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

by Paul V. Stutzman

  Thunderhead Mountain straddles the state line between North Carolina and Tennessee, and we crossed one of its peaks, Rocky Top. The view from the 5,441-foot summit was spectacular. Mountain slopes glittered with new snow, and we could see Fontana Lake lying behind us.

  ———

  At two in the afternoon, Derrick Knob Shelter was in sight. We’d only hiked twelve miles, but the heavy snow had soaked and chilled us. Our socks and shoes were wet from trudging in six inches of accumulated snow. We decided to stop for the day and were among the first hikers to arrive.

  Happily, this shelter had not only a canvas cover protecting the front, but also a stone fireplace. We took turns warming by the fire, drying our socks and shoes.

  The shelter filled with frozen, weary hikers. Derrick Knob is listed as a twelve-person building, but on that cold, miserable night, close to thirty hikers crammed into it. We lay body-to-body on the bunks and the dirt floor, unaware that even more hikers—at least a dozen tents—had camped outside in the snow.

  At five in the evening, I climbed into my sleeping bag fully dressed, wearing even my now-dry shoes. That began a miserable twelve-hour sleeping bag marathon, with no escape and very little sleep. I had elbows in my ribs on both sides, and found it almost impossible to turn over or to wiggle into a comfortable position without bumping into other arms, legs, and heads. There was nothing to do but wait for morning. I pulled the bag over the top of my head, drawing the string until only my nose stuck out. I couldn’t sleep, but at least I was no longer cold.

  And of course there was a snoring champion who showcased his talent that night. He was probably the only one who slept. By four in the morning, hikers were packing up and leaving, complaining that it was impossible to sleep with the noise. Sailor, Marathon Man, and I left at five. There was no reason to punish ourselves when we could be on the trail making miles.

  We trudged over Cold Spring Knob as the morning sky started to lighten. Just as the sun made its appearance, we topped Silers Bald and stopped, dazzled by the view. Clean, glittering snow covered endless miles of mountain ranges, and sunlight sparkled from ice crystals on every tree and bush around us. What a gift. Weather conditions had conspired to hinder our hiking, but this morning we were treated to a glittering show of wonder.

  Clingman’s Dome, the highest elevation on the entire Appalachian Trail, reaches 6,654 feet heavenward, and every branch and bush on its heights was covered with a thick coat of hoarfrost and snow. We were climbing a huge ice castle, everything frozen and dazzling, framed against a brilliant blue sky. The sun gradually warmed us, but also created a messy trail. Snow became icy slush that once again soaked our shoes and socks. Only the spectacular views could take our minds off our cold, wet feet. We climbed the observation tower at the top of Clingman’s Dome and contemplated the ranges of mountains ahead of us, as far as the eye could see. At least we knew we were on the trail’s highest point, and there was nowhere to go but down.

  Our reward for the early morning departure was just ahead. The incredible snoring machine had forced us onto the trail earlier than planned, so by midafternoon we were already at the trail leading to Mt. Collins Shelter. The shelter was a half-mile off the trail, and none of us was excited about another night’s stay in a cold, crowded shelter. Four more miles on the trail would bring us to Newfound Gap, where the Tennessee-North Carolina line runs through a parking lot beside U.S. Rt. 441. Sixteen miles west on 441 was Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Should we go a few more shivering miles and hope to hitch a ride to Gatlinburg? I took the lead, and we hustled toward Newfound Gap.

  The trail led through a stand of mature hardwood trees, a grand, majestic growth of towering elder statesmen of the forest. A storm had felled many along our path, uprooting and toppling the giants. They lay in sad defeat, with large root systems exposed, still clutching the ground and the large rocks to which they had entrusted their lives.

  Going downhill all the way, sometimes crossing narrow boardwalks that protected fragile plant life, we arrived at Newfound Gap in less than two hours. Our day had been eighteen miles soaked with cold and slush and brilliant sunshine.

  At the state line, we took a celebratory picture and then set about finding a ride to Gatlinburg. There were several cars in the parking lot, but no one was interested in picking up three bedraggled hikers. Sailor suggested we walk out to the highway and try our luck at hitchhiking.

  The first vehicle in our sights was a pickup truck occupied by a middle-aged couple. They slowed down. “You fellows are welcome to jump on the back if you want a ride to Gatlinburg,” the man said. “Where do you want to be dropped off?” he called back through the open window.

  Our ride dropped us across the street from a hiker-friendly motel on Ski Mountain Road. Hiking eighteen miles of slushy mountain trails creates extreme appreciation for a hot shower. What luxury!

  Once we were clean and warm, the urgent need was food. After my limited menu of dried dinners, it was incredible to walk busy sidewalks and have so many choices of eateries. We settled on a steakhouse.

  In less than an hour, we were transported from a remote snowy mountain forest to one of the gaudiest tourist meccas in the United States.

  ———

  After many cups of coffee, eggs, and pancakes the next morning at The Flapjack House restaurant, we were back on the trail.

  Several miles brought us to a protruding rock formation called Charlie’s Bunion. Atop this high perch, we had views of both Mt. Le Conte and Mt. Kephart and a panoramic view of gorges and valleys stretching out in every direction. We were hiking on top of the world.

  At four o’clock, we reached the intersection of the Hughes Ridge Trail and the AT. Half a mile down Hughes Ridge was Pecks Corner Shelter. We did not like the thought of hiking that far off the AT, but the next shelter was over five miles away. The sunshine was fading, the falling temperature turning the slushy trail to ice. Every step that afternoon had required great care, and we had made only ten miles.

  We opted for Pecks, located in a grove of beech trees. One large tree had fallen close to the shelter, and we positioned our wet shoes and socks on its large trunk, hoping to dry them in the last rays of sunlight.

  Our hike began the next morning with only one goal. Weary of the treacherous conditions, we were determined to get as close as possible to the northern boundary of the Smoky Mountains. This day was just as difficult as the previous two.

  Hiking over the slopes of Mt. Sequoyah, we plowed through snowdrifts several feet deep. Guyot Spur was 6,320 feet high, and after that climb we slid downhill for fourteen miles. Snowdrifts and icy trails made every step precarious.

  As the day warmed, melting ice sent little streams running down the trail. We gradually descended from six thousand feet to five thousand, then to four thousand, where the snow and ice turned to mud. As the snow disappeared, more drifts of spring wildflowers decorated the forest, their color and freshness lifting our spirits.

  We all agreed that views in the Smokies were unsurpassed, but we had seen enough. We wanted to get these mountains behind us, so we doggedly kept hiking until we reached Davenport Gap, Tennessee. Finally, at the modest elevation of 1,980 feet, we bid good-bye to the Great Smoky Mountains.

  We had survived a seventy-mile test of endurance. To celebrate our status as seasoned hikers, we added three additional miles over the Pigeon River, under I-40, to Green Corner Road where the Standing Bear Hostel congratulated us on our escape from the mountains. Standing Bear is an old homestead that was converted to a hostel, with several cabins and a rustic bunkhouse. A hot shower, a whole pizza, several candy bars, two cans of pop, and one liter of water later, I was a contented hiker.

  That night, around the community fire ring, I spotted a young hiker I had first met at the Blueberry Patch.

  “Muskrat, how did you get here ahead of us?” I asked in surprise.

  “Oh, I’ve been here several days already. I’m doing a work-for-stay.” Many hostels along the trail give hike
rs a free stay in exchange for work. This makes it possible for hikers to stay on the trail, even on a tight budget. He explained, “After leaving the Blueberry Patch, I wanted to catch up with some hiker friends ahead of me, so I skipped the entire Smoky Mountains and hitchhiked up here.”

  He was a yellow-blazer. The phrase refers to the yellow blazes down the center of a highway. And although purists would never say it aloud, we also think it represents a yellow blaze down the back of a hiker who refuses to tackle difficult sections of the AT, like the Smokies. But I bit my lip, as any purist would do when meeting a yellow-blazer. I knew what Muskrat’s reply would be if I took the bait and commented on his hiking style. The reply, “Hike your own hike” is heard time and again on the trail, and it’s just a polite way of saying, “Shut up and mind your own business.”

  To many hikers, the journey is more about memories than miles. As I blazed a path to my bunk that night, I thought about what I would have missed if I had skipped the Smokies. Yes, a lot of pain, but also infinite pleasures. Fields of flowers with tiny snowballs bouncing among them had welcomed us to the Smokies, and beautiful expanses of wildflowers had bid us good-bye as we departed.

  Most enjoyable of all was the excitement of meeting new people who were like flowers scattered along the path of my life.

  What a pleasure to start the next day with clear skies and trails free of snow and ice.

  For a week, we were never quite certain which state we were in, since the trail wove along the North Carolina and Tennessee border. One hour we were hiking in our third state, and the next hour we dropped back to the second state we thought we had finished.

  At these lower levels, spring had already arrived. Our attention to the trail was constantly diverted by wildflowers of many species and colors. A solitary dandelion caught my eye, and I was delighted by its beauty. Most homeowners consider the lowly dandelion a nuisance, a plague to be stamped out. But out here, growing alone in the woods, this drop of sunshine was a thing of beauty, perhaps not as delicate as some of the woodland beauties, but almost indestructible. Surely the dandelion knows secrets of stubborn survival that the giant trees we had seen toppled in the Smokies did not.

  It was our nineteenth day on the Appalachian Trail. Our bodies were taking on hiker resiliency and stamina, but the difficulties in the Smokies had drained and wearied us. Almost 250 miles had passed under our shoes, and we needed a zero day, a day of rest. The AT led through Hot Springs, thirty-three miles ahead of us, and we planned to take our first zero day in that town nestled in a mountain valley.

  The trail again went upward, climbing above 4,000 feet. Snowbird Mountain waited in the distance, and long before we reached its slopes we spotted a white, shimmering UFO that had landed on the mountaintop. It was a five-mile climb to the summit, where we were prepared to meet the little green men, but found only an unusual FAA tower perched atop the mountain.

  Nine more miles of climbing took us to the highest elevation of the day, Max Patch Mountain. This bald summit, covered by 350 grassy acres, is part of Pisgah National Forest and is a favorite spot for day-hikers, picnickers, and kite-flyers. The AT traverses the top of the bald, and I felt as though I were on the mountain meadow with Julie Andrews singing in The Sound of Music. The 360-degree view of mountain ranges stretching to every horizon was even more impressive than I had imagined; I understood why Max Patch is called the “crown jewel” of the Appalachian Trail. That night would be the first full moon of my trek, and I imagined the joy of camping on the bald’s meadow with a big moon shining above. Such a plan was impossible, though; the winds would have snatched our tents and transformed them into Max Patch’s own unidentified flying objects.

  Roaring Fork Shelter was one mile farther and one thousand feet lower, and we made that our destination. Sailor, Marathon Man, and I reached the shelter at four o’clock and were the only hikers there. It seemed the perfect opportunity to try a plan we had been discussing. I wanted to do a night hike, traveling by the light of the moon. Since we were alone in the shelter, we could retire early, sleep until three in the morning, and then start our moonlit hike. An additional bonus to the plan was that we could knock off the last eighteen miles to Hot Springs and arrive in town even earlier than we had hoped.

  But our plans quickly hit a snag.

  We unpacked and unrolled our sleeping bags. I was boiling water for my evening meal. Sailor sat in a corner, reading the shelter register and catching up on trail happenings.

  “Hey, fellows. There’s a reason no one else is here. This shelter has bear problems!”

  The register recounted the stories. A renegade bear had found his new food source in the packs hikers obligingly carried into the woods for him. The bear climbed the trees at night and knocked down food bags, eating everything, including toothpaste. One hiker noted the bear had even eaten his toothbrush, and if anyone should find a blue toothbrush in a pile of bear poop, yes, please return the toothbrush.

  The bear had paid a visit just the night before. One hiker awakened in the night, feeling a tug on his sleeping bag, and was jerked to full alertness when he realized a bear had his front paws on the shelter floor and was tugging at his sleeping bag.

  I was imagining the exciting story I could take home if we did indeed have a bear visit that night. Marathon Man instantly geared for flight; he had an intense fear of bears. I was not quite as ready to run, but then I remembered a joke about several hunters being chased by a bear. One hunter turned to the other and said, “I don’t have to run faster than the bear, I just need to run faster than you.” Reality convinced me. I was hiking with a marathon runner and a marathon walker. It would be my rump the bear would be chasing.

  I had lost my interest in taking home a bear story. “Hey, guys, let’s get going!”

  Three more miles brought us to the site of the old Roaring Fork Shelter. No longer in use, the shelter had a new name posted on a sign: “No Camping Permitted.” Unusual name for a campsite, we thought, as we set up our tents.

  ———

  Still committed to a walk by the light of the moon, we rose at four in the morning and were soon on the trail. However, another minor glitch cracked our plan. The moon had vanished and a storm front was moving through, pushing heavy clouds. There was no moonlight for our moonlit walk. Only our headlamps lit our way. The trail passed directly in front of the Walnut Mountain Shelter, where three young hikers were awakened by a noise outside shortly after four. They watched in amazement as three headlamps bobbed up and down through the darkness and disappeared down the trail.

  We were beginning to see notes in shelter registers about our group of three. The hiking community had dubbed us The Early Riser Crew.

  Our no-moon moonlit hike started a day of descent from 4,260 feet in the mountains to the main street of Hot Springs in the valley at 1,325 feet. We walked into town at noon, hoping to stay at Elmer’s, a famous hostel in town. Again we were disappointed; Elmer had no vacancy.

  The day was rainy with a forecast of more rain for the next few days, and many hikers were staying in town. We walked through the town, looking for a good spot to take our zero day, finally discovering a comfortable cottage beside a stream. We shed our gear and relaxed, enjoying the prospect of our rest day.

  At Bluff Mountain Outfitters, I weighed myself and found I had lost close to a pound for every day on the trail. At this rate, I would finish my hike weighing about the same as my backpack.

  For the next day and a half, we rested and made numerous trips to both the Smoky Mountain Diner and the Paddlers Pub, in a quest to consume as many calories as possible. At both eateries, I sat and watched, enjoying the atmosphere and the interaction between employees and customers. I did miss my old life at the restaurant.

  The zero day rejuvenated us, and we were eager to get back to the trail. One last meal at the Smoky Mountain Diner filled us with a huge breakfast and enough caffeine to propel us over any mountain.

  White blazes led us through town, over railro
ad tracks, and along the road for a short stretch. A bridge took us over the French Broad River. Then we lost the trail. Back and forth we went along the road, looking for that elusive white marker. We finally resorted to checking our thru-hiker handbook and found that immediately after the bridge, the trail dove over the guardrail and down an embankment to wind along the river. Even after nearly three weeks of watching our blazes, we had missed the path.

  After following the river for a short distance, the trail climbed again. It was a wonderful day to hike. The rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through the fog as we hiked through Pump Gap. Spring was bursting out around us. Trees showed hints of fresh green, and wildflowers bloomed in abundance. Yes, this was indeed better than any day at work.

  Several miles into the morning, we stopped and dropped our gear. Sailor and Marathon Man rested against a fallen log, and I stretched out on the ground, head on my pack. Just to my right, a cluster of the little white-fringed phacelias fluttered in the breeze, waving at me. I watched them lazily, and then was suddenly gripped by “the feeling.”

  Many years ago, Mary found our youngest daughter, age three, sitting in the foliage of a large potted plant I had been nurturing for years. When her mother asked why she was sitting in the middle of Daddy’s plant, our little girl replied, “I just got the feeling.”

  Now I understood what had happened to her that day. Watching those delicate flowers sway in the sunshine, I was seized with curiosity—how would they taste? Checking to make certain my friends were not watching, I reached over, plucked one little bloom, and popped it into my mouth. That day, I started my own trail tradition of munching a sample whenever I discovered any new wildflower.

  ———

  At a road crossing later in the day, we found a notice nailed to a post: any hiker was welcome to a meal at the house half a mile down the road.