Late in the afternoon, we arrived at Moreland Gap Shelter and stopped to debate staying there or pushing on another mile and camping in the woods. We hiked on. However, the rain began again and we could find no suitable campsite. Constant thunder and lightning around us suggested we were not three wise men after all.
Finally, in desperation, we set up our tents in a lane running through a field, a path probably used by a farmer to move farm equipment from one field to another. We hoped the weather was bad enough to keep him and his equipment inside that night.
The temperature fell during the night—and so did the rain. When I tried to open my tent in the morning, I no longer had a tent flap, but a hatch. I pushed open the rigid piece of canvas and realized that Big Agnes had frozen into an igloo, completely coated with a layer of ice. I pounded the igloo with a stick, trying to remove as much ice as possible, then bent the material enough so that I could shove it into my pack. We were almost as frozen as our tents and had only one thing on our minds: find a warm place to thaw out.
Less than four miles away was Dennis Cove Road and the Kincora Hiking Hostel, where we stopped to defrost. An hour passed quickly while we visited with other hikers, deiced our tents, and warmed our bodies.
Another easy mile brought us to Laurel Fork Gorge, where a flight of rock steps took us down the side of the gorge to the base of a waterfall, a lovely spot with a pool perfect for taking a dip—if the temperature had been eighty degrees higher. Then the trail followed the river, squeezing between the water and the tall, rocky wall of the gorge, now and then crossing wooden footbridges to the opposite side.
The climb out of the gorge was much steeper than we expected. A sign told us we were in the Pond Mountain Wilderness, part of the Cherokee National Forest. None of us had heard of this climb, and with no forewarning we were ambushed by its difficulty. Shouldn’t a mountain called “Pond” be an easy climb?
By midafternoon, we had hiked close to fourteen miles and were standing at another road crossing. To our left on U.S. 321 was Hampton, Tennessee, home to the Braemar Castle Hostel. The hostel owner ran a grocery store and old-time hardware across the street, and we knew a restaurant was also nearby. Record cold was in the forecast and we did not wish to repeat the previous night’s misery, so we decided to hitchhike to town, two miles away. No one picked us up, so we walked the entire distance to Hampton.
The Braemar Castle Hostel is a fifty-room office building constructed by the Pittsburgh Lumber Company in the early 1900s. The exterior of the all-wood structure was enhanced by river stone in the 1930s, giving it the appearance of a castle. Now it’s a hiker hostel. We went from a barn to a castle in two days.
Sailor, Marathon Man, and I were the only guests that night, and as we walked up several flights of wooden steps, they groaned and creaked a welcome. No alarm system was needed here; those wooden stairs would announce any intruders long before they reached our room.
During the night, the temperature did drop to record lows, but we were warm and dry in our castle, reassured that we three wise men could still occasionally make good choices.
The next morning, the hostel owner shuttled us back to Shook Branch Picnic Area, where we had left the trail the previous day. The owner of the Kincora Hostel, where we had thawed the day before, was dropping off slackpackers at the same spot. As we hiked away, the two hostel owners were leaning against the back of the pickup, engaged in laughter and friendly banter. Competitors perhaps, but partners in their love of nature and the trail. Two more good people in my ever-growing list of trail friends.
We followed the shoreline of Lake Watauga. The town of Old Butler lay somewhere nearby, a town steeped in history. Many early pioneer families settled and farmed here; Native Americans were peaceful neighbors; Daniel Boone even spent time in Old Butler. I enjoy early American history, and I thought perhaps I should visit this historic town while I was in the neighborhood.
How do you find Old Butler? Jump in a boat, go to the middle of the lake, then go straight down several hundred feet. Yes, another government-created reservoir, this one an earthen dam creating a lake covering 6,430 acres. The victims this time were the Watauga and the Elk rivers and historic Old Butler itself. Over seven hundred homes in Old Butler were flooded to create the lake. I wondered how the displaced families felt flood control was working for them.
The AT crosses over the top of the large earthen embankment, 1,000 feet long. Surrounding mountains still show scars where dirt was gouged from their slopes to create the stopper. As I crossed the dirt wall holding back the huge man-made puddle, I tried to ignore the ten square miles of water pushing at the soil and silt under my feet.
Safely across, we tackled a 2,000-foot climb over Iron Mountain. The day was filled with wildflowers and green fields, a perfect springtime hike. We made camp that night beside a little spring, on a small uphill grade.
Twenty-two miles made a good day, but the evening was bittersweet. This would be our last night with Marathon Man. Tomorrow we would reach Damascus, Virginia, where he planned to end his hike and return home. We would be losing our leader, a singer of songs, who had introduced us to the birds along the trail. His hiking leadership had pushed me quickly into shape, he loved books as much as I did, and his agile intellect had sharpened mine as we bounced ideas back and forth.
———
Relaxing alone in my tent, I thought about the month I had spent on the trail. I’d seen and done so much, everything far removed from my previous life. I had learned to accept the friendship of others quite different from myself, and I was beginning to be happy being me, even with all my shortcomings.
Every day, it seemed that God revealed more of Himself to me. Perhaps it was because I wanted to hear. Several days before, I had been following a young man on the trail. When I was within speaking distance, I attempted a conversation with him, but was ignored. I realized he had earbuds in and was focused on his music. Everywhere these days, people are plugging their ears and depriving themselves of good conversation. That earpiece is like putting up a “Do Not Disturb” sign. This ear-plugged hiker shut out not only all conversation with fellow humans, but also all the sounds of nature. He could not hear the singing birds or the whispering pines.
Apparently he could not even hear approaching thunder. The ear-plugged young man had a hiking partner who was a short distance ahead of him. Thunder had been rumbling around us, and raindrops started to fall as we crossed a road. The unplugged hiker had heard the warning rumbles; catching sight of a country church down the road, he dashed to the refuge of its little porch. But the other hiker marched on, head down, watching the trail and concentrating only on his music. His friend stood on that dry porch, calling, but the hiker never saw his friend leave the trail and certainly did not hear his name called out. He was soaked by the rain and separated from his partner. I wonder how far he walked before he realized he was alone.
Though I watched with amusement as this little scene played out, I felt an inner nudge that said, That’s you, you know. And I got it. I saw myself in church on Sunday mornings, hoping to hear from God but letting so many worries and distractions clog my mind that I never could hear Him, even when He stood there calling my name. I saw the times I had knelt for a quick prayer at night and then immediately tumbled into sleep. How could God talk to a sleeping person?
Now I had finally removed everything plugging my ears and my head, and I felt willing and able to listen to God.
“Words have meanings.” We often heard this maxim from Sailor, and since I had lots of time to think as I hiked, those three words rattled around in my head daily and took on real meaning for me.
Our words hold great power. That pointed little bit of membrane in our mouths that gives voice to our hearts can energize or soothe or destroy.
As I hiked, I had an amazing number of conversations about the loss of a loved one. Still, it should not have surprised me—after all, it was my reason for being on the trail, and every family, nationality, c
reed, and color shares the experience of death.
One of those conversations was with a hiker who was a young man when his father died. We spoke about grief and regrets and what we wished we could do differently. He told me his story. On the night his father unexpectedly passed away, they had an angry shouting match. The son fired some very harsh words at his dad. Later that evening, the father suffered a massive heart attack and died. His son carried painful regrets for his words, and the argument was still vivid many years later. He sadly told me that he could not erase those angry words from his mind.
We never know which conversation with our spouse or children will be our last. Once spoken, words have the power to linger forever. “I hate you,” screams a wife, or “I never wanted you,” says a husband. Words can be cutting and cruel, rejecting and crushing. Words do have meaning. They can and do determine our destiny.
Our sons and daughters are listening to our words. How they interpret our words, our tone, our intent, will play a large role in shaping their own characters. Our words affect our children’s destinies too.
What if we chose our words more thoughtfully?
I make no claims to being Husband of the Year. I was never even in the running. Realistically, on the husband scale, I was probably average. My school report card sometimes came home with the teacher’s note, “Does not live up to full potential,” and that was probably a fair assessment of my husband skills too. Yes, my grief included regrets, and some of those regrets might have distressed me for a lifetime if I had not listened to a voice inside me.
My conversation with the hiker haunted by his last words to his father put me back in Mary’s hospital room. She had been admitted to the hospital in an extremely weakened state, and I had spent the evening with her. Leaving, I went dashing through the rain to the parking garage. Before I reached my car, a voice inside me spoke up firm and clear. Paul, go back up to her room and say it.
I knew exactly what I needed to do. Back through the rain and up to her room I went, and quietly called her name.
“Paul, what are you doing back here?” Her weak voice was almost a whisper.
I took both frail hands in mine and, with tears spilling, asked my wife’s forgiveness for all the times she needed my help, all the times she needed me, but I wasn’t available. My one goal in life was to be wealthy. And in my pursuit of that goal, I had too often ignored what my wife needed from me.
“Forgive me for all the times I was such a thoughtless husband,” I said.
Her words came like a balm for my pain: “Yes, I will forgive you. And I also need forgiveness for not always being the wife I could have been. You’ll forgive me?”
Any burdens we carried were gone. I left for home, and the last words I heard that night were, “Good night, dear. I love you.”
Forgiveness and love: words that can soothe and heal a troubled soul. You, my reader, might also have some powerful words that need to be spoken. Don’t put it off; you may have less time than you realize. Take it from someone with experience: words do have meaning.
Wautauga Lake
McAfee Knob
Trail in Virginia
Foggy morning on the trail
Suspension bridge
My four thirty alarm sounded: an early bird chirping into the quiet of the morning. Soon the woods would fill with sounds of other feathered friends waking up and starting their day.
One morning at three thirty, I’d heard a solitary bird begin his morning song. It sounded like my four thirty bird, but this one was an hour early, with just a few short chirps. There was no response; the woods remained silent. The early chirper fell silent too for another hour.
I lay in my sleeping bag, luxuriating in its warmth and the peaceful morning sounds of the woods. I could hear Marathon Man rustling about, packing up his tent for the last time.
When I finally flipped back the tent flap to greet the day, the morning had a colossal feel to it. Early light filtered through the trees into our little clearing. I grabbed my water bottle, and at a cold and clear spring bubbling out of the ground, I cupped my hands in the pool and splashed my face. The shock brought all my senses to life. I had never been an early morning person, but out here on the trail, I’d fallen in love with the newness and freshness of spring mornings. I could smell spring in the air; on this morning it seemed all of nature heralded the arrival of a new day and promised: this will be a good day.
This is it, Marathon Man. Lead us home to Damascus.
The sun glinted through the bare trees, slanting sunbeams across our path as we worked our way toward the town. We had nineteen miles to our destination, most of it at 3,000-plus elevation, no serious climbs or descents, a fairly easy walk with time and spare energy to think.
We hiked in silence most of the morning, each lost in his own thoughts. Three men from diverse backgrounds had met on a narrow trail. We were all searching for something, with no agenda except to hike. But we had become a team, and now the team was about to disband. Our silence honored the brotherhood we three had forged.
I reflected on past weeks and all I’d observed about people and myself. In one month, I had gained more insights on life than I had in many, many years past. I’d traveled the sad road of death and grieving; it was time to find my path back to life and living. My mind had finally released the accumulation of years of job-related stress and now felt as clear as the spring by my campsite. I was Apostle, not just a reactor to disgruntled customers and difficult employees and demanding business situations and the sadness of bereavement. Now I was Apostle, hiking to . . . what? What lay ahead of me on this trail? Where would this journey take me? I did not know, but I did know I was shedding the old and hiking toward the new.
———
Our hiker handbook noted that by the time a thru-hiker reached Damascus, he would probably be in close to peak hiker shape. By this time too, all blisters should be healed. I had not yet been plagued by blisters. Whenever I felt a hot spot (an area where friction is occurring) on my foot, I had treated it immediately. During breaks, I had taken off my shoes to dry my feet. Those precautions had saved me thus far from the pain of blistering.
For a long time, the trail had followed the state line, and we were often uncertain if we were in Tennessee or North Carolina. But now as we began the last four downhill miles toward the town, we knew we were in Virginia at last. State number four.
Georgia, North Carolina, and Tennessee had been beautiful, with rugged mountains and panoramic vistas. Those mountain climbs had toughened us and shaped us into true hikers, but we would welcome easier terrain. We’d been told the hiking in Virginia was less difficult, but even without that prospect, we were excited about exploring a new state.
What I didn’t know then was that it would take as long to hike through Virginia as the combined time we’d spent hiking the first three states. Virginia has the longest section of the AT, totaling 550 miles; it also held the promise of many interesting days on the Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge Parkway in beautiful Shenandoah Valley.
At the edge of Damascus, the trail made a sharp right turn; we walked between two houses, and we were suddenly on Mock Avenue in the Friendliest Town on the Appalachian Trail. White blazes led us down Laurel Avenue, and then I realized I was hiking with an intruder—in my shoe. The steep downhill hike had produced my first blister. Thankfully, we planned to take our second zero day in this town, so I would have time to properly treat it.
Our first stop was at Mt. Rogers Outfitters, where I had bounced my box from Erwin, Tennessee. Then on to the post office to pick up the food box my trail boss Ina had sent. I toted both boxes under my arms as we searched for a place to stay. Damascus has earned its “friendliest town” moniker by playing host to hordes of wanderers every year, since the Appalachian Trail, the Virginia Creeper Trail, the Transcontinental Bike Trail, and the Daniel Boone Memorial Trail all weave through this town. Now we were searching for The Place, popular with hikers and cyclists, which offered lodging in
an old house that was somewhere behind a Methodist church.
A woman’s voice called to us and interrupted our search. The owner of the Montgomery Homestead Bed and Breakfast invited us to her front porch and sold us on staying at her B&B for the next two nights. The B&B was more costly than The Place, but we splurged because Marathon Man’s time with us was almost over. It was a good decision; we had a wonderful stay at the lovely home.
Later in the day, I returned my bounce box to Mt. Rogers Outfitters. I was planning to return to this town soon, so there was no point in mailing it ahead. Every May, Damascus hosts Trail Days, a yearly hiker festival that draws ten to fifteen thousand hikers and dozens of vendors of outdoor products. It’s the hiker equivalent of Woodstock, and thru-hikers will hitch rides for long distances to participate in the event. I had promised myself the full Appalachian Trail experience, and so I intended to come back to Damascus for this gathering of the trail community.
Early the next morning, I walked with Marathon Man back to the outfitter, where a ride waited to return him to Springer Mountain to pick up his car and head home. Sailor stayed at the B&B, nursing horrible blisters. I did not enjoy good-byes—I’d had too many of them lately—but I was not going to forgo one last walk with my friend. Marathon Man had made me a better hiker. He was the reason we had made Damascus in record time. The three of us were not only a hiking team; we had also become good friends. We would miss Marathon Man.
That evening, Sailor and I walked to The Mill Restaurant for supper. Pathfinder soon walked in, and I thought surely this surprise must be a godsend, a consolation for losing Marathon Man.
Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail Page 10
