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Travels with Georgie, 2.1
Reflections in the mind of George Crocker
November 4, 2033
‘Blue…’
A long, singular thought crept into George Crocker’s mind as he blinked his eyes against the bright light.
‘Blue…’
It was a few – quite a few, disjointed and disoriented moments before another thought came to mind.
‘Ouch…’
A sharp, pointed rock was poking into his shoulder. ‘Right where the rhomboid is’ came oddly before ‘Where am I?’ Both thoughts came to him as he sat up. ‘Blue…’ Above him, a stellar, crisp early November sky. ‘Not a cloud’ as he began to focus on where he was. Then, surrounding him – barren trees, mostly lacking leaves. Hiding in the distance, peeking through what would have otherwise been a dense forest, were a few sporadic evergreens ‘Christmas trees’ George would think, once he was fully focused.
“Yes…”he spoke aloud to no one – for there was no one around. George Crocker was totally alone, atop ‘Springer Mountain…’ he finally recognized, and then it all came back to him. He closed his eyes and fell backwards “Ouch!”
George Crocker – one-time budding baseball star – turned broadcaster, stretched his legs and stood up, with difficulty as his back balked at any quick motion. “Yeah, you try sleeping on a peak at 51-years of age!” speaking to - ‘No one’ – the universe? Hard to say. Sometimes George Crocker just speaks to hear himself talk. ‘So, this is what it’s going to be like…’
Walking over to a clear spot he stopped and looked about in awe – the view from atop the mountain was impressive – if not for the forest; the clear sky and cold air magnifying the image perfectly, as his eyes were taking in. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his chapstick and ran it over his lips. ‘God I’m thirsty’, and he continued to turn slowly around, admiring the view until he saw his pack off to the side, leaning up against a small boulder. He walked over and grabbed his ‘canteen’ water bottle and had a long swig – he abruptly stopped himself ‘I better not drink this all now…’ “Who knows where the next stream may be.”
Screwing the top back on, he put it back in the holder attached to his pack’s belt and groaned as he stood up, leaned backwards and stretched the back again. George took a deep breath ‘Blue…’ and let it out in one big horse whiney.
He looked back at his pack and the trail behind it, then the other way and he was able to pick out the trail leading across the summit of Springer Mountain, and the tree with the white blaze marking the descent he had instore for him. That’s when he realized ‘I’m hungry’ and went back to his pack, unzipped the flat-pocket on the top of the pack and pulled out a Power Bar – an old-fashion kind, chewy, peanut butter, and sat on top of the boulder his pack rested against and devoured the bar.
George surveyed the mountain top, took a deep breath and sighed it away. He looked down at his feet ‘What have you got yourself into, George Crocker?’
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Once he had quickly surveyed the gear – under the watchful eyes of ‘Mordred’ and ‘Dandelo’, transferred it to his car for the night, and got into the camper, he could hear the ‘cops’ talking to each other, but without being able to understand what they were saying – low and garbled, almost a whisper – ‘taunting’, or so George felt. It wasn’t long before they got in their car and drove off. George waited half an hour before he was sure they were gone, and then climbed out of the camper. “What the fuck…” George seldom swore, but if there was a time that warranted a curse word ‘this was it’. He stood there, for a good long while – staring at the sky, the trees, the ground – all the while, shaking his head in disbelief.
He walked back over to his car and opened the trunk. The gear was there. ‘Well, that’s something’, and George began to look it over again – this time with a discerning eye. Crampons and snowshoes, ‘These look pretty solid’, gaiters, multiple layers of shirts of variable quality, to keep him warm ‘or cool’ he thought. A pair of sturdy looking shoes ‘Vibram sole’, new and “What the fuck…” ‘George Crocker, it’s just been one of those days…’ “they are already broken in? ‘How…’ “How?? And food. Not copious amounts of food, but ‘enough for dinner and to take on the trail and get me to Neels Gap and Mountain Crossings.’ Gloves, four pair of socks ‘maybe one too many’ a “Groovy” pair of shades, a light weight yet ‘high-test’ jacket and rain poncho “That’ll come in handy if I get a lot of snow – this won’t freeze!”. A pair of sturdy telescoping hiking poles, a couple of beanies ‘with the optional mask’… Even a solar charger for his phone ‘These guys didn’t miss a trick!’
“Looks like they thought of everything – and they didn’t skimp on the quality” He said aloud to nobody – save the squirrels ‘Shouldn’t they be hibernating? Should I be hibernating?’
Examining the gear had allowed him a moment of clarity – the realization that he did have the gear he would need to make this journey was reassuring. ‘Steve Hott didn’t let me down’ was his first thought, followed by ‘Maybe those cops were just making sure I got here ok, and received the gear I was promised’. He looked up from the gear scattered about the trunk and then he thought of ‘the drugs’ “Yeah, that’s no bueno. What’s that about Steve Hott?”
George repacked the gear that he didn’t need for now – throwing the sleeping bag and some layers of clothes into the camper, then set up the stove ‘They even left me a steak and a couple of gallons of water’ and cooked himself some dinner. He took his plate of food and a trail guide that was with the gear ‘this is way better than what I had put together’, over to the lone picnic table in the parking area and began the mental process of putting the first few days into his head.
“Let’s see,” he began between bites of a pretty tasty steak “it’s 4.3 miles ‘pretty much all downhill’ to Three Forks ‘that’ll be a nice spot for lunch, I bet’ and then all uphill to Hawk Mountain shelter.” ‘First night on the trail’. Never a math whiz, George jumbled the numbers in his head, nonetheless “That’s a 700-foot gain in three-and-a-half miles ‘ugh’, not too bad…” He cocked his head to the right, trying to convince himself ‘you’re not fooling anyone, George’. “We got this!”
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George Crocker didn’t even remember falling asleep – it was as if the ‘emotional’ trauma of the day crashed into him as soon as he laid down in what he had felt was the perfect sleeping bag ‘of course’. He awoke to the sound of his phone alarm buzzing ‘I want to be long gone before those two come back’. He peeked out the camper window ‘Yay!’ and he saw he was alone – just the ’82 Firebird sitting lonely in the lot.
Hurriedly he threw his clothes on and hopped out of the camper. A low, winter fog ‘tule fog, isn’t that what they call it’ lingered, close to the ground, making it much colder than George had thought it was. “This looks like it’ll lift soon”, and he’d be right. But first, he hustled over to his car – “I’m going to miss you ‘Helena? Celeste? Susannah?’, I do hope I see you in 40-days”, opened the trunk ‘Gear still here’ and grabbed the breakfast bar and a handful of gorp from the bag that he had left out. “Good thing Mr. Yogi is sleeping with the squirrels ‘or is he?’”, and with that, he gobbled the food up. ‘Yup – I’m getting out of Dodge before the sheriff returns to haul me away!’.
When George had finally got things together and was ready to leave, he pulled out his phone and called up his Twitter feed. He stood for a while – one foot perched on the bumper of the camper as he stretched his groin, thinking what to say. He smiled, typed out a short message – re-read it and smiled again ‘that’s so George Crocker’ and pressed send. With that, he hefted his pack onto his back, picked up the two hiking poles and set off on the trail. He walked just a short way and turned, looking back at the camper, the ’82 Pontiac Firebird ‘Susannah? Helena? Celeste?’ and asked himself ‘did that all really happen’ and paused for a minute.
“I guess I have 40-days to figure that out…” and with that, he turned and began his journey – and he would never see that camper again.
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George sat there, staring at his feet for a long time – so long that he suddenly realized he ‘should get my ass in gear’ otherwise he’d be spending the night. “George Crocker, you have 8-miles of hiking to get in and it ain’t going to get much lighter.” With that he stood up, grabbed his gear and headed back to the trail.
He turned and looked behind him – to where he just had some lunch, and beyond. ‘They’ve come and gone – haven’t they…?’ He stared, resisting the urge to hike back and look – to prove one way or the other that it had all really happened. He shook his head.
“George, I am, there for, we hike!’
He turned, took a step, and a whole lot more followed as he descended Springer Mountain and set forth on his journey.
November 8, 2033
The hot water sprayed over George Crocker’s face ‘and doesn’t that just feel terrific’ as he showered for the first time in ‘a week?’ quite a while. For a man of many words, all George could muster was “Ah…”
He had arrived at Mountain Crossing a little later in the day than he had hoped – he chose to sleep in after the grueling 12-mile day before, that had him rollercoaster up and down four ridges between Gooch Mountain shelter – his second night on the trail, and Woods Hole shelter for night three. What George had neglected to account for was the 800-foot climb he would have up to Blood Mountain – in just 1.3-miles. ‘That was a slow slog’ George thought to himself. By the time he got his legs moving again at the summit, the sun was low in the sky ‘Good thing it’s only 2-miles to Neels Gap’ so he carefully hustled himself down the trail.
George arrived at dusk, to find that the hostel was empty ‘at least I got that one right’ and that he had the choice of the lot of beds. He desperately wanted to throw himself on the bed of choice ‘I’ve been on worse – I remember a night down in Santiago – they had us sleeping on hay’, but he knew if he did, there would be no dinner. He chose real food.
When he awoke the next morning, he checked his gear ‘ample gas for the stove’, his clothes ‘not hummin’ too badly’ and food ‘somebody nailed it on the food; was that me?’ He checked his stomach “Time for some chow, George Crocker!”
Breakfast was pancakes, pancakes, pancakes and a couple of fried eggs – and bacon! George was in 7th Heaven ‘And a strong cup of coffee’. He tried to savor the experience ‘oh my god, this is the best breakfast – EVER’ but instead he found himself shoveling the food in, ending up feeling all bloated and sleepy. “Man… George…” lazily, “You can’t afford a late start today.” He had four good climbs and a long drop to finish the 11-miles to Low Gap Shelter.
Instead of crashing, George went to the market to buy fresh supplies. “Instant soup… Instant pasta… Instant oatmeal… pita bread…” ‘beef jerkey’ “Yum!” He splurged and bought 6-eggs, only because they had a nifty plastic egg carrier in a display next to the eggs. He picked up a small container of peanut butter ‘I think we have enough to get us to Hiawassee’ and put it down. “Three tough days ahead…”
With the shopping done, he grabbed another coffee and sat outside and enjoyed the cool air. ‘Another beautiful day’ he thought. He sipped his coffee and his mind drifted over the past days – the lovely lunch at Three Forks, the janky shelter at Hawk Mountain and the slightly nicer one at Gooch Mountain and the gorgeous views around Woody Gap along a lengthy ridge. ‘I’ve almost come to believe that the whole thing wasn’t real – I just dreamed it all’ “That’s it – all a dream…”
November 11
George was cold. Real cold. He lay in his sleeping bag and his breath was clearly visible and he was cold. There had been clouds that came in late the night before, obscuring the stars, as he camped out in his bivouac - for the first time because the Tray Mountain shelter was closed for ‘renovations’ ‘Renovations…’ George Crocker thought to himself ‘what were they doing? Adding marble countertops and putting shiplap on the walls??’ None of that mattered, because this morning, George Crocker was ‘freezing’ cold.
Three days ago, when he left Neels Gap and the Mountain Crossing store and hostel, the weather was nice. Almost mild, and his up-and-down day of climbing ridges was uneventful – aside from the anticipation one feels as they climb a ridge, waiting for the trees to pull away, and the mountains to drop and expose a grand view ‘Yes, grand indeed’. The all-day climb to Blue Mountain two days ago was equally nice ‘was there a moment I hiked downhill on that day?’. “Yesterday,” as George sat up in his shelter, trying to quickly get his jacket on “yesterday got kind of cold ‘but wasn’t it just the high altitude start and finish?’ but even so, when he put up the bivvie on the edge of the ridge with the killer view, the sky was clear.
Unzipping the opening of the bivouac, he began climbing out of the shelter – then stopped dead in his ‘crawl’ tracks.
‘Snow…’
Not a lot, but enough to remind George Crocker that it was just 2-weeks ‘til Thanksgiving – and that at 4,200’, it snows. ‘Well, George Crocker, you wanted an adventure – you’ve officially got one!’
It wasn’t far down the trail that George lost the snow – a 900-foot drop will do that, and by the time he ‘hauled my cookies’ up to Kelly Knob, there was no indication that it had snowed – clear sky, gentle breeze, but just ‘cold’.
It was sitting atop Kelly Knob, having lunch after the descent-erasing 900’ climb that George began reminiscing about the names of some of the places he’d passed. ‘Sassafras Gap… the Cheese Factory Site… Indian Grave Gap…’ “Man… there are some crazy nicknames out here! Imagine… Orinosuke ‘Chattahoochee’ Fujii – DUDE! Don’t that one just roll off your tongue? And… It Rhymes – WOOT WOOT!! Raul ‘Sheep Rock’ Munoz – now that’s hot! How about that kid at AAA right now – Jose Suarez? 6’11”. Didn’t he pitch a little this year. By Golly, George Crocker I reckon he did!” Crocker broke out, laughing about his silly ways, “Jose ‘Big Cedar’ Suarez!”
George Crocker might have stayed there all day – until it got dark, but a cloud floated overhead, blocking the sun, giving him a slight ‘man, it got chilly all of a sudden’ feel. It was just four miles and change to Dicks Creek Gap ‘Ooooo Boy… Don’t get me started on that one. That kid over in the Crystal Lake organization – Paddy ‘Dicks Creek Gap’ Woodger – Awesome Sauce!’ - but there was a modest climb in between – and he still had to hitch a ride to Hiawassee once he got there. “Oh, Georgie – doesn’t that just take you back to the day? Hitchin’ a ride, chattin’ up the girls… This whole hike has me feeling great!!” He stood, walked over to where he had parked his pack and before putting it on, he practiced thumbing for a ride – sticking his arm out, hand closed in a fist, thumb sticking out… moving his arm back and forth as if cars were driving past him on the mountain top. “Jerk…” ‘asshole’ “he called out at one of the imaginary drivers who passed him by. With that, he shouldered his pack and headed forward.
Dicks Creek Gap was more of a pull-out parking area on the side of the highway – no creek, no apparent gap and certainly ‘no one named Dick around here’, but there were a couple of cars parked ‘day hikers, no doubt’. It was very still – no breeze, no cars. Nothing.
George walked out to the edge of the highway and stuck his thumb out – even though there were no cars coming.
Five minutes went by before he heard the sound of a car coming.
George repositioned himself – shook his arm out and stuck his thumb out with vigor.
The vehicle approach slowly. It was non-descript – a non-descript shape, a non-descript color, but as it closed in on George Crocker, he got a bad feeling.
And as it passed George, before stopping ahead of him, he saw the star on the door - and his body froze.
He wanted to run ‘there’s nowhere to go’ but he was petrified. Instead, he turned and watched the passenger door swing open and the trunk pop open. George had no option. ‘I hoped this was all a dream’ as he walked to the car, dropped his pack in the trunk and closed the door. He climbed into the empty passenger seat and closed the door. George Crocker closed his eyes and took a deep breath ‘please, god, no…’ let it out ‘pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease’ and looked at the driver.
It wasn’t ‘Mordered’, just a random sheriff, looking as if he were off duty.
“Howdy…” he said to George Crocker “son, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
George Crocker felt like he had seen a ghost. He shivered, “I… I… I’m alright – just got a little chilled waiting for a car to come by – I’ve been waiting quite a bit” he lied.
“Good thing I came by, this road sees little traffic this time of year. Heading to Hiawassee?”
George turned his head and looked out the passenger window. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes and slowly let the air out of his lungs ‘please…’. He turned ‘not Mordred’ “Yes sir, much appreciated. But please, not ‘Son’ – we must be about the same age. I’m George.” And he held out his hand, relief flowing through his body.
“Oh, I know who you are…”
Please ride this series Mike!