What's in a name? Many of you have asked.
Big O.
That's shortened a bit.
It's really Big Oriental.
Now, let me tell you the tale.
It was February 22, 2016. A moderately warm, but humid day in the deep south of Hiawassee, Georgia. Confederate flags flying, lifted trucks roaring, with thick accents aplenty.
It was the first zero (no mileage day) of my thru hike and I was exhausted. I was a pitiful 52.9 miles north of Springer Mountain, and I was beat. Sore feet, wet clothes, and an empty stomach. At thing point I was thinking I would never make it to Maine in 5 months...
Hitching in with Tyler, aka Trumoo, the previous day proved surprisingly easy. It was my first hitch on trail and I was obviously nervous. Thoughts raced through my head. Am I too disgusting? Are people going to pickup two dirty hikers? Am I going to get murdered? Obviously absurd ideas, but they plagued my head nevertheless. Is it really as easy as sticking your thumb out?
It the was moment, the first car. No response. Damn. Am I going to be here all day? Shit. A few dozen cars passed with little or no recognition of my predicament. I needed to get to town and I needed food. Did anybody even care? Sticking my thumb out rapidly became easier and easier with each passing car. Rejection was okay. A slow white truck chugged by....and then suddenly pulled off to the side of the road. Was it really happening?
A kind, short-figured older gentleman named Wayne cheerily hopped out and asked us if we needed to get into town. YES! A bit distraught, Wayne pondered the state of his truck, which happened to be full of wood scraps, tools, and file folders. Wayne and his and his well loved white truck were in town to help build a log cabin from the ground up. It turns out that Wayne was an engineer by day and log cabin builder by night. A couple of shoves here and a couple of shoves there, and there was just enough room to squeeze two hikers and their gear. Success!
20 minutes later and we arrived in town. A quick picture, a wave goodbye, and we were back on our own. Straight to the motel. It's closed. FUCK. Shit. Damn. This was the only place around. After a bunch of knocks, a phone call or three, a tepid women wearing a bedazzled tiger jean jacket approached us. "Come back in an hour; do you guys want two beds?" She rapidly returned to where ever she came from after our responses.
So, what do two thruhikers do then they need to wait? EAT! Onward to fast food!
After we showered, ate, and planned, talks of taking a zero the next day quickly came around. We were both tired and agreed.
The next day, I quietly threw on my rain gear (really my only clean set of clothes), hobbled out of Mull's Inn, and walked across the street to the local Ingles. Less than 10 days into my hike and I definitely did not have any idea of what or how much food I needed for the next few days. I grabbed far too much. Oatmeal, granola, pepperoni, peanut butter, nuts, and ramen, I took it all. I walked up to the register and was checking out when a tall, middle-aged man with long gray hair walked up to me. Oh jeeze, what now.
"Man, you're the biggest damn oriental I've ever seen. We don't get many orientals down here. Are you one of 'dem thru hikers?"
Uh, yessir, I'm headed north...and uh, yeah, I guess I ate my veggies...
"I've always wanted to do that, but never got around to it."
Oh, that's too bad.
(Oh shit, what do I do?)
"Well, uh, you need one of 'dem hitches back to the trail?"
Uh, yeah, but could you drive us tomorrow?
"No problem."
I rapidly finished paying, quickly got his number and left.
I did eventually call back Bruce and he did in fact give us a very nice hitch back to the trailhead the next day. Do I think that Bruce was trying to be inconsiderate or racist? Not at all. Bruce was a simple man, apparently from the city. I just think it was his norm.
As I recounted this story to many friends in the coming days, an older, but spry man named 'Sooner or Later' quickly dubbed me The Big Oriental. I later decided to shorten it, but the name stuck. Big O. I would carry it from Georgia to Maine. In log books, on murals, and hostel garages. It was mine. Like everybody else, each trail name has a story, a history, and typically a funny story to go with it. This was mine.
Until next time,
Colin "Big O"