 Screamer Standing thirty feet away or thirty inches, he spoke in the same loud voice. That's why we called him Screamer. "We" were hikers on the Appalachian Trail. Each year, millions of people use those 2,169 miles of footpath extending from Georgia to Maine, for recreation. They come from all states and countries, ages and backgrounds. Some walk short distances within a day's time, while others enjoy longer treks of a week or more. Three years ago, I became one of a growing minority of hikers who cover the entire distance in a single, continuous journey. Hiking northbound on the the white-blazed footpath, I occasionally spent time in the presence of the young man eventually dubbed Screamer. The sum of those encounters left a lasting impression, and when asked about the trail on which I spent six months of my thirty-second year, I always think of that particular, somewhat mysterious character. I first encountered him soon after entering Smoky Mountain National Park. My eyes on the ground just ahead of my feet, where I'd become accustomed to looking after more than 170 miles of watching for rocks and roots, I didn't see the disheveled man who sat against a boulder at the side of the trail, until I nearly stepped on his outstretched legs. Startled, I glanced at his dark eyes and uttered a quick hello. Most of his face was concealed by a thick, black beard, and the long hair pressed around his cheeks and forehead by a knit cap. He pulled his legs to his chest, clearing the way for me to pass, but didn't respond to my half-hearted greeting. A second brief look sufficiently sized up the young man's gear. He wore tennis sneakers but no socks, a gray, hooded sweatshirt zipped to his neck, and red gym pants. Lashed together and to his back with rope were various articles of clothing, a silver tarp, and a heavy-looking black blanket. I noticed two bulging grocery bags at his sides. But there was no backpack, no Gortex or Polypropylene in sight. Having halted my forward motion for only a moment, I continued trudging, giving no more thought to man who clearly wasn't a typical hiker. When, an hour or so later, I saw that man again, the differences between "us" and him became even more apparent. My two hiking companions caught up with me just before we arrived at the day's first shelter and as my empty stomach began to complain that lunch had been too long in coming. Digger sat beside me on a fallen log, while Joker dug through his backpack and removed a large Zip-loc baggie full of trail mix. "Did you see that guy back there?" Digger asked as she began unwrapping a bagel. Though we'd encountered several other hikers that morning, all but one had been familiar to us. Joker and I nodded. "Have you seen him before?" was my question. Two heads shook. And that was the end of the subject. Filling our hungry hiker bellies was a much more pressing issue. Ten minutes later, the man in the red pants shuffled in. As we three watched, silently chewing, he went about his business. Despite what appeared to be nothing but damp wood all around, the stranger soon had a fire crackling in the open pit in front of the dingy, three-sided shelter. In the flames he placed a blackened soup can filled with water from a nearby spring, and in that water went a handful of spaghetti he'd pulled from one of his plastic grocery bags. The man proceeded with other chores I couldn't figure out and spoke more than loud enough for the three of us on the log to hear. The monologue was disjointed, nonsensical. And not once did he look our way. Truth be told, I was glad. As the water came to a boil, the man reached into the flames and shoved the spaghetti further into the can. He quickly withdrew his hand, and that's when I noticed the burns. He'd cooked this way before. No compact backpacker stove, titanium pot or handy gripper. Lunch eaten and miles to go before we'd stop for the night, my friends and I again hoisted our packs and moved on, leaving the strange stranger behind, sitting alone, eating plain spaghetti with his soot- and sore-covered fingers. Several hours later, I lay warm in my synthetic sleeping bag on the upper tier of a crowded shelter, satisfied after another day of fresh air and adventure. The sun was setting and the temperature dropping rapidly, a storm approaching with the increasing wind. How glad I was to be under that metal roof as I looked out through bear-proof chainlink fencing across the front of the shelter. And then I saw the red pants again. They stood out amongst the leafless trees. He'd passed the side of the shelter and stopped maybe a dozen yards up the trail. At first, he looked ahead with his back to the rest of us, who stopped chatting and watched. The hood of his sweatshirt was now pulled up over the knit cap, his arms crossed tightly on his chest. Toasty in my sleeping bag, I tried to imagine being cold. He certainly was. The stranger looked back at twenty hikers in a shelter intended for twelve. There was silence on both ends of the stare. Should we try to squeeze in one more, I wondered. But still I said nothing. Didn't really matter, I supposed, for no sooner had the man looked back than he turned again and disappeared into the darkening forest. That night, as the lightning flashed and the rain made quite a din on that metal roof over my head, I wondered what it was like to be him. Dawn brought with it colder air and more precipitation. I took a deep breath, removed my jacket and fleece pullover, stepped from beneath the eave of the shelter, and lowered my head against the rain as I continued northward. As long as I kept moving, the exertion and my long-sleeved, Capilene shirt would keep me warm. Fog descended, and I hiked alone for hours, no one in sight ahead or behind. I drank and ate as I walked, grabbing my water bottle, candy bars and handfuls of trail mix out of my hip pouch, while the dampness worked its way into my leather boots. Suddenly, I stopped and listened. I heard only the pattering of raindrops and a distant bird call. Must have been the leaves crunching beneath my own feet, I decided and resumed my steps. After no more than ten paces, however, I stopped again. This time, the sound I thought I'd heard before paused, but not at the same instant I had. Turning around, I could just barely see him. He stood motionless in the trail, maybe thirty feet behind, those red pants of his bright enough to penetrate the white mist. Without a word or wave, I moved on. Then minutes later, I again stopped and turned my head. And he stopped. So I continued. Repeating this scenario a fourth time, I chose to step off the trail and wait for him to pass. He'd been closer than before. As he walked by, we looked at one another but still said nothing. Alone once more, I hiked a couple of miles with my own thoughts. Immersed in a daydream and the now heavy rain overtaking most other sounds, I didn't hear footsteps approaching from behind. I must have sensed the presence though, because I looked back yet again. All I could figure was that he'd stepped off the trail to rest or relieve himself perhaps, when I must have passed in the fog. And yet again, those red pants glowed in the whiteness. This time, I kept moving. An hour later, soaked through to my numbed skin, I was still going at a good clip. No longer was the hiking enough to keep me warm. My thoughts were now focused on the dry clothes at the bottom of my backpack, and the hot meal I'd eat after changing into them. That is, the hot meal I'd eat in the presence of other hikers. That strange man was still behind me -- how far back, I didn't know -- but I kept my gaze on the trail ahead. Within minutes, I was safely amongst friends in a full shelter, with with wet clothing, backpacks, footwear and miscellaneous gear hanging from from the ceiling, walls and nylon cords, as if a pressure cooker full of hiker paraphernalia had exploded. All occupants were asleep by sundown. But no sign of the man in the red pants. Digger, Joker and I succumbed to the allure of town -- an unplanned visit to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Days of cold rain and the previous night's ice storm, though beautiful in its aftermath, had rendered us vulnerable to visions of hot showers, cheeseburgers and soft beds. When we emerged from the woods at Indian Gap, the first of only two road-crossings on the Appalachian Trail within Smoky Mountain National Park, we couldn't resist the opportunity to pay five dollars apiece for the 15-mile ride to town. Before climbing into the entrepreneur's van, we had our next sighting of the red pants. The top half of the man wearing them was inside the garbage can. As I lifted my pack into the vehicle and proceeded to climb in, I heard a gleeful exclamation. From my passenger window, I watched a very thin, smiling man in a hooded sweatshirt and gym pants hold up a baggie full of dried somethingorother. Before we'd pulled out of the parking area, there was again just a red torso and two sneakered feet hanging out of the trash. Twenty-four hours later, after spending more time and money in Gatlinburg than I'd expected to, I was back on the trail. A late start for a day of hiking. My two companions and I didn't travel far. After just a few easy miles, we arrived at the newly remodeled Icewater Spring Shelter, with skylights and a covered patio but no chainlink between the occupants and the view. Fourteen people were already there, but the new shelter was roomier than most I'd seen thus far in the Smokies. Plenty of space for more. By dusk, thick clouds were moving in. Rain was imminent. That evening, all but one of those present sat under the shelter overhang, cooking and eating dinner. I took a seat next to Mike, as he fired up his stove. That's when he called to the man in the red pants, who was huddled on the ground aways in front of the shelter, his knees pulled to his chest as he rocked. "Hey, Brandon! Want some hot water?" Until that moment, there hadn't been much conversation going on in the shelter. But there had been looks, both at the man on the ground and one another. All activity had ceased when Mike had spoken. He knew the stranger's name; that made me smile. The man in the red pants had a friend among us. And he would soon have more. "Only if it's extra, man!" Brandon called back. "Come on," Mike told him. "Come get some hot water. You need some coffee? Here, have some." Brandon stood and took a few steps towards those who were watching him. "Hey, man, only if it's extra! I don't want it if it ain't extra!" And that's pretty much how the dialogue went for the next few minutes, before Brandon was finally sipping coffee out of his blackened can, with the cuffs of his sweatshirt pulled over his hands. He sat back down on the ground, but this time right in front of the shelter. And now he was talking -- shouting -- non-stop. By nightfall, Brandon was no longer sitting apart from the group, and the group was no longer quiet. After our new friend had accepted the coffee from Mike, others began offering their "extras." Two children, with their parents for an overnight in the mountains, begged Mom and Dad in hushed voices for something to feed Brandon. They were handed more from the family food bag than they could carry. That night, Brandon ate enough to satisy three hungry hikers, and he did so under the metal roof. He was even told he would be sleeping in the shelter that night, all other occupants enthusiastically agreeing and quickly shifting gear to make room. Thanks to Mike, the ice at Icewater Spring Shelter had been broken. "Are you sure there's room?" Brandon asked for a third time. "Someone else needs that space a lot more than me!" Again the group insisted, and Brandon at last conceded with a smile. "Don't worry!" he shouted. "I'm real skinny! I'll only take up one plank, maybe two! But if I sleep on my side, only one!" Then, before he rolled himself up in his silver tarp and black blanket cocoon, he screamed louder than ever. "This is the best Easter I've ever had!" From that point on, Brandon was no longer stared at in silence. And few tried to avoid looking at him. Now and then, I would see someone who'd never met the man in the red pants look at him with what appeared to be a mix of critical surprise and a bit of fear -- being out in the woods with this odd person -- but that reaction would usually give way to some measure of acceptance once he or she heard another hiker call him Screamer. Brandon now had a trail name. Over the next several weeks, I saw Screamer sporadically, at shelters, in passing on the trail, and a few times in towns where most long-distance A.T. hikers resupply, shower, do their laundry, and eat as much as their shrinking stomaches can hold -- all sorts of goodies that can't reasonably or possibly be carried in a backpack. Ah, the ice cream! But Screamer was always in that sweaty, hooded sweatshirt and those dirty, red pants, dumpster-diving or collecting cans. On several occasions, I overheard him asking motel and restaurant owners if he might work for lodging or a meal. Then I usually heard a very adamant "No." Despite his circumstances, however, Screamer always had a smile to share. At least, he did with me. Every time he saw me, he'd shout, "Debraaaa!" How did he know my real name? Everyone else on the trail called me Ramkitten. I'd always respond, "Brandoooon!" And Brandon ... Screamer found other things to share, as well. A travel mug, for instance. He'd found one in a trash can. Though he had no other cup, Screamer gave his lucky find to another hiker who also had few belongings and nowhere off the trail to hang his floppy hat. Perhaps it was the combination of Screamer's reluctance to take and eagerness to give what someone else might need more than he, along with the inspiration of trail life, or maybe it was simply the doings of kind hearts, but I witnessed a number of people on and involved with the Appalachian Trail give of themselves and what they had to the man who, at one time, most of us didn't speak to. "I couldn't believe it!" he exclaimed one night, as several of us sat around a campfire at Flint Mountain Shelter. "A whole thing of mountain butter! And pasta, man! It was like Christmas! You wouldn't believe what people throw away! Not even opened, man!" Screamer smiled and so, then, did the rest of us. But I wondered if anyone else was feeling a little awkward. I was thinking of a leftover pasta meal I'd thrown away at the last town -- food I could have held onto long enough to find a hiker box to leave it in. I'd never do that again. As Screamer continued to describe the many wonders of a garbage can, I wasn't the only one who noticed his feet. He'd taken off his soaked and beaten sneakers, and was wandering around the shelter area in his even more tattered bare feet. I could hardly stand to look at the open, bleeding sores. Sailboat was quick to react. Out of his own pack he pulled a pair of brand new socks. Thick socks. The fifteen-dollar-a-pair kind of thick socks. He held them out to Screamer, who looked from those socks to Sailboat with wide eyes. "Oh, no, I can't take those, man! They're too nice! And they're yours, man!" An exchange much like the one about Mike's coffee followed, resulting in a pair of socks more appreciated and held in higher esteem than any pair of socks may ever have been. Screamer blessed both Sailboat and those socks time and again. "And they'll keep your feet warm even when they get wet," said their previous owner. "They have wool in them." "Oh, no, man, I won't get them wet! They're too nice! I won't wear them unless it's dry!" That night, Brandon slept on the ground next to the fire pit -- his choice -- with those new, priceless possessions of his rolled up in the black blanket and silver tarp with him. He wasn't the only one who fell asleep with a smile. The next afternoon, as Sailboat and I hiked together in silence following two hours of logic-problem-solving to occupy our minds, we came upon Screamer doing his usual, slow shuffle. As I'd seen him do numerous times, he picked up a piece of trash at the side of the trail and put it in one of his grocery bags. "This stuff belongs in a garbage can!" he shouted, though I was standing only inches away. And that's where the stuff went to if Screamer packed it out. My friend in the red pants toted many more pounds of trash off the Appalachian Trail than any single hiker I've ever known. For the next few hours, Sailboat and I walked and talked with Screamer, who more than once commented on how much he was enjoying our company. He was very low on supplies, he said as he picked up another candy wrapper, and was therefore pressing on to Erwin, Tennessee to look or work for some food. At that point, I had none to share. And that would be the only time I'd hike with Screamer and the last day I would see him on the trail. I did hear, "Debraaaa!" once in Damascus, Virginia, and looked across the busy street to see the still-disheveled man in those same dirty, red pants and sweaty, hooded sweatshirt smile through all that thick, black facial hair. I waved back, but that had been the extent of our final exchange. As often happens on the Appalachian Trail, you can hike with someone for weeks or months even, and suddenly that person is gone. You may not see your hiking buddy again. A half-mile behind or a quarter-mile ahead may as well be a thousand miles if one doesn't catch up or slow down long enough to meet the other. Which is what happened with Screamer and me; I got ahead, and that, as they say, was that. During the remaining four months of my hike and occasionally afterwards at trail-related gatherings or when e-mailing with another hiker I'd met on my journey, I inquired about Screamer. Had anyone seen him after that day in Damascus? Did anyone know how far north he'd gone? And what about after that? I got only dribs and drabs of information, some of which didn't jive. But between the little I heard from others and that one day I hiked and spoke with Screamer at length, I was able to gleen a bit of history about the man I'd nearly tripped over in the Smokies on April 18, 2000. I heard, for instance, about the hundreds of miles he'd walked on Florida and Georgia highways, before a cop had picked him up and said, "If you wanna walk, see those white paint marks on those trees? Follow those, not the ones on the road." At first, Screamer hadn't known the name of the trail he was on. He didn't know how far that trail went or where it went. He'd never walked on a trail before, he'd said, but he'd lived on the streets for years. Also said something about being a bike messenger in New York City. And he mentioned an accident too. Whatever the case may have been, Screamer was certainly not a typical hiker. He was, however, most definitely one of us.  |