Creepy Guys, Part Two

It's been a while since I wrote about the creepy guys on the trail, so in order to balance the overwhelming stream of positivity that I've been blasting you all with, I figure it's about time I brought you all up to speed.  Before I go any farther with my story, I want you all to know this: my Uncle Mark gave me a small knife.  Now, I doubt very much that I'm going to use it for anything other than cutting neat slices of cheddar cheese (and I doubt that I'll even be doing that much, as I've been eating cheese directly from the package like a savage animal), but I thought you all should know.  I started the trail with both a trusty knife and a can of mace, but when I didn't use either for a week I sent them home.

One of the things that I heard a lot in my first week on the trail (and in some of the books I read before I started) was this: watch out for the town guys.  The idea was that guys from the towns I passed through weren't part of the thru-hiker community, and consequently could be planning nefarious things for all of us delicate-as-a-flower thru-hiking women. Well, my friends, as far as I can tell, that advice is bullshit. Bad guys are everywhere, and being a thru-hiker doesn't mean that any guy (or woman) is automatically safe for me to be around. (Furthermore, thru-hikers tend to smell... uh... unpleasant, and no townie, male or female, really wants to be around that kind of odor.)

I've noticed in the past few months that I'm getting a lot harder.  I've stopped giving guys second chances: you say something creepy or act weird around me, and I'm getting the hell away from you, immediately. I got into a conversation with a thru-hiker I met two weeks ago who told me that he started on January 1st (red flag: why aren't you farther ahead?), was hiking in jeans (red flag: cotton kills!), carried a BIG knife strapped to his hip (red flag: not necessary, unless you're completely paranoid), and who kept mentioning that he's spent a lot of time in town lately trying to get "medicine" (red flag: most people don't tell strangers about the "medicine" they need).  Anyhow, I recognized right away that I was supposed to be asking about this "medicine," but instead of playing along, I left as soon as I filled my platypus with water.  I didn't want to know, I didn't care, and I didn't have to ask.  So I didn't.

Back in North Carolina a thru-hiker in the bar was chatting with a group of us, when all of a sudden he looked me in the eye, said "I'm sorry, but I can't help it" and ruffled the stubble on the top of my head.  At first I laughed it off, but then I got royally pissed.  What right did he have to touch me?  None.  When he came over later to apologize I had one of those moments of clarity: I don't HAVE to be nice, I don't HAVE to smile and look pretty, and I don't HAVE to accept his apology.  So when he started to say he was sorry, I tore into him, telling him to keep his fucking hands to himself, and to get the hell out of the bar.  I said a couple other things too, which caused him to back up and leave the bar so quickly he didn't even say goodbye to his friends.  I haven't seen him since.

The creepiest guy I ran into out here, however, was a guy whose name is synonymous with those overnight flights from the west coast (I'll call him "RE").  I first met RE in Waynesboro, VA, when I was camping at the YMCA. I heard through the hiker gossip grapevine that he'd tried thru-hiking in 2009, but was arrested on a drug related charge, and when he tried to complete the hike in 2010 ended up locked up in a mental institution, which he had recently sprung himself from.  Now, I don't know if any of that is true, but I do know this: I don't like people who talk non-stop, are very twitchy, drink too much, and periodically break out into freestyle raps about the Appalachian Trail.  I hiked like hell to get away from him, but two weeks later I came across him at a shelter at lunchtime.  I kept my distance, setting up a good 30 feet away at a picnic table to start pulling together my lunch. He was acting a bit odd, but when he started having conversations with invisible people, giggling maniacally, and then barking (while all the time not noticing my presence) I packed up my lunch and left immediately.  If my phone had still had battery life I would have immediately called the police, but instead I hiked fast until I found a friend, and warned away everyone who was hiking south towards the shelter.  The next day, when I did have a working cell phone again, I texted all of my friends who were behind to give them a heads up.  At no point did RE bother me directly, but I sure as hell wasn't going to give him a chance to do so.

When I told these stories to my Aunt Margi today, she suggested that perhaps it isn't that I'm losing my niceness on the trail, but that I'm losing my naivete.  And I think she's right.  While there are lots of people who are absolutely amazing and wonderful and who consistently demonstrate the absolute apex of humanity, I'm recognizing more and more that there are also people with whom I do not want to give any of my time. So I don't.  And that's been fantastic.