By the time I find Rock Spring Hut in the early evening, the afternoon rain has subsided to spurts of sprinkles, but the wind won't be so easily discouraged. A gang of teenagers has already sprawled over the hut, exploding their packs over the raised floor and laying out sleeping bags on the low, balcony-like upper platform. I wonder whether I might be better off in my tent anyway. Although three sides of the hut are sturdy mortared rock supporting a homey shingled roof, the west side--facing a scenic break in the hills as well as the source of the wind--is missing. The wet-haired teenspeek out from between assorted pieces of clothing flapping from the overhang, determined to enjoy the lovely view of the Shenandoah Valley for a few hours. They finally give in to comfort and cover the opening with a blue tarp. Later, a cloud floats through camp, obscuring the view anyway.
Fortunately, there are half a dozen clear, level patches of ground designated for tents nearby. Three more tents go up that evening. Another group claims a private cabin a short ways downhill which boasts its own (locked!) outhouse. The rest of us use a public outhouse, which still feels like luxury after catholes. There are also a few bear poles for hanging food bags, which look like tall clothesline poles with metal arms radiating out from the top. Campers hoist their bags using a loose pole with a hook on its end chained nearby. The AT must be a regular tent metropolis in the height of summer.
These photos are of Gravel Springs Hut, which I visited later. It is equipped with a broom, a few outdated newspaper sections, and a hut book. In it, a park warden encourages Leave No Trace principles and reports on water levels at various springs. Last fall, a rash of “SOBO” through-hikers (“south-bound”) discussed the merits of various “trail names” (nicknames used when signing hut books), left restaurant and hotel recommendations for their northbound counterparts, and created another chapter of a rather graphic serialized story continued from previous hut books.
Leaving camp in the morning presents several difficulties. The ordinarily stubborn bear can is rendered impossible to open because the lid is frozen shut. A ten-minute hug warms it up enough for breakfast. The wind has not given up, and although it’s not as frigid as a Minnesota winter blast, there’s enough of it to numb fingers and make tent folding impractical. Tear-down is slowed further by yesterday’s mud, which has frozen into four little chunks at the ends of the tent poles, locking the poles to the tent. Several strategically aimed warm breaths solve that issue and also unfreeze the tent pole sections. It’s a good thing I like my drinking water cold, since spears of ice float in my canteens. I always wondered what winter camping would be like.