
FORT ASHBY, WV —
April 25, 2024
Day 32:
Promptly after crossing a modest-looking toll bridge over the Potomac River into West Virginia, I entered an entirely different world—wild and feral, yet wonderful. In seemingly endless succession, one paved road after another jumped up and down along the rolling hills beneath the high-noon sun. Beyond them along the Appalachian Mountain Range: flourishing alpine flora and the earthy, nutrient-rich tapestry holding them in place along its rugged slopes. Soon, these steep inclines and I would pursue one another, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it would be a humbling experience in the most spectacular way.

“Zachary!” exclaimed legendary West Virginia trail angel, Charlie Simpson, his voice tinged with a rasp and twang, as he spoke over the phone. “Are you vegetarian?”
I answered in the negative.
“Good!”
Living directly along the ADT, he would be hosting me after I entered Fort Ashby in the evening. I was to stay in the garage across the street from his house, and tonight, ribeye steak was on the menu.
As I walked into Fort Ashby with my northern presuppositions of West Virginia and her people in tow, a truck pulled up alongside me. Next, the back window rolled down completely and a young white man, somewhere in his twenties, leaned out along his waistline.
‘Here I go again.’
He cupped his hands around his mouth and hurled a homophobic slur in my direction as the truck peeled off.
“Why are you using trekking poles when you can walk, you f***ing f***ott?!” he yelled.
The use of these words (which are already inherently ignorant for obvious reasons) in context of the paralysis demographic I’m walking for caused me to become blind with rage.
I texted Q about the event.
“Welcome to West Virginia,” they said.
As I walked toward Charlie’s garage, trekking poles striking the pavement out of spite, I was fuming. My own confirmation biases were now well at play, my justified resentment toward smooth-brained cowards notwithstanding.
I called Charlie to let him know I had arrived.
“Garage door is open, brother” he said, totally unaware of what had transpired a few blocks prior. “I’ll be down in a few.”
As I hoisted the garage roll-up door, a wave of soul-cleansing warmth washed over my chilled sweat.
“Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake blared through the speakers of an old stereo, positioned in the middle of the garage, on the cusp of the song's chorus in Hollywood-esque timing.
"'Cause I know what it means
To walk along the lonely street of dreams"
I had unexpectedly entered a thru-hiker’s paradise in the theme of a 1980s workshop garage.
"And here I go again on my own"
A soft smile formed across my chapped, sunburnt lips.
"Going down the only road I've ever known"
To the left of the stereo was a cot and pillow, and behind that, a log pile beside a wood-burning stove, providing some, but not all, of the warmth I was now experiencing.
"Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone"
To my right, a massive tool arsenal lining the walls, a miniature motorcycle, a fridge stocked with water and Gatorade, and a DIY PVC funnel urinal with suggested hand placement markers drawn in.
"And I've made up my mind
I ain’t wasting no more time"
I removed my backpack and plopped myself down on the cot, a little less certain of what I thought I knew about West Virginians.
"But here I go again"
“Hello, brother,” Charlie said with a grin, the tobacco from his lit cigarette smelling as strongly as a full-bodied cigar.
I was greeted with a firm handshake that pulled me into a tight, sturdy embrace—the kind you’d expect from someone who was a brick mason by trade.
Over the course of the evening, Charlie served me, as promised, a delicious ribeye steak, watched the NFL draft with me because it was taking place in Detroit, toured me through his family photos from the 60s (bonnets and all), told me about a pair of Ecuadorian hikers some miles ahead of me whom he was watching over (he felt they needed extra support because of the complexities accompanying their darker complexions) whose entourage included four dogs, a cat, and a goat, and discussed at length the phenomenon of the addictive personality at the soul level, as he is openly not a stranger to the rooms of AA.
Charlie was nothing like the person I had encountered in downtown Fort Ashby. He was everything southern pride ought aspire to be—a hardy angel in their element, safeguarding outsiders whose footsteps tread along the wild and wonderful trail.

While enthusiastically introducing me to his handcrafted model car collection resting atop his entertainment center, he turned to me, “you know, not all addictions are bad.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I’m addicted to this, to the trail, to being a trail angel. I get to meet so many cool people and be a part of their journey.”
The feeling is mutual, Charlie Legend. To thine own self be true.

Tomorrow, I continue my push toward Dolly Sods Wilderness in the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia.
"Here I go again
Here I go again
Here I go"
Inspirational, awesome!
my daughter Kate lives in tahoe so when you get there she can help😀
i'm watching you...uncle mo