Stories of gastronomic delight
After a few weeks on the trail, the main focus usually becomes FOOD. Conversations, no matter what the subject, will invariably end up with some reference to food in some way. It is a known fact that one must eat to live, and thru hikers really know how to live! Sometimes you might wonder how they could live after consuming that much food, but believe me, it can be done. Below are stories related to food and how much can be eaten and still live to tell the tale. If you would like to submit a story about the experiences you have witnessed as you, or someone else, shoveled down massive amounts of food along the Appalachian Trail, send an email with the information to: info@atmuseum.org
Angels and Fried Chicken by Carroll Grossman
From a Journal Entry:
Sunday.
Hiked 19.5 miles
Mid-day at Jennings Creek, Virginia. Highway 614
Bryant Ridge shelter, 761.2 miles from Springer Mountain, Georgia.
Today is atypical among our many hiking days. The sun shines down upon us all day, and angels visit, some perhaps from on high.
“Do you smell fried chicken?”
“Is that fried chicken?”
“Oh my goodness! It is fried chicken.”
“Just let me stand here and enjoy that aroma.”
Many of our friends on the trail are becoming weary and have disappeared to travel back home. I explained it to Harland this way:
“Harland, do you know what hiking the Appalachian Trail reminds me of?”
“No.”
“It’s a lot like being pregnant.”
“Oh?”
I elaborate:
“The first few weeks, one is tired and nauseous, followed by bouts of crankiness. Later the woman suffers swollen feet, leg cramps at night and hemorrhoids.” My man doesn’t get it.
On that Sunday, we hike on along the narrow trail waiting for birth or redemption. And, sure enough, sun, soft breezes and angels bless us.
For most of 700 miles, I have dreamed of sunshine and kind strangers bearing Coca-Colas and hamburgers or perhaps large amounts of lusciously and richly sauced spaghetti. On this day, we hike in sunny weather over reasonably smooth ground. We climb up hill and down, winding our way around a mountain and down toward a river next to a road crossing. “Glory be,” I think. It really is Sunday. Below us, we hear folks talking, swimming, fishing, and enjoying picnics. Over the next hour, I watch cars going by below as we gradually descend from the ridgetop. I imagine that those riding in the cars are having a cool drink or a cup of dark roast coffee with lots of cream in it as they travel home from church.
We arrive at a place where the trail crosses the highway before going on to the river. Beside the road, a man and a woman are standing beside a pickup truck. The tailgate is down, and I quickly spot a large cooler. I hold my breath. They look across the road and greet us:
“Hello”
“Good morning”
“How are you?”
“How would you like a soft drink?”
I thought, “Does a bee love honey? Is grass green? Does it rain every day on the Appalachian Trail?” Would I like a soft drink? Yes, I would.
Shortly after beginning our hike at Springer Mountain, Georgia in unrelenting rain; I have dreamed this dream. They give each of us a cold, tart, sweet, tingly good Dr Pepper.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
The first sip fills my nose with bubbles, and I cough. I slow down, stop and enjoy my drink, sip by fizzy sip, as I smile at the couple and at my husband. “Do you do this often?” I ask the wife.
“Every week or two, she says. It’s fun to watch the hikers come down from the mountain and then see how happy they are when we give them a cold drink. It makes our day.”
“Makes our day, too,” I reply.
“We sure appreciate it,” says Harland. I tug his sleeve, pulling him away to walk on to the lake. I’m worried he’ll ask for another Dr. Pepper, his favorite. Instead, he reaches for my hand and holds it as we stroll along the grassy verge to the river.
Now that we have encountered the rare presence of trail angels, we relax and with uplifted spirits seek out the pleasures of the day. In the river, we rinse socks and underwear so the hooks on our packs won’t get lonesome. (Backpacks have many loops. Onto some of these, we have attached carabineers which, on my pack, hold socks—constantly drying, and from Harland’s hang the two old Whataburger coffee carry cups from which we consume all our nourishment.) We ease down in a shallow area of the lake and let minnows nibble freely on our legs and feet. We soak in the coolness of the water and the warmth of the sun, the glorious sun.
After a half hour, we reluctantly dry ourselves and get the hiking boots back on, laced snuggly. Just as I finish tying my boots, a family of five in a pickup truck back into a parking space near us. They begin to set up their picnic on a nearby table. The father places boxes of Hardee’s fried chicken on the table.
“Teaberry, do you smell fried chicken?” asks Harland as he turns his eyes meaningfully toward the pickup truck.
“Yes, I smell it.” And I repeat a little louder, “Is that really fried chicken?”
We walk along the tops of crossties at the edge of the parking lot getting closer and closer to the family laying out their picnic.
“Harland,” I call in a strong voice meant to travel across the parking lot. “Do you smell fried chicken?”
“Oh, yes,” he intones, “I smell fried chicken.”
The woman looks up from putting chicken onto paper plates,
“Would you like some fried chicken?” Whatever gave her that idea?
“Yes. Please.”
“Thank- you.”
“Yes, thank you very much.”
We know no shame. We are through- hikers on the Appalachian Trail. She doesn’t ask us to sit and even Harland fails to pursue conversation, so we walk over to the grassy bank beside the lake and sit with our treat. We each have a chicken thigh and a small spoonful of mashed potatoes. The chicken crunches, oh, the juicy, greasy, glory of fried chicken. I wipe the drippings from my chin and consider grabbing Harland’s and making a run for it. He probably couldn’t catch me, but for fried chicken, he might.
Later, the man and woman leave the boys fishing together, while they walk a trail near the water. We gather and secure our packs and begin to ascend the remaining few miles to the next shelter. As we hike up the mountain, the mom and dad walk below us. The unmistakable scent of grass drifts to us on the afternoon breeze and carries us on up and up. But, perhaps not as high, as the generous couple who shared their meal with us.
Journal Note:
We reach Bryant Ridge Shelter where we spend the night with many convivial hikers who shamble in at all hours, waking us each time, as the most spacious shelter on the A.T. becomes more and more crowded and begins to feel like a party. (Bryant Ridge Shelter was designed by architectural student friends in memory of Nelson Leavell Garnett, Jr. and can sleep twenty hikers.) It is the only shelter on the A.T. that I know of, that is two storied. Even the outhouse is well designed with a grand view of more mountains to climb.
The morning dawns cool and clear, followed by another sunny day. It looks to be a good day to achieve twenty-three miles while experiencing a record two days of good weather.
We have that good hiking day with plenty of hills and sunshine. We reach Matt’s Creek Shelter at 8:24 p.m., remove our packs and step into the creek. The rains come just at that moment. We quickly bathe, dry ourselves and unroll our mats and sleeping bags. We look through the water dripping from the roof as though looking at the forest through a screen. We are alone in the shelter, at least for the moment. It feels empty and has the lingering odor of bodies that have hiked many hours, perhaps days, without a bath.
Trail Gourmets an excerpt from the book "Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike" by John Gignilliat
The shelter was full because of so many just starting their hike, so we picked a spot for our tent off to one side of the shelter amongst the congestion of late arrivals. When all of the tenters began cooking dinner in a nearby clearing, various Lipton Noodle Dinners and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese packages came out of packs. Soon there was a medley of hissing camp stoves, boiling pots, and hungry hiker talk.
While we were eating, someone leaned over and queried, “What are you having for dinner, Port and Starb'ard?”
I stared into our pot and responded, “Tonight we're having sirloin tips and brussel sprouts in a lyonnaise sauce on a bed of couscous . . . garnished with slivered almonds.”
That was the beginning of our reputation as trail gourmets. We had more than we could eat and soon everyone was sampling our delicious dinner. Eight months before we left, Carol (Starb’ard) began a dehydrating frenzy using two dehydrators she bought and a third one she had borrowed. Her favorite was one that had both a fan and a thermostat. These were very useful features as the fan distributed the heat evenly and the thermostat allowed her to control the drying time. Carol dehydrated six months’ worth of dinners including barbecues, chilies, chicken and turkey casseroles, spaghetti sauces, beef tips, and corned beef and cabbage. As a base for many of these dinners, she bought numerous gourmet sauces and soups. Days on end, our kitchen was alive with delicious aromas of recipes bubbling on the stove or food drying in the dehydrators. I would look in the pots and inquire, “What's for dinner?”
“Don't touch that food! It's for our hike,” she would scold and I would be relegated to eating a scrambled egg sandwich.
Carol dehydrated every vegetable imaginable and then combined them with the meats and sauces in a Seal-a-Meal. The the completed dinner was put in a zip-lock bag along with a portion of angel hari pasta, instant brown rice, or couscous. For lunches and snacks we dehydrated sirloin steak as beef jerky using a variety of marinades. Carol dried numerous types of fruit: melons, apples, bananas, oranges, grapefruit, kiwi, pears, tangerines, strawberries, and fifteen watermelons. I made thirty, one pound bags of GORP (a hiker acronym for Good Old Raisins and Peanuts) using the pecans from the trees in our yard and combining them with dates, cashews, macadamia and hazelnuts, raisins, figs, sunflower and pumpkin seed, and M&Ms. For breakfasts Carol made a number of batches of granola and we bought an assortment of hot cereals.
Using our maps, a list of post offices along the trail, and a calendar; we carefully sorted this huge mountain of food into twelve boxes. We tried to put a variety of meals in each box and adjust for differences in distances between post offices. To each box we added maps, boot oil, pre-addressed postcards, and other sundries we thought might be useful. This load of boxes we delivered to Carol's daughter in Raleigh with a sheet giving the date to release each box. It all took a tremendous amount of work, planning, and organization; but it was already paying off.
Angels and Fried Chicken by Carroll Grossman
From a Journal Entry:
Sunday.
Hiked 19.5 miles
Mid-day at Jennings Creek, Virginia. Highway 614
Bryant Ridge shelter, 761.2 miles from Springer Mountain, Georgia.
Today is atypical among our many hiking days. The sun shines down upon us all day, and angels visit, some perhaps from on high.
“Do you smell fried chicken?”
“Is that fried chicken?”
“Oh my goodness! It is fried chicken.”
“Just let me stand here and enjoy that aroma.”
Many of our friends on the trail are becoming weary and have disappeared to travel back home. I explained it to Harland this way:
“Harland, do you know what hiking the Appalachian Trail reminds me of?”
“No.”
“It’s a lot like being pregnant.”
“Oh?”
I elaborate:
“The first few weeks, one is tired and nauseous, followed by bouts of crankiness. Later the woman suffers swollen feet, leg cramps at night and hemorrhoids.” My man doesn’t get it.
On that Sunday, we hike on along the narrow trail waiting for birth or redemption. And, sure enough, sun, soft breezes and angels bless us.
For most of 700 miles, I have dreamed of sunshine and kind strangers bearing Coca-Colas and hamburgers or perhaps large amounts of lusciously and richly sauced spaghetti. On this day, we hike in sunny weather over reasonably smooth ground. We climb up hill and down, winding our way around a mountain and down toward a river next to a road crossing. “Glory be,” I think. It really is Sunday. Below us, we hear folks talking, swimming, fishing, and enjoying picnics. Over the next hour, I watch cars going by below as we gradually descend from the ridgetop. I imagine that those riding in the cars are having a cool drink or a cup of dark roast coffee with lots of cream in it as they travel home from church.
We arrive at a place where the trail crosses the highway before going on to the river. Beside the road, a man and a woman are standing beside a pickup truck. The tailgate is down, and I quickly spot a large cooler. I hold my breath. They look across the road and greet us:
“Hello”
“Good morning”
“How are you?”
“How would you like a soft drink?”
I thought, “Does a bee love honey? Is grass green? Does it rain every day on the Appalachian Trail?” Would I like a soft drink? Yes, I would.
Shortly after beginning our hike at Springer Mountain, Georgia in unrelenting rain; I have dreamed this dream. They give each of us a cold, tart, sweet, tingly good Dr Pepper.
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
The first sip fills my nose with bubbles, and I cough. I slow down, stop and enjoy my drink, sip by fizzy sip, as I smile at the couple and at my husband. “Do you do this often?” I ask the wife.
“Every week or two, she says. It’s fun to watch the hikers come down from the mountain and then see how happy they are when we give them a cold drink. It makes our day.”
“Makes our day, too,” I reply.
“We sure appreciate it,” says Harland. I tug his sleeve, pulling him away to walk on to the lake. I’m worried he’ll ask for another Dr. Pepper, his favorite. Instead, he reaches for my hand and holds it as we stroll along the grassy verge to the river.
Now that we have encountered the rare presence of trail angels, we relax and with uplifted spirits seek out the pleasures of the day. In the river, we rinse socks and underwear so the hooks on our packs won’t get lonesome. (Backpacks have many loops. Onto some of these, we have attached carabineers which, on my pack, hold socks—constantly drying, and from Harland’s hang the two old Whataburger coffee carry cups from which we consume all our nourishment.) We ease down in a shallow area of the lake and let minnows nibble freely on our legs and feet. We soak in the coolness of the water and the warmth of the sun, the glorious sun.
After a half hour, we reluctantly dry ourselves and get the hiking boots back on, laced snuggly. Just as I finish tying my boots, a family of five in a pickup truck back into a parking space near us. They begin to set up their picnic on a nearby table. The father places boxes of Hardee’s fried chicken on the table.
“Teaberry, do you smell fried chicken?” asks Harland as he turns his eyes meaningfully toward the pickup truck.
“Yes, I smell it.” And I repeat a little louder, “Is that really fried chicken?”
We walk along the tops of crossties at the edge of the parking lot getting closer and closer to the family laying out their picnic.
“Harland,” I call in a strong voice meant to travel across the parking lot. “Do you smell fried chicken?”
“Oh, yes,” he intones, “I smell fried chicken.”
The woman looks up from putting chicken onto paper plates,
“Would you like some fried chicken?” Whatever gave her that idea?
“Yes. Please.”
“Thank- you.”
“Yes, thank you very much.”
We know no shame. We are through- hikers on the Appalachian Trail. She doesn’t ask us to sit and even Harland fails to pursue conversation, so we walk over to the grassy bank beside the lake and sit with our treat. We each have a chicken thigh and a small spoonful of mashed potatoes. The chicken crunches, oh, the juicy, greasy, glory of fried chicken. I wipe the drippings from my chin and consider grabbing Harland’s and making a run for it. He probably couldn’t catch me, but for fried chicken, he might.
Later, the man and woman leave the boys fishing together, while they walk a trail near the water. We gather and secure our packs and begin to ascend the remaining few miles to the next shelter. As we hike up the mountain, the mom and dad walk below us. The unmistakable scent of grass drifts to us on the afternoon breeze and carries us on up and up. But, perhaps not as high, as the generous couple who shared their meal with us.
Journal Note:
We reach Bryant Ridge Shelter where we spend the night with many convivial hikers who shamble in at all hours, waking us each time, as the most spacious shelter on the A.T. becomes more and more crowded and begins to feel like a party. (Bryant Ridge Shelter was designed by architectural student friends in memory of Nelson Leavell Garnett, Jr. and can sleep twenty hikers.) It is the only shelter on the A.T. that I know of, that is two storied. Even the outhouse is well designed with a grand view of more mountains to climb.
The morning dawns cool and clear, followed by another sunny day. It looks to be a good day to achieve twenty-three miles while experiencing a record two days of good weather.
We have that good hiking day with plenty of hills and sunshine. We reach Matt’s Creek Shelter at 8:24 p.m., remove our packs and step into the creek. The rains come just at that moment. We quickly bathe, dry ourselves and unroll our mats and sleeping bags. We look through the water dripping from the roof as though looking at the forest through a screen. We are alone in the shelter, at least for the moment. It feels empty and has the lingering odor of bodies that have hiked many hours, perhaps days, without a bath.
Trail Gourmets an excerpt from the book "Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike" by John Gignilliat
The shelter was full because of so many just starting their hike, so we picked a spot for our tent off to one side of the shelter amongst the congestion of late arrivals. When all of the tenters began cooking dinner in a nearby clearing, various Lipton Noodle Dinners and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese packages came out of packs. Soon there was a medley of hissing camp stoves, boiling pots, and hungry hiker talk.
While we were eating, someone leaned over and queried, “What are you having for dinner, Port and Starb'ard?”
I stared into our pot and responded, “Tonight we're having sirloin tips and brussel sprouts in a lyonnaise sauce on a bed of couscous . . . garnished with slivered almonds.”
That was the beginning of our reputation as trail gourmets. We had more than we could eat and soon everyone was sampling our delicious dinner. Eight months before we left, Carol (Starb’ard) began a dehydrating frenzy using two dehydrators she bought and a third one she had borrowed. Her favorite was one that had both a fan and a thermostat. These were very useful features as the fan distributed the heat evenly and the thermostat allowed her to control the drying time. Carol dehydrated six months’ worth of dinners including barbecues, chilies, chicken and turkey casseroles, spaghetti sauces, beef tips, and corned beef and cabbage. As a base for many of these dinners, she bought numerous gourmet sauces and soups. Days on end, our kitchen was alive with delicious aromas of recipes bubbling on the stove or food drying in the dehydrators. I would look in the pots and inquire, “What's for dinner?”
“Don't touch that food! It's for our hike,” she would scold and I would be relegated to eating a scrambled egg sandwich.
Carol dehydrated every vegetable imaginable and then combined them with the meats and sauces in a Seal-a-Meal. The the completed dinner was put in a zip-lock bag along with a portion of angel hari pasta, instant brown rice, or couscous. For lunches and snacks we dehydrated sirloin steak as beef jerky using a variety of marinades. Carol dried numerous types of fruit: melons, apples, bananas, oranges, grapefruit, kiwi, pears, tangerines, strawberries, and fifteen watermelons. I made thirty, one pound bags of GORP (a hiker acronym for Good Old Raisins and Peanuts) using the pecans from the trees in our yard and combining them with dates, cashews, macadamia and hazelnuts, raisins, figs, sunflower and pumpkin seed, and M&Ms. For breakfasts Carol made a number of batches of granola and we bought an assortment of hot cereals.
Using our maps, a list of post offices along the trail, and a calendar; we carefully sorted this huge mountain of food into twelve boxes. We tried to put a variety of meals in each box and adjust for differences in distances between post offices. To each box we added maps, boot oil, pre-addressed postcards, and other sundries we thought might be useful. This load of boxes we delivered to Carol's daughter in Raleigh with a sheet giving the date to release each box. It all took a tremendous amount of work, planning, and organization; but it was already paying off.