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

by Paul V. Stutzman

  On the evening we were stealth camping among cow patties, two fishermen were camped near Dismal Creek, one day’s hike ahead of us. While they were eating supper, Randall Smith walked into their campsite. They extended hospitality, feeding him a meal of fresh trout and beans, and chatting over supper. When Smith rose to leave, he said, “Guys, I got to get out of here.” And as thanks for their kindness, he shot them both. Fortunately, both men survived and were able to get help.

  Smith stole the fishermen’s truck, and the hunt for him ended when he crashed the vehicle while being chased by the police. He was admitted to the Roanoke Memorial Hospital for several nights, then released to police custody and jailed.

  For the next few days, officials were on the trail with posters of Randall Smith, talking with hikers, trying to piece together his behavior during the last month. Had we seen him? Had we hiked or talked with him? I didn’t wish to insult anyone, but I noted that Randall Smith, age fifty-four, with a grubby appearance, did look a lot like someone I’d hiked with: both Marathon Man and Sailor. Come to think of it, he looked a lot like me, with my unkempt hair and scruffy beard. The reality was that we never truly knew who we were hiking with. Although that was an unnerving thought, I never felt threatened by anyone I met on my hike.

  Since law officials were everywhere on the trail, trying to investigate the movements of Randall Smith, the AT was closed just past Bland, Virginia. Shuttles transported hikers around the closed section to a point twenty miles farther up the trail. Some hikers were happy to ride those twenty miles instead of walking them, but many others chose to wait until the trail opened again.

  Sailor and I both had mail drops waiting at the post office in Bland, so we decided to hitchhike into town and get a room at the Big Walker Motel, just off I-77. The trail brought us onto U.S. Rt. 21/52, directly across from the Mountain Top Holiness Church, whose sign welcomed us to Bland. We were soon in the bed of a pickup, traveling the two and a half miles into town.

  The Big Walker Motel sat on a hillside overlooking I-77. We had quite a hiker gathering that afternoon as many other hikers came in off the trail. We learned the trail would reopen in the morning, so Sailor and I planned to rise early and hike as long as possible the next day to make up for lost time. We had hiked only eleven miles that day; our goal was to reach Pearisburg, forty-three miles north, in just two days.

  ———

  The next morning on our way out of Bland, we stopped at a small restaurant at the back of the local CITGO station and downed a delicious breakfast and plenty of coffee. We were soon on the road again, with our thumbs in the air.

  Since the shooting, locals were reluctant to pick up hikers. We’d just resigned ourselves to walking the two miles back to the trail, when a lady graciously stopped and gave us a ride. She refused to be deterred by recent events; she enjoyed meeting hikers and kept a log of everyone she picked up.

  The previous day had been short, we were rested, and we’d consumed large quantities of food in town, so we felt strong and the miles passed swiftly. The terrain varied little all day, with only a gentle climb up log steps to another Brushy Mountain. Virginia has nine Brushy Mountains and four mountains named Brush.

  The trail led under a series of power lines that hissed and crackled. Although I always felt a bit uneasy standing under such power, the open area surrounding these lines usually gave us great views. Many of the lines went over the mountaintops, and from those heights the snaking lines of cable following cleared pathways over the ridges looked like an undulating highway leading to some distant town.

  Steps formed of rocks and logs took us down to Kimberling Creek where a dramatic suspension bridge crossed the water. Wildflowers bloomed in profusion, and the rhododendron was just starting to show its color. Walking through a thicket of the large bushes, I questioned the sanity of sampling the huge blooms. Buds were beginning to open, but my appetite was not quite large enough to taste rhododendron that day.

  Toward evening, we met hikers headed south. From them we learned that the Wapiti Shelter, site of the 1981 murders, was just ahead. We’d heard other hikers emphatically refuse to stay at that shelter, and now Sailor and I were faced with the choice ourselves. We had hiked over twenty-six miles and were ready to call it a day. And even though a sense of the macabre surrounded Wapiti, the shooter was now in jail. Another bonus: we would probably have the place to ourselves.

  I don’t believe in hauntings and ghosts, but the place did have an eerie atmosphere. The building was actually a new structure; the old shelter had been torn down after the murders. Still, I could not escape thoughts about what had happened on this site. One act had caused so much pain, and its consequences still trickled down to strangers just passing through more than twenty-five years later.

  Sailor and I ate our meal in the shelter, but refused to sleep inside. We pitched our tents a little distance to one side of the building. No one else showed up that night. Although logic argued I was safe, I will admit that I found a good-sized rock and kept it within reach in the vestibule of my tent . . . just in case.

  Morning arrived, and we were still alive.

  The day started with an eight-hundred-foot climb and a fantastic view of Pearis Mountain from a rock outcropping. The forest floor was carpeted with ferns, and as we crossed Pearis, we walked through God’s wild gardens, thick with blooming azaleas.

  Descending the mountain, we headed to Pearisburg and checked in at the Plaza Motel. The weather forecast for the following day warned of an 80 percent chance of high winds, rain, and cold. We considered taking a zero day, but only briefly. Even though we’d left the business world, both of us were still very goal-oriented.

  The next day was Mother’s Day, May 11. Many hikers in the surrounding hostels and motels heeded the ominous warnings and stayed indoors, but Sailor and I again bet on the 20 percent chance that the weatherman was wrong.

  If our mothers could have had any inkling of what lay ahead for their two sons, they surely would have wept.

  At six in the morning, we stopped at Hardee’s for a quick breakfast. Another hiker told us Randall Lee Smith had died in his cell the night before. Some thought he took his own life, but later reports said he died of natural causes, perhaps from his injuries in the car crash. Whatever the case, most people we met seemed relieved; they were rid of a longtime local embarrassment.

  We hiked a mile on Rt. 100 to get back to the trail, and we were soon on Highway 460, searching for a white blaze. Settling into our stride, we climbed uphill for six miles. Then the wind picked up and the temperature began dropping dramatically. Coming out onto Rice Field, we had a panoramic view of Pearisburg and the community we had just left—and imminent trouble. Stretching across the entire horizon, a low, menacing cloud formation hung over the landscape. It had 80 percent written all over its dark face. Rice Field Shelter was in our sights, a wire fence separating it from the meadow. We climbed the fence and hustled for the protection of the shelter.

  But the cold wind stormed after us, through the open front of the building. There was no refuge, and we concluded that we might stay warmer if we kept on hiking. Back over the fence we went, now heading into gale-force winds.

  We hurried up the trail, knowing we couldn’t outrun the storm, but moving as quickly as we could to keep warm. We passed under a power line as the wind whipped the lines back and forth with a force that broke off sections of the ceramic insulators. We skirted around the falling pieces. A cold mist settled over the landscape as the storm raged in and swallowed us.

  The next several hours were misery as I’d never known misery. Misery and fear. Sleet and high winds pummeled us. My hands were so cold I could no longer feel the hiking poles I held. At Symms Gap Meadow, the thunder roared and lightning flashed as we hiked through the open field. Behind me, I heard Sailor yell the obvious, “We shouldn’t be out here, you know.”

  “Right,” I yelled back, “but our options are limited.” There were no trees large enough to shelter us, b
ut I was certain we wouldn’t want to stand under a tree anyway with lightning striking everywhere around us. “Just stay as low as you can, and maybe the lightning will miss us.” Across the cold, mist-shrouded meadow we hiked, bent as low as possible. We must have looked like camels, our backpacks like humps as we hurried along.

  Crack! Sizzle! A lightning bolt streaked several hundred feet ahead of us. I was sure there were targets on our packs, and that storm was determined to zap us. Another earthshaking boom, and another explosion of lightning on our path.

  “Dear God, Your aim’s not very good,” I mumbled. Several frightful moments later, my prayer changed. Dear God, go ahead and hit me if You want. I’m cold and wet and miserable, and a well-placed lightning bolt would at least warm me up.

  The only reply was the howling of the wind, and when no bolt hit, I heard my own adrenaline-laced shouting.

  “If You’re not going to zap me, here are my demands. I came out here on this trail because You assured me You’d meet me here. Never did You mention conditions this horrible. I want this storm to end! And not only do I want it to end, I want sunshine—and I want it NOW!”

  Yes, I admit, I threw a fit, and although some folks might think we mortals should not talk to the Creator of the universe in this way, I believe He rather appreciated my forthrightness.

  Thirty minutes later, we were walking in sunshine.

  I’m not suggesting God gave in to His child’s temper tantrum. But perhaps He does understand our anger, and maybe He listens to our frustrations. Maybe He is not put off when we get a little emotional.

  Sailor and I congratulated each other on being alive and began the process of drying out. The next shelter was seven miles away, but we hoped to reach it before another deluge hit us. The sun dried and warmed us for several hours, but as we came in sight of the Pine Swamp Branch Shelter, rain began falling again.

  We hurried to the shelter, but again found no refuge. A previous storm had toppled a tree onto the building, collapsing most of the roof, and only a shell remained. Sailor quickly erected his tent and disappeared into his safe harbor. I, on the other hand, was busy being brilliant.

  On both sides of the shelter, a few feet of roof remained, covering what was at one time the interior wooden platform. Could I possibly squeeze my tent under those few feet for more protection from the downpour? I erected my tent on the picnic table outside the shelter, then picked up Big Agnes and shoved her sideways under the protruding roof. Half of the tent was now under the remnants of roof, but since Big Agnes sat on the wooden floor, I could not properly extend the rain fly. There was no way to stake the fly, as I would have on the forest floor, so I just threw the rain fly over the top of the tent, hoping the water would run off and drain away from my campsite.

  I dashed across the trail to a stream and filtered water for my meal, with raindrops pelting me relentlessly. But then another problem presented itself. Inside shelters, we normally hung food bags from the ceiling to keep the contents out of reach of resident rodents. There was no roof and no place to hang my food for safekeeping. The night was probably too miserable for even mice to be out and about, but just in case, I sacrificed.

  I still had several packs of Little Debbies with me, and I placed one pack outside my tent on the wooden floor as a peace offering to any nibbling night creature that might be hungry. Hopefully, the offering would prevent any mouse from chewing a hole in my tent while in quest of the bigger food bag within.

  At last the cold, frightening, miserable day was over. I relaxed, climbing into my sleeping bag, smug about my tent location and mouse offering. However, my brilliant tent setup was not working brilliantly. Water leaked into the front of the tent, soaking the top of my sleeping bag. I sopped up all the water I could with my shirt, and once again crawled out and tried to reposition my tent. Then I scrunched myself and the sleeping bag into the only corner that was still dry.

  The good ship Big Agnes stayed afloat, although she took on quite a bit of water. I spent most of the night bailing and listening to the wind moaning through the splintered edges of the roof and creating haunting sounds as if the shelter were mourning its loss.

  When morning light finally signaled the end of the night’s torment, I stuffed my wet and lumpy sleeping bag into its sack and unzipped my tent to check on the Little Debbies. The delicacy had not been touched. I knew that the package contained over two hundred calories, fuel I could not ignore. The cakes were my own breakfast.

  Not wishing a repeat of yesterday’s misery, I donned my GORE-TEX rainsuit, then quickly dismantled my tent. This day was also rainy, windy, and cold, but never matched the terrible conditions of the previous day. We hiked eighteen and a half miles and called it a day when we reached Laurel Creek Shelter. This shelter did have a roof and faced away from the wind. We dropped our packs with relief; at least there was a possibility of a good night’s sleep here.

  I pulled my sleeping bag from its stuff sack, and it dropped to the floor with a thud. Still damp from the previous night, the bag carried the stench of wet feathers. I could not sleep wrapped in the foul smell, so at the least I would need to dry the area where I would lay my head. Brilliance struck again. I crawled inside the sleeping bag with my cookstove. Tenting the bag over my head, I lit the stove and began the drying process. The smell was horrible, but the tactic actually worked—the dampness warmed and evaporated.

  Just when I was congratulating myself on my ingenuity, a new aroma permeated my little cocoon—burning feathers. I had burned a hole in the bag, and feathers were escaping, landing on the stove and bursting into a display of fireworks. Alarmed, I threw back the sleeping bag, and a cloud of feathers puffed into the air around me, drifting gently to the floor.

  Duct tape patched the burned hole, but at least I had a dry place to lay my head that night. Granted, I also had a splitting headache from the fumes I’d inhaled, but I willingly paid that price for a good night’s sleep. I scooped up some of the feathers on the floor and stuffed them down a small gap in the shelter floor. Mice might reject my Little Debbies, but surely they would appreciate this gift.

  My efforts did produce rest that night, and morning brought the gift of sunshine. It’s incredible how sunshine can improve one’s disposition. A sunny day also gave us an opportunity to dry out all our gear. At noon, we stopped at the Niday Shelter and, under the midday sun, spread tents, sleeping bags, and all our wet clothes over any and every bush. In an hour, we again had dry equipment and our packs were several pounds lighter.

  ———

  As I had planned this hike and counted the miles and days I would be on the trail, I questioned whether I might become bored hiking through the woods day after day.

  I never did. Every twist and turn brought new wonder.

  I remembered a quote from Benton MacKaye, the originator of the AT. He said the ultimate purpose of the Appalachian Trail would be “to walk; to see and to see what you see.”[1] How often we witness a scene of great beauty but don’t comprehend what we see. A beautiful sunset, a bright full moon, brilliant stars on a cloudless night. We are too busy to see. The stresses of life blind us. Our eyes behold, but we do not grasp the greatness of what God placed here for our enjoyment.

  Several weeks before, walking along a lovely stretch of trail where flowers splashed their colors everywhere and trees towered above me, I remarked to God that He had done a particularly good job on that section of the trail. I heard Him reply, You are my son, and I made it for you.

  The Creator of everything I saw had named me as a son. I was an heir. How wonderful is that? If we could actually grasp the significance of that father-child relationship, then perhaps we could also begin to see what we see—and maybe even know what we know.

  Sailor and I hiked in twenty-one miles of sunshine that thirteenth day of May. By evening, we were crossing Rt. 620, a small country road that follows Trout Creek. We weren’t too far from the next shelter, but it was half a mile off the trail and we did not want an additional
mile of hiking. Hiking wisdom recommends camping away from highways, but this was a small country road and we were ready to call it a day. Our tents went up, in sight of both the creek and the road.

  Most of our clothes and equipment had dried in the sunshine during our noonday break, but my shoes had been damp for most of the day. Now, as we stopped for the night, I realized that even my shoes were dry; everything had finally recovered from the downpours of the last two days.

  I took my water filter to the knee-deep Trout Creek, running clear and cold just across from our campsite. Perched on a rounded rock, I filtered a liter of water and then jumped back to the creek bank. And slipped. My dry shoes were once again waterlogged.

  We were on the trail early the next morning. Morning sun slanted through the trees and the beauty of a Virginia spring throbbed around us. We crossed Trout Creek on a footbridge, and immediately the trail turned upward. Our challenge of the day would be Cove Mountain, with rock formations along its spine. The most prominent formation, Dragon’s Tooth, jutted upward another thirty-five feet from the mountain. Our descent proved every bit as difficult as the climb. The trail downward was a series of rock steps and switchbacks; u-shaped iron rods had been inserted in the cliff walls, handholds to assist hikers navigating the steep path.

  Eight miles brought us to Rt. 624. A small grocery down the road promised hot breakfasts, pizza, sandwiches, and supplies. The lure of food was irresistible. And when we arrived, we found real luxury: restrooms.

  We ate. And ate. We sat on the concrete outside the store and feasted.