As I hiked alone, and neared Albert’s Mountain, the bladder began demanding a Type 1. The knees chimed in “Excuse us, we could use a 3, at the very least!”
“Hello? Who do you think have pounded the dirt for 3 hours straight? We demand a Type 4!” The feet have made themselves heard.
“Ok, ok, everyone shut up, and when we hit that mountaintop, there’s a privy and Serious Type 4 coming! Work with me on this!!” I guess that came from the brain, which many times knows nothing at all. I stay out of it, and let them argue.
The last tenth of a mile up to Albert's Mountain is a rough hand-over-hand rock scramble. Hiking poles must be secured by the wrist strap over one hand. On this type of climbing, they are worth nothing at all. Once on top, a beautiful panorama opens of the Smoky Mountains. A fire tower stands tall, and if one is so inclined, he or she may treat the knees to some more abuse. I took a long break at the base of the fire tower, basking in the sunshine, and ate some granola.
Almost every hiker I met was having some knee problems, and wearing a brace, or taking the down hills slowly. Several have bought hiking poles from one of the many outfitters along the way, and are learning how to use them. When the pain started, I wore my two knee braces a few hours each day. Eventually I hoped to discard them. Together they weighed 16 ounces.
On top the switchbacks looking down upon the Nantahala River, the same feelings encountered on the PCT returned: overwhelming stimuli and apprehension. It is like a small town, alive this weekend with kayakers, hikers, and vacationers. On the edge of town I found a pay phone, and called home. David was not there, so I left a message, and crossed the bridge. “Brawny!” A woman sitting behind the Backpacker Magazine information table called my name. Startled, I looked to see who had called me. It was Amy, and her husband Brent, who were on a countrywide tour for Backpacker’s “Get Out More” campaign. We hugged, thrilled to see each other. Last year, we met while hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. They shared their bunk house with me, and took me to dinner that night; trail magic at its finest.
One morning I complained about my frameless pack’s weight. Something just didn’t feel right. Charlie from Kansas threatened to trade with me. I gave a good hearty laugh. I probably couldn’t lift his pack off the ground.
Charlie and I leap-frogged along. We met again at lunchtime in front of Mollies Ridge Shelter, a stone three-sided structure. A chain link fence reaching the roof made the forth side. Inside were two ancient wooden shelves, one above the other, with slats nailed on to make individual spaces. It was my first glimpse of a Great Smoky Mountain National Park shelter. I was reminded of the Amistad slave ship. No, don’t get me wrong. This is “Bad Bear” territory, and I definitely wanted a slot. A dirt floor inside, in front of the fence, and fireplace at one end, completed the arrangement. Outside were fire rings, logs for sitting, and a grassy area big enough for many tents. Signs pointed the path to water, and the path in the opposite direction to the toilet area. As we hiked on, I had plenty to think about. Two and a half miles to Russell Field Shelter. Do I want a top bunk? Or a bottom? No way will I sleep next to a stone wall, whose crevices contain mouse condos.
We arrived about 5:30, and I claimed a middle slot on the top bunk. Poptart, and Geek were already there. After eating, our food bags were hung on the bear cables 30 feet off the ground. Everything else was brought inside the shelter. Packs were hung on the inside of the fence, the many straps hanging down, obscuring the view outside. Our water bottles were set around inside the fortress. Someone threw a candy wrapper into the fireplace, and already in broad daylight a mouse was chewing on it. A southbounder had a 6-liter Platypus bag, filled with camp water, which he hung outside on the fence, about 5 feet from the ground. Once we settled down, Smurf told us a bedtime story. Off to dream land. About 11 p.m. it started raining; a steady drenching rain. A couple hours later it lulled, and I head a big “Whoosh”, banging noises, followed by silence. “Who is tenting out there, dumping the water off his fly?” I wondered.
Early next morning I ate breakfast while sitting on a log as the others slept. Then the southbounder came out to get water from his Platypus. "What the hell?” he exclaimed. His water bag was empty. It still hung on the fence, but a large nearly perfect hole 7 inches in diameter, had appeared. All that remained were teeth marks. “I paid $18 for this thing! A bear bit a hole in my bag!” He showed us, and rehung it. Then he left to get more water in a borrowed soda bottle.
“That must have been his water being dumped you heard last night, Brawny,” Charlie said. A bag is a bag, and if it’s hanging on a chain link fence, it’s liable to be taken for a food bag, fair game to camp-wise bears. A drenching was all he got.
Packing up that morning, I put the bulk of my food in the bottom of my pack, leaving just snack food on top. The food is the heavy stuff. As I put on my backpack, things were right again. I hardly felt the weight. The weight keeps the slippery silnylon hip belt from sliding up. Now it carried properly, with most of the weight resting on my hips.
The mornings were still chilly, but favorable for good hiking. I decided to eat cold breakfasts because it was much more efficient, and I only had to wash the dishes in the evening.
Max Patch, near the town of Hot Springs, North Carolina, is a marvel. You can see it a couple miles ahead, this grassy bald extending for what appears to be thousands of acres. One must follow the fence posts marked with white blazes as you climb, then cross and descend the mountain. Views are 360 degrees, and the Blue Mountains seen from there really are blue. This range of mountains geologists tell us, are older, and rounded because of erosion over millenniums. Western mountains contrast with their rugged peaks, supposedly proving they are much younger, and formed in an earthly upheaval more recently. Astounding earth-presumptions.
One large, dark thundercloud loomed straight overhead as I crossed Max Patch. Not wanting to be struck by lightning, I continued on. A foreign couple was dining on top with their wine bottle, picnic basket, and tablecloth, oblivious to the threatening skies.
As I descended, the thunder began, accompanied by a few raindrops. Roaring Fork Shelter, Where Are You? Hike like mad. Finally, there was a glimpse across the gap, a privy, but no sign of humans. I arrived before 5, happy and pleased with this clean, well-planned shelter with a skylight, and table. I read the trail register, and spread out cooking gear. The April 3rd edition of the New York Times, already two weeks old, laid on the platform. A good read. Hey didja know that Michael Jordan was out for the season with a knee injury?
Corncob, retired and thru-hiking, arrived. Then Wanderer pulled in, sixty-seven years old and backpacking, fulfilling the dream of a lifetime. They set up their little stoves, and each cooked a one-pot meal, exclaiming, "Isn't this the life?" I chuckled, pleased with their company. Watching them set up their own sleeping areas on the shelter floor, get water from the stream, and clean up for bedtime, I thought of how bad a day job must be, that we can love this sparse freedom so much.
The dogwood blossoms were gorgeous against the dark firs, the Blue Mountains and bright spring leaves. The trail rolls up, over and around these hills, yet always descending to the valley at just over 1,300 feet. As the humidity increased, the anticipation of air conditioning quickened steps towards town. I passed a side trail intersection to the Deer Park Mountain Shelter, and noticed a smaller trail to the left. In a tiny clearing was a ring of rocks, and two head stones. I went into the little cove, and read the inscription. A couple, names now forgotten, lay buried there. “Absent not Dead” read one. “Absent not Forgotten” read the other. Inscriptions that speak to the inner being. We reassure each other that we will not be forgotten, and will never forget. Let no one pass through our world and not be mourned upon his or her departure.
Three miles remained to Hot Springs, a slow teasing descent while viewing the town from above. This town was much bigger than I thought. The trail follows the road through town, blazes painted on telephone poles just above the sidewalk. I had a few hours
before Rainmaker arrived, enough time to check out the town, stop in the thrift store and barter awhile, have a cold soda, and visit the post office. Life is good. Freedom is fine. But love’s what it’s all about.
After two days rest at home, I was hiking strong, catching up to friends, and starting to put in longer, high mileage days. It wasn’t a matter of hiking fast, but hiking long.
Unfortunately, there was a “war” going on in Erwin, TN, between the two hostels. Some hikers wisely resupplied and headed back out the same day, others stayed at the Holiday Inn. Those staying at one place or another became the pawns in a “turf war”. It seemed odd to have so many trail services that we can be fought over, and involved in petty issues of everyday life. I again fought the disappointment with this trail that seemed too easy.
In late April it was still amazingly cold. I had sent home my 20-degree bag, and was using my “summer system”, which consisted of a fleece bag with a taffeta outer bag cover. I was very glad I kept my fleece pants. One night I used my tent as a blanket, probably making all the difference in sleeping warm.
By early morning, I could feel the built-up condensation (from the silnylon fabric top layer) seeping through my fleece pants. I woke with the dawn and was on trail at 6:30. The shelter was full of sleeping hikers, so I packed quickly and quietly. After a couple of miles, I began to fear I’d left stuff at the shelter. Nothing was where it was supposed to be in my pack. My data book, tent stakes, and bandana were all “missing”. It was a very lousy start and I chided myself a hundred times for being so hasty. I left without breakfast, just throwing stuff in the pack so I wouldn’t wake anyone and could warm up while hiking. I found my stakes, and later when I went to my food bag, there was my data book! Then I found my bandana! All was well again. As an ultralighter, these things are dearly missed, and I promised myself that the next time, I would take more care.
In Damascus I stayed at “The Place”, a large house with bunks and showers for hikers, sponsored by the local Methodist Church. They accept donations, but it is rumored that few were given. That is how hostels finally go under. I bought an 800-fill goose down bag, rated for 30 degrees from the outfitter in town. It was a full sized, 6-foot long sleeping bag. Not a single sleeping bag sized for women was to be found. It weighed just 24 ounces, and stuffed very neatly. It became a favorite piece of gear, well worth the $260 I spent.
At times, I just need to hike gently and alone. I pondered the meaning of a thru-hike and kept thinking “I must slow down to receive what this trail experience will teach. So far it’s escaping me.” In retrospect, I had been hiking a reactionary hike. Hiking to catch up to people whose names I recognized in the registers, hiking to escape certain people, hiking to claim a spot in the shelter when it was raining hard or bad weather threatened. This was a busy trail, and I fought disappointment constantly. It was too easy, too many people, too many hostels, too many roads, too many places to bail out and go home. I had to accept this trail for itself. It was my good fortune to hike the PCT, but now my estimation of the AT suffered. Until I quit comparing them, there would be no appreciation for this journey.
The Appalachian Trail is renowned for its constant PUDs, the pointless ups and downs. It is not as though the climb takes you to any views. If there is one, signs will point them out. This trail was completed in 1948 before erosion was a major concern, and subsequent switchbacks were used to deal with it. Some rebuilding and rerouting has been done in the intervening years, but there still remains a need for hill climbing strategies. Here are mine:
Hill Climbing Strategies For Mega Hills
(Over 1,500 ft. elevation gain)
1. Empty bladder before climbing; never haul those extra 8 – 12 ounces up the hill.
2. Take breaks in the shade or on an upgrade, as needed.
3. Do not chew gum. It hinders breathing.
4. Stop and rest if your leg is about to fall off.
5. Think erotic thoughts for distraction.
6. Before passing another hiker, give adequate notice. If they don’t acknowledge, be sure that they are still alive.
Charlie and Lost-and-Found met me in Pearisburg around noon, and we shared a tiny room at the Rendezvous Motel. Charlie and I went to the library, then for salad at Pizza Hut. We met a couple, Vagabond and Blueberry, who were thru-hiking with their dog. On their hike into town, they saw the same two goats we had seen. Their dog, Alice, decided it would make a great chase. As Vagabond called repeatedly for her to return, one goat took measures of its own. Over the cliff of Angel’s Rest and into the air it sailed. The dog followed, into the fog and over the cliff. The goat knew of a ledge out of sight, just below the leap off. The dog didn’t. She fell 30 feet, trashing her pack, and injuring her hip. Her owner found a tree wedged into the rocks, and used it to climb down to Alice and lifted her back to the trail. With that done, they finished hiking into town. She was limping when we met them, but otherwise appeared subdued, and okay.
Virginia is a beautiful state, though some say it is too long. Climbing over many stiles, we crossed pastoral lands. Grazing cattle and horses were shooed off the actual treadway so that we could remain purists. The attitude of extreme purism and righteousness was found early on, while we were still naive enough to think we could actually walk every step of a four-foot wide trail that was under, or on top of, white blazes. These white rectangles were so neatly painted (2 x 6 inches), and regularly placed on trees and rocks, though not necessarily in regard to the life or limbs of the hikers.
Whenever I get close to town type facilities, within 25 miles, the same compulsion to hike into civilization overtakes me. And, why not just do it? I needed to talk to Rainmaker, and I felt strong. Near Troutville, just off Interstate 81, there are motels and plenty of phones. That morning we crossed Tinker Cliffs, as the sky darkened and then the thunder and lightning rolled in. The rocks were exposed and slippery, making the hike across Tinker Ridge exhausting. The rain abated, and then resumed just as I got into town. After reserving a room with another thru-hiker, we ate the Chinese AYCE buffet dinner in Troutville. It was fantastic. “Nothing in the world is accomplished without passion,” read my fortune cookie. Seemed appropriate. A small sticker left on shelter register page said, “It is good to journey towards an end, but in the end it is the journey that matters.”
The pattern of waking early, getting on trail at daybreak, and consequently deciding to do big days was my hiking style of choice. Perhaps that induced the so-called Virginia blues. On the other hand, seeing the data change, and feeling some sort of accomplishment, kept me going. They say it’s not the state being so big; it’s the 6-8 weeks away from home taking its toll, with the longing for loved ones. I felt discouraged at this stage, and had serious doubts about continuing. It seemed I didn’t have any more hills left in me.
We had heard about the dreaded ascent to The Priest, the knee-jolting descent to the Tye River, and then making the 3,000 ascent to Hanging Rock Overlook. It was 30 degrees, and the grass was frosted. Times like this it's just best to dig in, and get started.
The climb wasn’t nearly as bad as I had heard; it was graded and beautiful. Once again I reminded myself not to give into the “Fear-Brokers” who sometimes hike the trails. By pelting us with their fears, they justify their own. Maybe they just want to see some dread on our faces.
All the stone “fences” we passed reminded me of the movie “Gettysburg”, and the lives that were wasted during the Civil War. There were two head stones marking the burial place of union soldiers, and small confederate flags tacked to a tree. At times, it seemed that the spirits of slain soldiers still lingered in the mountains.
Just twenty miles out of Waynesboro, I read Lightingbolt’s entry in the register “Where’s Brawny?” This dear friend from the PCT had unknowingly passed me one evening while I sat huddled in a cold shelter. As I crossed the bridge at Rockfish Gap, Lightingbolt called my name. He was returning to the trail from an overnight town stop, and I was heading in to resup
ply. We ran to greet each other, and exchanged a big hug. He is a fellow ultralighter, and this chance meeting boosted my moral. We took each other's photos and checked out our custom gear. Emotionally, this section had been hard, and I often searched my soul for the reason. Not everything can or deserves to be identified, so simply just celebrating the fact that I had made it this far, I looked forward to the upcoming Shenandoahs and Harper’s Ferry. The wet and unexpected cold had taken a toll, and I was ready to get my winter gear back! We hiked north with spring, and occasionally with winter. It looked like we had beaten the summer heat.
After taking a zero day in Waynesboro, I was bored with inactivity and ready to move. Shenandoah National Park is just a mile north of Rockfish Gap. Reputedly, it is very beautiful, with well-maintained trail, plenty of wild animals, many easily accessible camp stores and grills. The enthusiasm for this journey returned; I was nearly half way.
One enters the park, and there is a self-registration box. I filled out the forms, read the rules and tied the white tag to my pack. All food must be hung on the tall metal poles installed near the shelters, by lifting the food sack with a heavy metal rod provided and snagging the hook above with the bag's loop. This was easier said than done.
The trail and weather were indeed lovely during the four and a half days it took to hike through the park. Deer were so tame; they followed hikers, looking for handouts. Everyone was hoping to see a bear. I certainly saw mine.
The first of five bears I saw the next day suddenly crashed across the trail early in the morning. Then she stopped in the brush a few yards to the right. Wondering why she hadn't run further, I called “You’re going to have to go farther than that!” while clicking my hiking sticks together. Minutes passed. No sounds. I called again, and then she ran off, her cub scampering behind her.
While hiking that same afternoon I looked to my left, and was startled to see a bear standing on a grassy hill about thirty feet away, regarding me. I called " Hello! Hey, I need to come by here.” The bear ran uphill and stopped, sizing me up. To the right, another bear crashed downhill. The stand off resumed until I realized the bear on the left side wanted to cross the trail and join the bear on the right side. I backed up several feet. He turned and trotted north, dropped onto the trail, and halted, watching me again. “Hey, I need to come through here. What do you want me to do?” I demanded, stomping my feet, and hitting my poles together again. Finally after a few minutes, he ran off.
My Journey to Freedom and Ultralight Backpacking Page 10
