behind what appeared to be an embankment and others were hiding behind rocks. Beginning to realize what was happening, I held my hand above my eyes in order to focus on the flags held by each army. One appeared to be an American flag and the other was mostly red. A Confederate flag, I thought. Squinting, as the sun reflected off the many tents that were arranged in an orderly fashion at either end of the battlefield, it became clear to me that this was some kind of mock battle.

  KABOOM, BOOM, booM, ooMm, omm!

  Max stepped onto the top of the ridge and we watched rings of smoke rising simultaneously from three separate cannons.

  “A reenactment,” Max sighed. Standing half bent over, with his hands on his knees, panting, he added, “They have ’em in the Valley all the time.”

  Plumes of smoke rose from muskets and rifles. A few seconds later we heard the crackle of gunfire. “Why?” I asked.

  “Who cares,” he replied as though it was too much trouble to explain. He stepped away from the ridge.

  I’m not sure why I responded to Max the way I did; maybe I didn’t believe he was as disinterested as he let on. Perhaps his seeming lack of interest made me more interested – it was true that Max and I would occasionally antagonize each other, after all, we were brothers. Maybe it was something else; maybe, for reasons I could not understand, a part of me needed to investigate more closely. Perhaps I sensed that I would find some answers; like some who gives up five or six months of their life to hike the Appalachian Trail I expected to gain something from the experience. There was one thing I was certain of, however, I was eager to take a break from hiking. Thinking back to that day, I now believe it was for all of those reasons that I pointed to the valley and said, “Let’s go down there.”

  “For what?” asked Max, although his response seemed more like a statement than a question. “I’m not going down there. We’re already a week behind.”

  “We can go out to the road and catch a ride.”

  “No way,” he said.

  “I want to go.”

  “It’s a waste of time.”

  “I’m curious,” I said, aware that Max was annoyed with me. “After all, there are hundreds of people marching around down there, dressed up in Civil War uniforms, and they’re shooting cannons and rifles.” I added, “Aren’t you curious?”

  “No,” Max replied flatly.

  I didn’t understand Max’s reluctance. Although he was good about sticking with our daily plans, he always agreed with me whenever I suggested that we take a brief respite from hiking. “Look,” I said, “I just want to see it for myself. That’s all.”


  “Okay, you go. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  “Just go for a little while,” I pleaded. “Then we can catch a ride back up here – promise.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Frustrated with Max, I began to skip down the mountain. I was moving fast and afraid that if I moved any faster I would fall, head first, onto the loose rocks and spend the rest of the morning cleaning cinders from my hands and knees. Max followed more slowly and deliberately.

  Once back at the campsite, I started packing my gear.

  “You really going?” Max asked when he arrived.

  “Yep.”

  “Doesn’t leave me much choice.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be back later.”

  “No. I’m going,” said Max.

  I smiled, and we quietly finished packing our gear, as the distant thunder of the cannons echoed around the mountain walls.

  “What’s the name of this spot?” Max asked.

  “Matt’s Creek Shelter?”

  “Not the shelter.”

  “Oh,” I said. “You mean – Thunder Hill.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’s appropriate.”

  As I tied the drawstring on the top of my pack, Max stoked the gray coals from our fire; they turned red and then faded. He poured more water on the embers and they hissed as the steam floated away. Satisfied that the fire was out, he stepped on the coals and ground them into little pieces. “That okay?” he asked.

  “Good enough. Let’s go,” I said. As we walked away from the campsite, I looked back at the spot where we had had the fire. Staring blankly at the charred remains, I recalled the image of Max, sitting there alone, swirling his cup, and whistling.