Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail

by Paul V. Stutzman

  All my life I had been taught it was possible to communicate with God. But was that reality? Did He have a hand in what was going on in this world? Where was He while Mary suffered through those years of cancer and then died? Was there a reason God took her away from me, or did it “just happen”?

  Of course I prayed—don’t most people pray in some way, on some level? And yes, I truly believed that God had said He would be with me on this trail, but . . . I wanted more. I needed to know if God was who He said He was. Are You in control of events, God, or do things on this earth just happen randomly? I wanted to know. If it was true that humans could communicate with the deity, then I determined to talk with God on this hike as if He were trudging along beside me.

  Deep Gap Shelter is a relatively new structure and has four walls instead of three, with an opening about five feet wide in the front wall. This meant no wind or rain would blow in during the night. We could spend the night within the protection of a roof and four walls, rather than fight the wind to set up tents in the rain. I anticipated the new experience. This will be great, I thought, my first night in a shelter.

  I picked a spot in the corner farthest from the front opening and emptied my backpack. Before shedding my rain gear, I made one final trip out into the rain to filter several liters of water. Back inside, I stripped down to my Patagonia long johns. In several minutes, I had a pouch of cooked spaghetti ready to eat, but was so exhausted I didn’t have much of an appetite. I ate only half, and gave the other half to a grateful hiker across the floor.

  Other hikers had arrived; it would be a full house tonight. Several of the men were section hikers with a church group. I met many section hikers on my way to Maine. Some come back year after year, each year hiking a different section of the AT. A few section hikers actually cover the entire trail in this way. Some, like the men’s church group at Deep Gap Shelter that night, are only out for a few days to enjoy nature and hiking camaraderie. Ten of us filled the lower floor and another four hikers took the upper loft several feet above me. It was seven o’clock and the start of one of the worst nights of my life.

  I was uncomfortable the minute I wiggled into my sleeping bag. My Patagonia underwear was still moist from my perspiring on the difficult climbs of the day. None of my other clothing was dry, so I squirmed out of the damp underwear and now lay in my sleeping bag naked as the day I was born. Some folks may prefer to sleep this way, but not me; it was most uncomfortable.

  I could not ignore another irritation. During my shower at Neels Gap, I had felt a stinging sensation in the groin area when water hit my skin. Now my skin was on fire. I had read about hikers’ problems with chafing, but never imagined how severe this problem can be. Chafing, caused by clothing rubbing against sweaty skin, is a painful fact of the trail; most long-distance hikers, both male and female, will have to contend with it. I met hikers who actually had to leave the trail for days because they were suffering so much.

  Chafing can be prevented or minimized by wearing tight-fitting clothes and applying a cream before hiking. Some men wear a kilt so air can then move freely through the area in question. I do grudgingly admire an outdoorsman who is willing to wear a skirt to avoid this pain.

  If you can’t prevent chafing by cream or kilt, the only balm for the itchy pain is to dry the area and keep it dry. I came up with a plan to dry my medical emergency. For the next hour, I pushed up my sleeping bag with both legs and both arms, then released it—up, down, up, down, up, down. And it worked. Like a giant bellows, I created enough air movement to dry out the chafed area.

  Alas, the air movement also brought to the surface all the aromas trapped in the heavy sleeping bag: body odors and the smell of wet feathers from the moist down filling. Lying on the floor in the corner of a crowded shelter, enveloped in repulsive stink, I admitted it to myself: for the first time, I regretted quitting my job in exchange for this misery. In the loft, I heard Sailor echo my own thoughts, lamenting to someone that this hike was not what he had signed up for. He thought he was taking a spring hike; he never expected this cold, rainy, miserable mess.

  For several hours, I tried to sleep with no success. I was so tired I could not relax. I couldn’t get comfortable on the hard floor. Sleep was not coming anytime soon. My watch said it was only eleven o’clock. Four miserable hours in this stinking bag and sleep was no closer.

  Just try to shut down your mind, I told myself. You have to get some rest.

  But I’m naked and stinking and uncomfortable, complained another part of my brain.

  My conversation with myself was interrupted by a horrible sound nearby. “Whaaaaa . . . flump . . . whaaaaa . . . flump.” The sound was coming from a church hiker. The man sounded like he was dying, giving out a horrible, guttural wheezing. How could he sleep through it? Soon the man beside him joined in and chainsawed through the night. Occasionally the first snorer gasped in mid-rattle and I thought maybe he had indeed passed away, but then “whaaaaa . . . flump,” and the song started again. From the upstairs loft, a third voice joined the choir, a high-pitched, tenor snore. Sleep was impossible.

  A persistent cough peppered the snore chorus. One hiker coughed for thirty minutes, then thought to remedy his condition by standing in the doorway for a smoke. The smoke was not as irritating as expected, since it helped mask another aroma that now wafted through the crowded room.

  In hospitable brilliance, the leader of the church group had prepared a large pot of Western chili bean soup, and the group had shared it with the rest of the hikers. I had thought the night could not possibly get worse, but it did. The natural gas production began.

  Nearly every sound a human body could make emanated from Deep Gap Shelter that night, and there was nothing I could do except wait out this night of misery and plan an escape at the first light of day. My journal entry the next day noted: “I would have welcomed a bear eating me.”

  At seven in the morning, we had enough visibility to gather our things and hike out into fresh air—and more rain. Yesterday, I would never have imagined that being out in the downpour once again would be such a relief.

  We set out in anticipation of the next highway crossing the trail. At Dicks Creek Gap, the AT intersects with U.S. 76, and our guidebook showed a famed hostel just down the road. Everyone on the trail spoke highly of the Blueberry Patch, a Christian ministry run by Gary and Lennie Poteat. We desperately needed time to dry our gear.

  My shoes were soaked. The choice of hiking shoes is one of the most important decisions a thru-hiker makes. At one time, almost everyone wore some form of hiking boot. This is no longer true. Today, many hikers wear a lightweight hiking shoe. I had chosen New Balance 950 GORE-TEX shoes. The GORE-TEX is supposedly waterproof, but most thru-hikers find it necessary to stomp through places that will soak any shoe. The GORE-TEX shoes stay dry longer than most, but when they get wet they also take longer to dry. Many hikers I met had problems with shoes; one went through five pair. I used two pair; the first pair survived until we reached Harpers Ferry, where I then switched to the other shoes. The second pair was pretty much destroyed in New Hampshire and Maine, when monsoon season turned my last four hundred miles into a muddy quagmire.

  ———

  Before we reached Dicks Creek Gap, we crossed Powell Mountain, where the elevation allowed my cell phone signal to reach Blueberry Patch hostel. I made reservations and arrangements to be picked up at a road crossing.

  In several hours, we were at the hostel, drying out. While we took hot showers, Lennie did our laundry. I noticed an odd contraption with two upside-down legs and protruding feet. A shoe dryer! I cannot describe how good it felt to have warm, clean clothes and dry shoes.

  In a short time, we had moved from the outhouse to the penthouse. This happened many times on my hike. When I was discouraged and miserable, a kind deed came around the corner to lift my spirits. The Blueberry Patch folks don’t beat anyone over the head with Scripture or theology. Gary and Lennie just live their belief, and their l
iving speaks loud and clear.

  The next day, we’d leave Georgia and enter North Carolina. I had hiked six days and sixty-eight miles. Five and a half of those days we had hiked in rain. But for now, I was safe and dry at the Blueberry Patch.

  Gary even allowed me use of his car that afternoon. I took a group of hikers to Daniel’s Steakhouse in Hiawassee, where we indulged in the first AYCE buffet of our hike. AYCE is the trail acronym for “all you can eat,” and did we ever eat! I discovered that on the trail I could eat any time and any amount I wanted and never gain weight.

  I spent the night in the hostel bunkhouse in conditions I previously would have considered primitive. Now I thought my accommodations luxurious, and I fell into a good night’s rest.

  An eight o’clock bell announced breakfast at the main house, a feast of pancakes, sausage, and eggs. Oh, boy, this day was starting out right.

  And could it be possible? The rain had stopped.

  Before leaving, I took a quick look through the hiker box. Every hostel has one of these treasure boxes. Hikers put extra or unwanted food, gear, books—anything you can imagine—into a community box. I met one man who outfitted himself with whatever he found there, living on the trail from one hiker box to the next.

  Reluctantly, we took leave of the Blueberry Patch and were driven back to the trailhead at Dicks Creek Gap. Several big climbs awaited us that day, but we also knew we would leave Georgia and move into our next state. Nine miles later, we spotted a small metal sign on a tree, telling us we were at the Georgia-North Carolina state line. One state down, thirteen to go.

  In the Nantahala National Forest at Bly Gap, a gnarled oak tree welcomed us to North Carolina. The twisted tree trunk appears to recline, branches reaching upward as if begging for help, in a pose so unusual that it is a much-photographed landmark on the AT. We lay on our backs by the tree and took a break, celebrating entry into our second state.

  Toward evening, we passed a trail intersecting the AT called the Chunky Gal Trail, which led off to Chunky Gal Mountain. The Chunky Gal is a Cherokee legend, supposedly a rotund young maiden who left her disapproving family to follow her lover through these mountains. If the story is true, she may have started her journey as Chunky Gal but she surely must have lost her plumpness on the steep slopes.

  Our first day in North Carolina ended in the woods close to Forest Road 71. It had been a good day. No rain, and we had finished Georgia. Things were looking better, and we congratulated ourselves on surviving one week on the trail. We went to bed early, knowing that big climbs the next day would demand all the energy we could muster.

  Standing Indian Mountain glared at us from an elevation of 5,498 feet. We conquered it and then moved briskly over lesser mountains and gaps. Albert Mountain, though, forced us to stop and consider our choices.

  The climb to the summit of Albert Mountain is rocky and strenuous. A blue-blazed trail skirts around the mountain, eliminating difficult rock climbs. Blue blazes frequently mark other trails off the AT, and they are usually easier routes. However, taking a blue-blazed trail means missing part of the Appalachian Trail. We decided to go up and over Albert Mountain.

  Up to this point, I had not made a conscious decision to hike as a purist. A purist is a hiker who passes every white blaze on the Appalachian Trail. Individual interpretations assign different levels of purity. I know this sounds silly, but with so many eccentric people on a small path for 2,176 miles, some measure of silliness will always surface. I believed this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; and so, when faced with blue blazes, my own stubborn standards demanded that I hike as a purist. My interpretation of purist became this: pass every white blaze with my full pack, with no slackpacking.

  Some hikers choose to slackpack when they want credit for hiking the miles but do not want to carry full packs over difficult terrain. At many hostels, hikers ask someone to drive them ahead fifteen or twenty miles and then hike back to the hostel carrying only a light daypack. Obviously, carrying less weight means you can cover more miles. This also gives a hiker just a little more time at the hostel, which is almost always an enjoyable and sociable place. I was separated from several likable hiking partners because of their slackpacking habits.

  For the next hour, we scrambled up a steep rocky slope, grabbing roots to pull ourselves upward. The almost-vertical ascent would have been a strenuous climb without a backpack, but that extra thirty-five pounds hanging on my back made this the most difficult climb I had experienced. When we arrived at last at the summit, a spectacular view spread before us. We climbed a fire tower to look back at the mountains we had already crossed and forward at what lay ahead.

  Much of the trail was lined with rhododendron bushes; at many places we walked through a tunnel of green. I could imagine how beautiful this would be later in the spring when all those bushes burst into flower. I camped that night under a large tree, surrounded by a wall of rhododendron bushes.

  ———

  The next morning, we hiked one mile and then celebrated a landmark: one hundred miles! If I did this twenty-one more times, I could go home.

  Studying my thru-hiker’s handbook, I realized we were only nine miles from Winding Stair Gap. There, a state road crossing the AT would take us ten miles east to Franklin, North Carolina. Franklin was known as a hikers’ town, mostly through the efforts of Ron Haven. This was a side trip we all wanted to make.

  Ron Haven runs several motels in Franklin, and his short yellow bus shuttles hikers between the Appalachian Trail and the town several times a day. Haven’s knowledge and services are a valuable resource for AT hikers. His motels offer great rates, and his yellow bus taxis hikers around town to the outfitter, the grocery, or the post office. Hikers take this opportunity to resupply or get a night’s rest in a motel.

  Early in the day, I found a spot with cell service and called Haven’s Budget Inn. Ron himself answered.

  “I’ll be at Winding Stair Gap in the parking area at eleven. I’m returning some other hikers to the trail, and I’ll see you then,” he said. Fortunately, trail conditions were good and climbs were few, so we knocked off those nine miles quickly, reaching speeds of three miles per hour. At Winding Stair Gap we descended a series of log steps to a parking lot, and just minutes later the bus pulled in.

  It was a reunion of sorts between hikers coming off the trail and those who had spent the previous night in Franklin. Every day, hikers reconnect with others they have met somewhere before on the trail. As Ron’s bus emptied, I recognized several people I’d hiked with on previous days, and I saw a few new faces I would meet again later on the path north. It was a friendly meet-and-greet and information exchange with my new hiker community.

  “Let’s go!” boomed Ron in his Southern drawl, and we boarded the bus while others returned to the trail. Immediately, the stories started. Ron is an entertaining storyteller, and his tales about Franklin’s history and people had us laughing all the way to town.

  Marathon Man, Sailor, and I agreed to split the cost of a room. For very little money, we had two beds, a hot shower, and laundry facilities. Marathon Man insisted on sleeping on the floor; even if another bed had been available, he preferred the floor.

  We took a short walk to an AYCE barbeque joint, where we did considerable damage. Later in the evening, Ron drove us to the outfitter and a grocery store. When he dropped us off at the motel, he told us that the next morning First Baptist Church was serving a free hiker breakfast for anyone interested. A van would stop by the motel to pick us up.

  Could it get any better than this? We were dry, our clothes were clean, and in the morning we’d have a free breakfast.

  In our room, I slipped under clean sheets. In the few moments before sleep, I realized a new, growing sense of freedom. Like my extra twenty pounds that were fast disappearing, I had carried the stresses of my old life onto the trail with me. Now they too were slowly melting away.

  The first white blaze

  Trail sign

  E
ntering the Great Smokies

  Cold day in the Smokies

  Stile crossing

  The aroma of frying bacon welcomed us into the fellowship hall at First Baptist Church of Franklin. We surely did appreciate the church’s mission of feeding us poor, hungry, homeless wanderers. Friendly banter between hikers and pancake flippers started the day on a pleasant note.

  We met our daily calorie requirement with just one meal and were driven back to our motel, where the short yellow bus waited for more passengers. Ron was in peak storytelling form, and our ride back to Winding Stair Gap passed too quickly. At the parking lot, a repeat of yesterday’s reunion—with different faces—brought us up-to-date on all the trail gossip.

  Ahead of us that day were Siler Bald and Wayah Bald. Normally, “bald” brings to mind a hairless head, but in this case it meant a treeless mountain summit. A stone tower topped Wayah’s 5,340-foot summit; we climbed the tower for an astounding view. Mountain ranges marched in every direction. Wondering which of those we would be crossing in the days to come, we identified the highest mountain in the distance and suspected that was probably our destiny.

  A lake sparkled in the distance. The Little Tennessee River flowed freely until 1942, when some great thinker believed the river should be harnessed to produce electricity. A giant concrete plug, 480 feet high and 2,365 feet wide, had turned the innocent little river into a 10,000-plus-acre pond for the pleasure of humanity.

  Many times these dams are foisted on us as flood control devices. Perhaps we shouldn’t be building or living in areas that flood so quickly? Maybe I’m too cynical, but I believe to accurately understand the motivation behind the building of these dams, you’ll need to follow trails that are marked with dollars, trails that lead to some politician’s doorstep.