Old Lady on the Trail- Triple Crown at 76

by Mary E Davison

Two nights in a bed. Lovely. Then it took a mile or two on trail to convince my legs they wanted to walk again. Once they were sufficiently warmed up, I headed uphill on a gently graded trail with switchbacks and no large rocks. I was lured .1 mile off trail to Fullhart Knob Shelter by the promise of a privy and an early lunch. As I was eating, Canyon Voice walked up saying, "Hello, dear friend." That’s how it is on the trail. When you run into someone again after a few days you are meeting a dear friend.

  We hiked most of the afternoon together, chatting. The leaves of the forest understory were turning a bright orange, and we took each other's pictures, the orange leaves matching the orange bandana Canyon Voice wore on his head.

  That night there were four in the shelter and good conversation. The following afternoon, Canyon Voice and I again had lunch together before he went on ahead. His younger legs, deciding to become trail legs, could now outdistance mine. I kept track of him by reading the shelter registers, the gossip line on the AT. News passed up and down the trail by hikers signing the registers, leaving notes for those coming later.

  Fall was a good time to hike through Virginia. It was rather warm in the middle of October, with daytime temperatures up to 78. Going uphill with a pack I was always warm, and I frequently shed my shirt to hike in sports bra. I washed sweat from my body each night with water in a quart-size Ziploc bag, enough to get reasonably clean. If I knew water would be scarce, I put soggy wet bandanas in the Ziploc at the last water source to use to clean up when I reached camp.

  Many colored leaves fallen to the trail created brightly colored mosaic carpets. Leaves, ridgeline views and striking rock formations made all the up and down worth traveling. Walking under the Guillotine, a narrow path between two sheer trailside vertical rocks with a massive boulder stuck between them, I wasn’t decapitated or mangled.

  Non-hikers are certain the most dangerous animals on the trail are bears. I respect bears, but the critter who does the most damage is the mouse. Places where hikers congregate draw mice. Shelters are notorious for them. Even likely camping spots near water have their share. Unprotected food, bandanas and hiking pole grips are all possible bedding, meals or salt mines for mice or other small critters, as well as larger ones like deer.

  On this trip I took a small bear can to hold my food. It added weight to my pack, but it was convenient to stop late for the night without having to throw a rope to suspend my food. It was a silly decision weight wise, and eastern oak forests have wonderful horizontal limbs perfect for hanging a food bag. Some areas even have secure metal boxes for food, but mice remain a problem even if food is properly out of reach. Mice startle you awake in the night by running over the top of you. And quiet as a mouse is not too quiet. Their scurrying around as you drift toward sleep announces they are around to bother you.

  I went up 2,000-foot climbs playing mind games. Carrying an altimeter on my chest strap, I could tell how many vertical feet I walked from the start of the uphill trail. The first hundred feet went by quickly. Then I began to tire and was tempted to look at the altimeter every five or ten steps. Have I only gone fifty-feet up since the last time I looked?

  I tried not to look again until I was certain I’d walked another hundred feet in elevation, so I could be encouraged at the sight of changing numbers on the dial. After finally reaching the top for a few brief yards of level trail, I then headed down the other side and the whole process began again. Many days I had 3,000-feet of elevation gain and loss when adding up two or three climbs. The Appalachians may be much lower than the Sierra, Cascades, or Rockies of the West, but up and down works the same way: up and down.

  God’s Cathedral

  I suppose playing mind games to get up two-thousand-foot climbs may not sound like fun to non-hikers, yet the beauty made up for the pain. I had trouble making forward progress because I wanted to stop and take pictures of every tree. The colors were fantastic! The ambient light changed color when filtered through colored leaves. Under bright red leaved trees the light came with a rosy hue, much the same effect as walking in a church with sunlight streaming through stained-glass windows.

  I was in God's cathedral with sunlight shining through beautifully colored windows crafted of leaves. In other parts of the forest the sunlight sparkled through green and gold leaves waving in the breeze, the effect like prisms or chandeliers. Only that particular chandelier was 50-feet tall and about as wide.

  The 625 feet of the longest pedestrian-only bridge on the AT stretched over the James River. Near the bridge, I met hikers from Roanoke, who knew my trail angels, Linda and Bobbie. Not only did I meet people I’d met before on other trails, I met people who knew people I knew in a growing network of trail connections.

  On my zero day in Buena Vista, I ate a foot-long sandwich and wished for a milk shake. None was to be found, so I consoled myself with milk and Oreo cookies. A funny thing: I couldn’t find my pocketknife when I assembled my pack after getting off the airplane. Eighteen days later, while inspecting a rip inside my pack on my zero day in Buena Vista, I found the knife in its traveling plastic bag at the bottom of my hydration pocket in the back of the pack.

  For 18 days I’d cut my cheese with my nail file and spread my peanut butter with my sturdy plastic spoon handle. Funny thing is, ever since that emergency replacement of knife with spoon handle, I continue to spread my peanut butter that way. It works more efficiently than the knife ever did. Necessity teaches hikers tricks.

  Stopping for a break at Punchbowl Shelter on a hot and sweaty day, Woodman, another hot and sweaty hiker, caught up with me. We leap frogged each other on the trail for days after that.

  Another snippet of history was Brown Mountain Creek, an area settled by freed slaves who worked as sharecroppers, leaving remnants of their stone walls along the trail. Interpretive signs told me they’d raised corn, oats, tobacco and wheat. I didn't see how they could have grown anything in those narrow valleys full of rocks.

  Since the only water source for the evening was a tiny stream half a mile off trail, I detoured, meeting Claw Hammer at the shelter. Woodman arrived before dark to get water, and we all had a lovely evening with congenial company. I slept in the shelter, and Claw Hammer had a hammock between trees. Woodman decided to hike by headlamp up Cold Mountain before stopping, and I didn't know if I would see him again.

  Traveling companions popped up for a while and then went on at their own pace as I stuck to my knee-limited speed. Listening to coyotes and owls, I drifted to sleep, only to be startled awake. A large nut tree arched above the shelter and when the wind blew, a nut or two would fall and hit the roof with a sound like a gunshot. No lie.

  The accent color in the forest changed from patches of red against green when I started at Bland to patches of green against yellow and brown, one small tree turning white for a pretty contrast. Sumac and other shrubs provided red as the leaf drop thickened on the trail.

  Some people think white blazes (six-inch vertical rectangles painted white on trees or rocks, the trail signs for the AT) are ridiculously close together. But if you are hiking in the fall during heavy leaf drop, it is very nice to have all those blazes.

  Thick leaves on the trail often looked very much like thick leaves on the rest of the hillside. Occasionally, I had difficulty finding the next white blaze while wading around in leaves half way to my knees, wondering if I was on the trail before spotting the familiar white rectangle.

  Passing an apple tree dropping apples, a green variety with a nice red blush, I picked one up for a taste. It was delicious. Crisp, sweet and juicy. As I took another bite, I was stung by a wasp, who also wanted the apple. I surrendered it to the wasp. I considered the Epi-pen my doc had given me, but just rubbed Cortisone cream on it, which was enough to take care of the problem.

  Dutch Haus

  I saw Woodman one more time and dropped down Fish Hatchery Road for a zero day at Dutch Haus, a marvelous Bed and Breakfast. Lois and Earl’s Dutch descent was reflected in Dutch memorabilia throughout their hom
e, which they shared with hikers. Personal touches abounded in knickknacks, tapestry, quilts and tiffany-style lamps in an atmosphere of comfort and coziness. Thru-hikers frequently don't want to leave, but unless a hiker is physically ill in some very definable way, the stay limit is three nights.

  Entering Dutch Haus, smelly hikers are immediately sent to the showers, dirty clothes to the laundry and trash to proper receptacles. Lounging in the provided warm and snuggly bathrobe, pampered the hiker and their bathroom towels had 10 times the fluff of those at the Budget Inn. And food. I ate enormous meals of delicious home-cooked food. If I’d lost any weight hiking I put it all back on. The $15 dinner was well spent and the one-mile walk off trail to get there was totally worth the effort.

  After the luxury of Dutch Haus, I started back up Fish Hatchery Road on a 38-degree morning, immediately meeting Daphna and Sara with dog Toby headed down, whom I would see again in the days ahead. Climbing over The Priest, I met Yoyo, a sick hiker spending the day in his sleeping bag in the cold shelter. I recommended Dutch Haus for encouragement, comfort, and care before descending 4.5 quite cold miles bundled up in shirts and down jacket, gloves, and even mitts over the gloves to protect against the cold of my trekking pole handles, quite different weather from three days earlier.

  Reaching the bottom of The Priest, I speed climbed the final 2.5 miles, as fast as I could go, fighting gathering darkness. Although only in the 50s, I stripped to sports bra. Going uphill makes me hot even in cold weather and, I don't exactly know why, I hike faster in sports bra.

  As I raced up the trail to get to the shelter and my water before dark, I could hear the Boy Scouts before I reached the stream. I stopped to filter water and put on my shirt, but not before a couple of young scouts approached to get water too. They looked a little funny at the strange old lady in her sports bra. Whether that was because I was a strange old lady in a sports bra or because I was in a sports bra when they were in warm sweatshirts, I do not know.

  Rockett and John

  Loaded up with water, I went looking for the shelter past a sea of Boy Scouts and miscellaneous weekend campers. Pegleg, a mature woman also going for water, said there were only four people in the shelter, and all were our age. They were Be Mom, Rockett, and John. John was nearly 80, someone older than me. The women didn’t give their ages. They were super nice folks who had a cheery fire going in the fire pit and tried to be helpful to me as I scurried to get my dinner in the dark.

  But in the morning I left my new friends to go up a mountain nearly as high as the Priest, passing more Boy Scouts.

  The AT used to go where the Blue Ridge Parkway now runs. In the game of politics, the trail was displaced by the Parkway and now runs through some less smooth and scenic areas, like the mountains of rocks that were mine to climb over that day. Crossing the Parkway again, I camped where some day hikers were leaving a cozy fire.

  Starting up Humpback Mountain on a cold morning with blue sky and bright sun, my hands needed gloves, but hiking warmed the rest of me. The trail included lots of built-in rock steps not constructed with women's legs in mind, definitely not in consideration of an aging Grandma with only one leg that could take tall uphill steps. I confused light blue blazes for my AT white ones, a copacetic mistake taking me to Humpback Rocks with an awesome view. An Ohio day-hiking couple took my picture, and I took theirs.

  I couldn’t get to Rockfish Gap until 5:30, and the Visitor Center closed at 5:00. How could I call my ride? Who was at the top of the trail on the road? Woodman. After some time jabbering together, I used his cell phone to call my ride. Wonderful trail magic awaited me at my B&B in Waynesboro, too. Rockett and John would like to see me on my zero day and provide transportation for whatever I needed.

  That VERY busy zero day included a visit to a medical clinic added to all the usual tasks of laundry, stores, and eating as much as possible. All of that running around was facilitated by the owner of the B&B and my new trail friends, Rockett and John.

  The doc at the clinic gave me a choice: pulling half my toenail out by the roots or getting antibiotics. Tough choice, huh? I chose antibiotics. Rockett, John, and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, talking about lightweight equipment, older-person adventures, and all the possibilities in life.

  Bill, a trail angel recruited by Canyon Voice, took me back to the trail. I think Canyon Voice told everyone he met about me. Thanks to Canyon Voice, southbound hikers sometimes greeted me by name, though I’d never met them before. Back on the trail, I watched a beautiful sunset as I put up the tent and saw the lights come on in Waynesboro as darkness descended.

  Shenandoah

  I awoke to a freezing morning of 30 degrees, though I slept warmly in my down bag. I wore multiple layers to start hiking, but soon shed them. Backpacking is the great warmer-upper in any weather. Well-graded Shenandoah trails were a joy to walk for an old lady with a gimpy knee.

  Then came near disaster. I started to sit on a log to rest, but when I reached my left hand to the log, my left knee started to bend, and my right foot skidded out from under me, ambushed by small rolling acorns in the trail under my shoe. They acted like ball bearings. Since my left knee couldn’t carry my weight when bent, it folded like an accordion.

  Forced maximum flexion is not a recommended way to increase your range of motion. It hurt. A lot. I sat there in the trail for a while hoping the pain would diminish. I did need a break, just not like that. When the pain became bearable, I got up, limped a mile to the shelter and ate my lunch with my leg up on the bench of the picnic table.

  My fall could have resulted in much worse damage if I’d not been wearing the brace. The metal rods of the brace prevented much lateral movement or twisting. I was thankful.

  With the help of some pain meds, I made it to Loft Campground, where two bucks with very nice points were grooming themselves in my tent site. I asked them to leave, so I could erect my home, and they complied with my request.

  Dressed up like Nanook of the North to begin the next cold morning, 15 minutes down the trail I started shedding layers. I was still warm going uphill, but parts open to the icy wind were another matter.

  Walking through the woods I watched the seasons change from day to day. Going from Roanoke to the James River, red leaves were an understory of Dogwood. When the wind knocked those leaves off the trees to turn to brown on the forest floor, Sumac gave the red accent color. In the higher Shenandoah the Sumac was leafless, but the maple trees provided red. I learned to identify the distinctive leaves of Sassafras and Tulip Poplar and already knew the shaggy trunks of Shagbark Hickory.

  Most days I met several hikers, SOBOs and NOBOs. No Pliers, Dafnah, Sarah and their dog Toby were NOBO section hikers like me. Our shelter was full that night as we tucked in, a fire in the shelter firepit, a welcome addition on a cold and rainy night.

  The next morning no one moved but me as the wind howled and rain fell in torrents. My goal was to reach Swift Run Gap and a ride to a small motel with heat and shower whose owner helped me do laundry and gave me a ride to slack pack from Big Meadows Campground the next day. Win. Win. Win.

  The 17.5 miles from the campground to the Gap wouldn’t be a long day for most thru-hikers. An old lady with a bum knee and a very early start could handle the distance only as a slack pack. It took me 10 hours without a pack but with an hour stop at Lewis Mountain Camp Store for lunch and visiting with Sarah and Dafnah. The wind had whipped most of the leaves from the trees over 3,500 feet, leaving winter-like views between tree trunks. An older couple gave me a ride back to my motel, so they could ask me about light-weight gear on the way.

  Cold

  A massive cold front moved through the nation, and that day traveling to Skyland the temperature never even hit 40. I still sweated going uphill but didn’t take off many layers during the day. In spite of inclement weather, there were still a few day hikers on the trail.

  On the way to a cabin at Skyland, I walked very carefully through the fallen leaves trying to disguise ro
lling rocks, holes, and other pitfalls. Two nights at Swift Run Gap and a night at Skyland, I’d managed to be inside for three nights and had showers three days in a row. How positively civilized was that? I also ate lots of pricey, but good food.

  In the morning, a dusting of snow and very cold wind made it difficult to find the right combination of layers to wear. On a cold day, sweating is not a good thing, as wet clothing chills you when you stop for a break. Yet the cold seeps into your bones on breaks, if you dress to avoid sweating. I settled on fleece plus rain jacket to keep me warm and cut the wind. For most of the morning I kept the hood up over my white hat and adjusted the heat escape by the front zipper, unzipped when walking, closed when stopped.

  The snow was pretty, but the wind fiercely howled many decibels high all day, like hiking beside a jet continuously taking off. With a temperature in the thirties plus wind chill, the effective temperature was exceedingly cold. It was windy. It was a nice day. Really. The views were glorious. I even took the .1-mile side trail to see St Mary’s Rock. It seemed like a Mary should. Little Stony Man and The Pinnacle added more vistas.

  The temperature in the shelter was 37 the next morning, and on the trail it dropped to 32. Even three-sided shelters were warmer than trail without those three sides. The sun tried hard to fight the powerful cold front, once getting up to 49, a veritable heat wave.

  Another cold morning dawned, and I ate breakfast in bed, savoring the warmth of my sleeping bag until the last minute before packing up. I left the shelter while watching the sky turn red before the sun cleared the horizon. Then the sky was blue, and sun in the sky promised warmth.

  Oak leaves were the last to fall. Some were quite pretty, a brown, green, yellow and reddish mix, sometimes all four colors on the same leaf. In the sunshine and the breeze they sparkled with a bronze tinge. On top of the Marshalls, the wind made drifts of leaves, and I waded through knee-high piles of swishing brown.