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

by Paul V. Stutzman

We followed the directions to a lovely log home. The husband and wife team had thru-hiked themselves several years before, and the trail had worked its magic on them. They purchased this home and made it their Christian mission to witness to hikers. We were presented with conversation on good old-fashioned Bible-Belt salvation. This was no problem to me; I had heard this all my life. Three weeks into my hike, I would have been willing to walk barefoot through fifteen feet of burning embers for a good home-cooked meal. And the meal was good: homemade waffles and pork stew and all the Coke I could drink, topped off with an ice cream brownie sundae.

  I might even have done thirty feet of burning embers for that meal.

  Seven hikers dined at the table in the log home, Motormouth among them. We had met him before, hiking with two other men, all in their twenties. Motormouth’s name was well-deserved; he never shut up, except when he coughed, which he seemed to do almost as much as he talked. He claimed his lungs had been damaged by a harrowing trip on bad drugs taken while he was in Mexico.

  Among the seven of us, there was quite a diversity of religious opinions. We covered everything from reincarnation to agnosticism. Our host asked thought-provoking questions about the existence of God, and Motormouth seemed to have all the answers; his parents had enrolled him in a Jesuit school for many years. I was content to let him run on unhindered, since it gave me more time to enjoy my ice cream sundae. Our hosts even shared books with us; we were encouraged to take a book along, on the condition that we would read it. I declined; I didn’t want the extra weight, and I had already read many of them. Motormouth, though, did choose one and packed it away.

  On the way back to the trail, we crossed the North Carolina-Tennessee line. We had actually hiked out of state to get that free meal. Two more miles brought us to Little Laurel Shelter, where we hung our bear bags and went to bed.

  We had not gone far the next morning when we came to a fence running through the woods, and hanging from a nail on the top board was Motormouth’s book in a plastic bag. Was he a speed reader, or had he sat up all night reading with his headlamp? We drew other conclusions, since the book was in perfect condition, looking as if no one had ever opened it.

  Our next goal was to reach Erwin, Tennessee, in three days. This would require some serious hiking. We worked our way through several difficult rock climbs; White Rock Cliffs was the most strenuous and unforgettable. The path was a difficult mile of climbing over and through jagged white rocks running along a ridge that gave views into Tennessee on one side and North Carolina on the other. If it hadn’t been such hard work, that mile would have been a spectacularly beautiful stroll.

  We had decided to hike several miles past Bald Mountain Shelter before camping for the night, so that our destination at Erwin would be within reach the next day. But late in the afternoon we met a trail maintainer busy with repair work. His backpack was overly large and lay nearby. We stopped to chat about his work and this section of the trail, and he told us that his pack held soft drinks, bananas, bratwurst, and Little Debbies. He was planning a cookout that night for anyone staying at Bald Mountain Shelter, a mile down the path. Our plans immediately changed.

  We arrived at the shelter, bearing the good news of the cookout to hikers already settling in for the night. Delicious food and an unexpected party lifted everyone’s spirits, and it was an unusually pleasant shelter stay.

  ———

  Much too early in the morning, I felt a tug on my sleeping bag, and my startled yet sleepy mind could only think, Could that bear have tracked us here? But it was only Marathon Man, with our wake-up call. Go away! Can’t I have just one more hour of rest? But he did not relent, and we rolled out, assembling our gear quickly and quietly by the light of our headlamps.

  We were at an elevation over 5,000 feet until we reached Little Bald in early morning light. After that, it was all downhill, a sixteen-mile descent that would take us to Erwin, Tennessee. By midmorning, we were only a few miles away from our destination and caught great views of the town below us and the Nolichucky River winding through the valley.

  At noon, the trail abruptly deposited us on River Road, less than one hundred feet from Uncle Johnny’s Nolichucky Hostel. We booked a small cabin for the night and headed for hot showers. Food was the next item on our agenda, and we caught a shuttle from the hostel to an AYCE pizza place with a salad bar. For the second time in a week, I ate my greens.

  Later in the afternoon, Sailor and I set out to find the post office and a pharmacy. I had bounced my food supply box here from Hot Springs, and Sailor needed supplies to treat his blisters that were growing to monstrous proportions.

  At the hostel, we had noticed a number of bikes left in a rack for hikers to use whenever they wished. I concluded that Erwin must not have any problems with crime, since such a row of unattended, unlocked bicycles could be a tempting target.

  After hiking over three hundred miles, we thought a bike ride would be a welcome change from walking. We borrowed small day packs from the hostel and headed for the bike rack. It was soon obvious why these bikes were safe. Any thief stealing one of these bikes would never be able to reach speeds high enough for a getaway; in fact, he might possibly return the bike and lodge a complaint. My bike was stuck in fifth gear, so it took some gusto to get rolling. Sailor’s bike broke down a half-mile from the hostel, and he had to push it back and choose another.

  Once I got my bike up to speed, I felt like lightning on two wheels. Still, I arrived at the post office only five minutes before closing time. I tore open my box and grabbed what I thought I would need in the next eight days. “You have one minute left,” said an ominous voice from behind the counter.

  “I want to send this box to Damascus, Virginia,” I said, hastily repacking and closing the box, with the precious minute ticking away.

  “If you send it first class, I’ll tape it for you,” said the voice. I handed over the box with payment. The “Closed” sign hit the door at the same time I did.

  I pedaled down the street, met Sailor at the pharmacy, and we headed back to the hostel. My bike slowly cranked up to speed, and as I was opening up the throttle on the bike path between the railroad tracks and I-26, I was reliving another bike ride on a fateful night long ago.

  My friend was fourteen, and I was fifteen. We had pedaled our bikes down the long dirt lane to my uncle’s old farmhouse for a sleepover with my cousin. At eleven that night, we were still wide awake and full of youthful energy. My friend suggested a night bike ride. Agreeing that a ride through the dark countryside might be exciting, we all pedaled back out the driveway to the quiet country road. Overhead, a gibbous moon was shining brightly.

  We stopped at the intersection of the lane and the country road, debating which way to turn. To the right, the road lay level and easy. To the left, we’d have a hard climb up a steep hill, but the ride back down would be free and exhilarating. My friend’s words still ring in my ears: “Let’s go left.” Almost a mile later, we stopped at the top of the hill, panting from the climb. We paused to catch our breath, then turned our bicycles, and with a rush of excitement headed back down the hill.

  Near the bottom of the hill, something suddenly went wrong. My friend was no longer beside me. We had just crossed a bridge, and he had vanished.

  A cry for help came from somewhere in the darkness below the bridge. My friend’s bike had veered off the road and he’d lost control on the gravel berm. While we flew across the bridge, he and his bike had gone down the bank, the momentum carrying him completely across the little stream and smashing him into the wooden retaining wall on the opposite side. He stumbled up toward the road, and we saw blood covering his face, running from a gash above one eye.

  His bike was mangled beyond driving, so we positioned him on the front of my cousin’s handlebars and carefully drove up the long driveway back to the farmhouse.

  My uncle rushed us to the local hospital, but during the night my friend slipped into a coma and was transferred to a larger facili
ty. I was able to visit him only once, briefly, since he was unconscious and on life support.

  For the next two days, I prayed harder than I had ever prayed before. I begged and pleaded with God to let my friend live. I imagine I literally prayed without ceasing, as the Scriptures tell us to do. It was unthinkable that God would not heal him.

  I even offered God a deal. If He would let my friend live, I vowed, I would become a missionary. This was the absolute sacrifice for me; I had often heard missionaries speak about their work and had long ago come to the conclusion that mission work was not for me. Leaving friends and family to travel to another country to preach to people who didn’t wear many clothes would be the worst possible life I could imagine. Yet I was willing to do this, if only God would let my friend live.

  My father was the one who told me my friend had died. “It’s not possible!” I sobbed. “How could God let that happen?” I had never before known such anguish or felt so betrayed.

  One small, seemingly inconsequential decision. Let’s go left.

  My friend was far too young to die, and I was too young to grapple with thoughts of life after death and the sovereignty of God. The only certainty I knew was that when I had needed God, He didn’t seem to be available.

  ———

  A blaring car horn jolted me away from the painful ride through my memories. We were almost back to the hostel, and my hands had a death grip on the handlebars. I had once again been racing down that hill under a huge, shining moon.

  Choices. We make hundreds of them every day, each decision holding the potential to lead to pain or pleasure, joy or despair. That one left turn taken so early in my life had an effect that still rippled through my whole being many years later.

  Is God in control of our lives? That question had taken root in my mind when I was fifteen, the consequence of an innocent moonlit bike ride.

  The question still whispered to me now, decades later, in the mountains of North Carolina.

  Morning in Erwin, Tennessee, saw ten of us hikers crowded around a lunch counter in the back of a little grocery store. The trail grapevine had recommended breakfast here. Several elderly ladies took our orders and prepared our food right in front of us. There were only a few stools, so some in the group stood. It was a scene Norman Rockwell might have painted.

  We could have been ten stockbrokers or lawyers or any other group of men meeting for breakfast anywhere in America on that Friday morning in April. But we were ten thru-hikers, discussing equipment, shelters, and the upcoming terrain. No deadlines, no big deals to hammer out, just ten hikers, each with his own personal agenda. Motormouth was talking constantly, but no one paid much attention to anything he said. His two hiker buddies were conspicuously absent.

  The shuttle took us back to our hostel and we packed up, getting a very late start on our day. I enjoyed these town stops; the amenities and kindnesses rejuvenated both body and spirit.

  Several miles down the trail, we met one of Motormouth’s friends taking a break at the Curley Maple Gap Shelter. “Hey, what happened to you guys this morning?” I asked. “I saw Motormouth at breakfast, but you two were missing.”

  “Well, it’s like this,” he began in his Southern drawl. “The three of us shared one room last night. Motormouth was talking all night long, and my friend attempted to drown out the noise by drinking. The more Motormouth talked, the more my friend drank. He must have had ten or twelve beers. Didn’t stop the talking, but at least he wasn’t in any shape to listen. Wasn’t in any shape to hike today, either.” He added that Motormouth was taking a bus back home for a family function today.

  “So that means we won’t have to listen to him anymore?” I had high hopes.

  “Nope. You’re not quite that lucky. He’s estimating where we’ll be in several days, and he’ll yellow-blaze his way back to meet us.”

  We did not start hiking until almost noon that day and decided to push on until dark. The afternoon included several big uphill climbs, a rest to enjoy the beautiful vista from a bald called Beauty Spot, and the conquest of Unaka Mountain. These climbs soon drained any strength I had regained during the town stop in Erwin.

  At seven thirty, we pitched our tents at Cherry Gap Shelter. I lost no time in filtering my water, cooking a meal, and sliding into my sleeping bag. I wanted as much rest as possible, knowing that the next day would be our biggest climb until we reached Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. Roan Mountain rises over 6,000 feet, and we had heard much about the difficulty of summiting this mountain.

  Roan Mountain exceeded its reputation. Two peaks of the mountain rise to the west, and three grassy balds stretch over seven miles on the east. Carvers Gap sits between these two parts of the mountain.

  We climbed for several “endless hours,” as I later wrote in my journal. This was a climb, not just a casual uphill walk. I struggled over rocks, grabbing tree roots on the steep trail to pull myself upward, my lungs protesting and aching for a rest. I talked to my body, trying to push it upward. Okay, leg, step onto that mass of roots. Now, other leg, get yourself up over that rock. C’mon body, get up there with the feet. The climb was harder than anything I’d imagined in my daydreams of the AT. And the thirty-five pounds on my back seemed to have doubled its weight, conspiring with the mountain to keep me from making the summit.

  At the top, I doubled over in pain and exhaustion. A brief rest, then onward. But a short distance later, the trail abruptly turned upward again.

  “What’s this?” I asked Sailor in dismay, looking up the almost vertical path. “I thought we just hiked over Roan Mountain.”

  He consulted his hiker handbook and gave us the bad news. We had just crossed Beartown Mountain and still had close to a mile and a half to the summit of Roan. And before the summit, we must cross the two humps of Roan High Bluff and Roan High Knob, until we would finally reach the high point of 6,285 feet.

  When at last we crossed Roan High Knob, our hopes for rest were frustrated yet again. We located a shelter, but it was filling up fast; because the dense forest crowded closely, there were very few tent spots outside. We debated. A few more miles would take us through Carvers Gap and on to one of the balds. Jane Bald was not as dramatic as Max Patch, but it would certainly be interesting to camp on one of those open grassy areas. We moved on.

  In Carvers Gap, at a road crossing, we stopped for a moment at a parking lot that straddled the state line. Roan Mountain had completely drained our energy and we had drained our water supply. We’d been hiking for eleven hours and still had a mile to go.

  A car pulled up. “Are you guys thru-hikers?” We assured the driver that our intent was to become thru-hikers.

  “Great. I come out here one day each year to do trail magic. I’ve been here several hours, and you’re the first thru-hikers I’ve met. I was almost ready to give up and head home. I’ve got bananas, tortilla chips, and blueberry turnovers,” he said, starting to unpack the goodies.

  Our new friend had hiked half of the trail one year but could not finish. Someday he wanted to complete the hike, but until then, he kept in touch with the trail and its magic by meeting and feeding thru-hikers. We offered to wait for him if he wanted to go home, get his pack, and join us. All three of us knew those “somedays” seldom arrive.

  We devoured most of his food, saving only a few bananas for breakfast the next day. Refreshed, we crossed the road, and the mile to Jane Bald melted away quickly. The sun was disappearing over Roan Mountain as we set up camp in the waning light.

  The balds created a world different from the steep, forested mountains. Clear of trees, covered mostly with grasses and wildflowers, the rounded knobs gave splendid views in every direction and we rolled over them with delight. The trail-magic bananas at breakfast added to our energy.

  We climbed Little Hump Mountain and then Hump Mountain. Hump Junior was only one hundred feet shorter than Hump Senior, so both required some of that extra banana energy. Since leaving Erwin, our climbing skills and endurance had been
tested and stretched, and we were ready for a shorter, easier day. According to our hiker handbook, we would cross U.S. Rt. 19 in the afternoon; from there, we could follow the highway just a short distance east to the Mountain Harbour Bed and Breakfast, recommended to us by several hikers. Rumor had it that we might also get a home-cooked meal.

  The morning’s hike brought more trail magic. Tacked to the railing of a wooden footbridge, a handwritten note told us, “Trail magic in creek. Please take trash out.” Attached to the note was a bag filled with Hostess Twinkies, and in the clear mountain stream lay a chilled six-pack of Coca-Cola.

  With renewed vigor from the sugar buzz, we soon emerged from the woods and headed down the road to Mountain Harbour. The B&B was in a beautiful house with a long porch and rock gardens, set in a clearing crisscrossed by a stream and split-rail fences. The hiker hostel was in the barn.

  Lest you make incorrect assumptions about the hospitality here, let me add that the upper level of the barn had been designed as a hiker cabin, complete with a wood burning stove, a kitchen area, modern bathroom fixtures, and a hot shower. It was both comfortable and comforting. Rain had started again, and we were happy to be under a roof. In the evening, we walked to the main house where our hosts served us a huge meal of barbecue ribs and chicken. They treated us like family, and I realized that I had indeed become part of a family that kept growing larger as I traveled north.

  Rain on the tin roof lulled me to sleep that night. On the floor below me were three horses and a goat. We were sleeping in the stable. There was no Baby Jesus, but we were certainly three wise men.

  ———

  The rain was still coming down when we awoke, adding to the discomfort of a cold mountain morning. We left our cozy cabin in the barn reluctantly and lingered over a hot, satisfying breakfast at the main house. But finally we could delay no longer, and off we went, into the wind and rain. At least the terrain was easier that day, in the 3,300 to 3,600-foot range, with no dramatic changes in elevation.