Sunday Scribblings: Cornbread, folks along the Appalachian Trail

Today’s Sunday Scribblings assignment is to write about a fellow traveler. This is a continuation of a story I wrote last June (click here), which occurred when I was hiking the southern portion of the Appalachian Trail. The year was 1985; the real names (of those I know) have been changed. I should note that just this past month, after decades of saying I was going to get around to it, I finally read Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment (actually, I read only small sections of it, but I listened to the unabridged version on my ipod). I agree with Cornbread; it’s a good book. The picture is a copy of a photograph of me taken during this trip.



His name was Cornbread. No, that wasn’t his real name. I don’t think he ever said his real name, but Cornbread seemed to be a name that fit. Cornbread was a welcomed sight the afternoon climbed up Bly Gap and into North Carolina during the remnants of a tropical depression wringing itself dry over the Southern Appalachians. Muddy and cold, we were drawn toward Cornbread’s fire in the front of the shelter. Tipping his Mao Cap, he greeted us and asked what kind of crazy fools we were for hiking in such weather. Cornbread was a fair weather hiker. He didn’t have any place he needed to be and didn’t see the need to walk in the rain. Someone had left a copy of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment in the shelter and he’d spent the afternoon reading it. “It’s pretty good,” he said, “you all should read it.” I made a mental note to pick the book up.

Benjamin and I were just beginning the second week of a fourteen day trip, hiking from Springer Mountain, Georgia to Fontana Dam in North Carolina. Along with us was Peter, who’d been tagging along since Blood Mountain; a guy from Atlanta who turned out to be a part-timer herbal pharmacist; and my current girlfriend. She had arrived late the night before, bringing supplies for our second week along with several steaks that had been frozen and wrapped in newspaper and stowed in a cooler. They were still frozen when we left the parking lot at Dick’s Gap that morning, and would thaw out as we hiked and be ready for the coals at dinner,

Six of us crowded into a shelter designed for eight. Ropes were strung under the roof to serve as a clothes line and soon the place smelled of wet wool socks. We sat on the wooden floor, our pruned feet dangling over the side and toward Cornbread’s roaring bonfire. He was already at work. With his cast-iron skillet, some oil and untold numbers Martha White Cornbread packets, he sat out to make hoe-cakes for the crowd. Soon, we were all pitching in what we had for dinner. Our steaks were cut and cut in half, giving everyone a piece. Someone fixed rice, someone else fixed pudding. There was a pot of noodles and even some Jiffy popcorn, in the light tin pans that when shook over a fire expanded like the belly of a pregnant woman. It was a fine feast. Benjamin and I offered everyone a shot of Scotch that we might toast one another.

We sat around talking as the light drained from the sky, each of us sharing our stories. Cornbread told us about being an accountant on the Outer Banks. Many of his clients owned their own fishing and shrimping boats. One day he realized he was never going to get ahead in life, for the more he made the more he had to pay out. He owed alimony to two women and child-support to a third. So he quit his office job and hired on a hand on the boats, figuring that if he wasn’t going to make a living, he was at least going to enjoy what he was doing. While fishing, he read an article about the Appalachian Trail and decided he had to check it out. He set out to put together his grubstake, picking up an inexpensive backpack in a local store. Although his pack was named after some Himalayan peak, it made my back hurt just to look at it. He purchased a bulky sleeping back and collected some other gear together such as a frying pan and spatula. At the grocery store he stocked up on Martha White’s cornbread packets and headed to the trail. He wasn’t out to set any records; he just figured he could hide out and buy himself some time.

The next morning the skies cleared and everyone but Cornbread began to pack up for the day’s hike. He bid us farewell, tipping his cap and saying he didn’t have anything to do and could see no reason to move on till the puddles had dried out. When I looked back, he was engrossed in Dostoevsky.

I don’t know if his story was true, but it sounded good…