by David Miller
I’ve been playing a game with my rain jacket. The cold rain is no match for the heat that I am generating, so I get completely wet from sweat anyway. I loosen my shoulder straps so I can worm out of the sleeves of the sauna suit one arm at a time while walking and without taking my pack off. It takes a few minutes, but I’m covering ground. About the time I finish, the rain picks up again, and I have to wiggle back in, still walking. I must’ve done this eight times.
Three men are in Muskrat Creek Shelter ahead of me. Two of them look out from the dripping edges of the roof, grinning in recognition of what I have been through. They’ve been through it, too, and know how good it feels to finish a day like this one. I meet a hiker named Crossroads, who is as much my contemporary as anyone I’ll meet on the trail. He is just a few years younger than I am, and we walk at roughly the same pace, so we will see more of each other on this trail. Crossroads left his job in midcareer, but unlike me, he was granted a leave of absence. His employer wants him to move up to a position with more responsibilities. Crossroads finagled time off, saying he needs the time to decide. “Crossroads” is an apt moniker. He wants to finish the trail, but doesn’t think he has enough time to do so. He is not enthused about the new position, or even going back to the same job. He gives lip service to skipping parts of the trail, but at heart he is a “purist.” More about that term tomorrow.
A young hiker from Tennessee joins the conversation. The only other hiker staying the night is an older gentleman already in his sleeping bag. He has on headphones and speaks not a word for the remaining hours of daylight while the rest of us talk, cook dinner, and spread out our gear. I know he is not asleep because he pulls his hands out of his bag a few times to tune his radio.
I woke up at 2:02, 3:15, 5:08, 6:30, and more times when I didn’t check my watch. That’s how sleep has been for me, caused by a combination of soreness, sleeping on hard surfaces, and odd (but typical) shelter noises. One of those noises must have been the headphones guy packing, because he is gone. One of the aches is the bunion on my left foot.
Five years ago I had surgery to fix a bunion on my right foot. Recovery from foot surgery is painful and lengthy. I had hoped that I’d never have to do it again. I take my sock off and see that the bunion is grotesquely swollen. It looks as if half a golf ball has been implanted under my skin on the “knuckle” of my big toe. It is such a captivating deformity that I sit there staring as thoughts race through my head. I need to get new shoes. Where’s the next town? Is there an outfitter? A doctor? My foot doesn’t hurt that badly; maybe it will get better. Why kid myself? This will just get worse. I should get off the trail, go home, and have another bunion surgery. Maybe I can try the trail again in a few years. With this sense of finality, I stuff my swollen foot back into my shoe and head north.
Oddly, I feel as strong as I ever have on the trail. The rain has stopped, and the terrain is better. My foot feels more numb than painful. Before long I catch up to the older gentleman, sitting on the wet rocks that line the trail, looking over his map. He introduces himself as Russ. He makes no apology for being unsocial last night, and seems polite and only slightly reserved.
Pointing to his map, he says, “You see this big loop here? Well, that’s the AT. It goes around here to hit Standing Indian [Mountain] and Albert Mountain. I can take the Kimsey Creek Trail and cut all that off. I can’t make it to Maine any other way.” Using this shortcut, he could walk less than six miles to rejoin the AT. That point would be about nineteen miles if he were to follow the white blazes. And two mountains could be avoided. Standing Indian is the highest mountain south of the Smokies, and Albert Mountain is famously steep.
The Kimsey Creek Trail, like most other side trails, is marked with blue paint blazes. What Russ is proposing is dubbed “blue-blazing,” and it is heresy in the minds of many thru-hikers, but he had announced his plan unapologetically. There is contention over what it means to be a “thru-hiker.” A “purist” is a backpacker who believes a thru-hike is traveling every inch of the AT in one direction, carrying your pack every step of the way. Others will say they are thru-hiking even though they take blue blazes to shorten the distance, avoid obstacles, or to explore a more interesting route. There is a tedious abundance of customs and opinions about how to thru-hike. Conversations about the purity of a thru-hike will last the duration of my hike, and of course come to no conclusion. Everyone does his own walk, guided by conscience or by expediency.
The Appalachian Trail Conference (ATC) is the organization with primary responsibility for the trail. The ATC issues “2000-miler” certificates to “any hiker who reports he or she walked the entire length of the Appalachian Trail.” The certificates are awarded on the honor system. The ATC does not differentiate between hikers who hike the trail in one trip, or piece it together over a number of years. Their minimal 2000-miler policy states that blue-blazing is acceptable in emergency conditions. The trail can be hiked in any direction, in any sequence, with or without a backpack. The important point exposed in my current conversation with Russ is that the topic is touchy. Russ snapped out his plan as a preemptive strike against any purist preaching I might be inclined to offer. Even in trying to stay neutral, conversing about plans can be misconstrued as making judgments.
A snake crosses the trail right as I pass, somehow slithering between my feet without getting trampled. He freezes, so I look him over but cannot identify him. And I thought I knew them all. The trail tunnels through patches of rhododendron; otherwise, visibility is good. Most deciduous trees are still leafless, and some of the evergreens are dead. Standing Indian Mountain has a nice, long, steady grade with switchbacks. Even though it is the highest mountain so far, the ascent is easy. At one switchback, I can see Crossroads up ahead, flying up the trail. He must have been taking a break as I pulled close.
The climb up Albert Mountain is steeper than anything to this point, but relatively short. I actually enjoy the hand-over-hand climbs. I stand at the fire tower atop the mountain and look out over the mountainscape. My visit is cut short when I see rain clouds rolling in at a startling pace. I throw my pack on and hustle down to Big Spring Shelter. A man is in front of the shelter, topless, with his pants down around his knees. He’s taking a sponge bath, and I guess he wasn’t expecting company. “I’m going down to the stream,” I say, giving him a few minutes to dress and me a few minutes to decide if I want to stay here. A derelict tent is set up next to the shelter; it looks like it’s been here for months. The shelter is a wood structure with a metal roof and an ample overhang in front.
The hiker is also from Florida, and he’s out doing a section of the trail. It is easy enough to assess that he is harmless. He knows some of the thru-hikers on the trail this season from their Internet journals. It is windy and storming overnight, but I have a great night’s sleep. My Big Agnes sleeping pad is working out well and is the envy of everyone else in the shelters. I still have to turn every so often. I have a side-back-side rotation. I’ve also learned that tucking my knees higher while on my side takes pressure off my hip bone.
It is a beautiful morning, cloudless but cold. I’ve finished one hundred miles of the trail. The bunion on my left foot is not hurting, and fears of having to quit no longer loom over me. My plans for the day are uncertain. One shelter is too close (twelve miles) and the next is too far (twenty-five miles). It looks like rain again today, so I’d like to avoid sleeping in my tarp. At Winding Stair Gap, the trail crosses a well-traveled road, and a hiker named Fujiboots jumps out of the bed of a pickup, having hitched in and out of the town of Franklin, North Carolina. The weather is clearing, so I continue on, even taking off my shirt to get some sun.
The weather quickly deteriorates, and it’s raining within an hour of my leaving the gap. This storm is even more frightening than the last. The wind howls like a jet engine. I’ve never been in the woods with winds like this; I don’t know what to expect. Is this what a twister sounds like? I look around for somewhere I might hide. There ar
e no caves. I wonder if I should hang on to the biggest tree around so I don’t get sucked away by the wind. The rain is coming down heavy and cold, blowing into my face and leaking into the neck of my rain jacket. Rain has destroyed the guidebook pages I am keeping in my pocket, but I know I should be within a mile of Siler Bald Shelter. Lightning flashes. I feel vulnerable. I wish the shelter was here.
Conventional wisdom says I shouldn’t be near the top of a hill in a lightning storm, but there is not much I can do about it. I’ve been on a rolling ridge walk for more than a mile. I cannot backtrack and get down with any speed. If I was to bushwhack, I would have to go so far from the trail I’d probably get lost. My best option, or the option that is as good as any other, is to push forward and hope that I don’t get struck dead by lightning. I feel powerless to mitigate the risk. There is no way to be careful on top of a ridge in a lightning storm. Is hiking the trail an acceptable risk?
Finally, I fork off onto the side trail leading to Siler Bald Shelter. The rain is so hard it hurts my exposed hands and bounces off the ground. It’s hail! No wonder it hurts. I go a few hundred yards and still see no shelter. In my advance planning for the hike, I rarely planned on going to shelters that were far from the trail. But this is an unplanned stop. I wish I had taken the time to read the sign back at the fork in the trail. I’m seeing no blue blazes that should mark the route. Tentatively I backtrack a dozen steps, considering going back to the fork and making sure I’m on the right path. Damn! It’s cold. I don’t have time for this. I wheel around again and continue down the unmarked path.
Fortunately, it is the right path. Two hikers are in the shelter already. Two hours later, I finally stop shivering enough to write in my journal. Half of the shelter opening is covered with clear plastic to keep out the cold. It’s not the half where I’m sleeping. The plastic is peppered with a colony of gnats, who get excited by our cooking. Kahota (from Florida) shares orange slices, Fujiboots (from Maine) gives me a bagel, and I eat my freeze-dried meal for two. I also eat Kahota’s leftover scalloped potatoes. Then I go to bed hungry.
Morning is my time for doubting. It is cold, and I have to coerce my sore, swollen feet into my shoes. I plan to walk slowly, thinking it will be a sort of rest while moving. I have a pleasant walk through a field of wildflowers, seeing wonderful samples of Dutchman’s britches and purple trillium. I spot a luna moth camouflaged in the leaves.
The condition of the trail in North Carolina has been great. Maintainers were just here, and I see sawdust where they cleared blow-downs. There is a fire tower on Wayah Bald made of stone. It is an earthy building that blends well with the woods. From atop the tower, Albert Mountain is visible. It looks further than just two days away. I look at the woods between there and where I am and try to imagine the path and myself passing along it.
Luna moth.
I weave past three weekend hikers who are heckling each other about being unfit. The trailing hiker is a big guy, clearly walking in pain. He is probably the star of their softball team, but his size is no asset here. I sit out a ninety-minute rain shower at Cold Springs Shelter. The three weekend hikers come in during the rainstorm, shed their dripping ponchos, and trade their wet boots for sandals.
“Damn!” one of them exclaims to the big guy. “Look at your heel.” The entire back side of his white sock is red with blood.
“Yeah, I know,” he responds casually.
“If I were you, I’d throw those boots in the fire and walk outta here barefooted.”
There is always some solace in seeing someone with a condition worse than your own. But he only has another half day to walk. I have over two thousand miles to go. I eat dinner and move on for a pleasant walk late in the day to Wesser Bald Shelter. A couple calling themselves “the Bears” are regaling the rest of the hikers in this full shelter with tales of the trail ahead. They are the first southbound thru-hikers we have seen.7 One bit of disappointing news: their hike is nearly over and they haven’t seen a bear. I wonder if I’ll get to see any.
Crossroads is here ahead of me. It is the first time I’ve seen him since Standing Indian Mountain. The other hikers refer to him as if he is an überhiker. Obviously, he has told them his start date, April 25, same as mine. I say nothing of my own schedule, so as not to diminish the über status he is enjoying.
I am up at 6:30, packed, peed, and on the trail by 7:00 for my earliest start yet. My routine has been to get going between 7:00 and 8:30 and finish between 6:00 and 7:30 p.m., unless it’s raining or I’m hitting a resupply point. It now takes me about forty-five minutes to eat and pack in the morning. I expected to be faster.
I intended to take a short break at Nantahala Outdoor Center (NOC) and move on, but my knee is bugging me on the six-mile rocky downhill hike, so I am staying put. NOC is a large complex built along the Nantahala River. There is a restaurant, snack bar, motel rooms, bunkhouses, and an outfitter. The outfitter caters to kayakers and backpackers, and they have held a mail drop for me.
Up to now, I have been sleeping inside two summer sleeping bags, but they are not keeping me warm. Also, I am still struggling with volume. When I have a new food supply, I can barely cram it all in my pack. I send home the two summer bags and buy a twenty-five-degree down sleeping bag. Crocs are rubber cloglike shoes that are running rampant on the trail this year. Everyone is trading in their sandals because Crocs weigh about a pound less. I buy a pair. I buy new gaiters and a rain jacket that is supposed to be more breathable. I feel guilty about the expense. In my prehike preparations, I bought and tried two backpacks, three tents, three rain jackets, two sleeping bags, and more shoes than I can recall. Now I’m under way and still buying equipment. Gear on the trail is like equipment on the golf course; everyone’s looking for better results through technology.
I hang around the center watching kayakers and soaking my feet in the freezing water. It is a beautiful, sunny afternoon, yet I’m content to spend it here instead of hiking. I do laundry, shower (must’ve been in for twenty minutes), eat voraciously, and use my PocketMail to send and receive e-mail.8 By now, most of my friends have seen my online journal entries or read my first article in the newspaper. I get a handful of e-mails responding to what they have read. Their feedback is incredibly uplifting:
David, The highlight of my day is reading your journal. The article in Sunday’s paper was terrific, very well written. We all think of you often and I find myself sitting in my office thinking of you out on the trail. I am not sure which is worse, having a mouse shit on my gear or dealing with [a situation at work]. I guess I would take the mouse. Hang in there and stay strong.
I wake to the sound of thunder and rain on the tin roof of the NOC bunkhouse. I hit the trail about 10:30 after abandoning the fantasy that the rain would go away. The walk from NOC is the longest continuous uphill so far, going from 1,723 feet to 4,750 feet in six miles. The downside of dropping into towns is the climb out. The trail is a stream. Rain comes down in a heavy, continuous barrage. My defenses—a hooded rain jacket, gaiters, and Gore-Tex pants and shoes—only hold for about two hours. My shirt, pants, and socks are all wet.
I feel strong, even with a load bulging with six days of food. The half-day rest did me good. Thunderless lightning illuminates the sky. These flashes don’t alarm me; I don’t even know if they present a threat. I walk nonstop for three and a half hours to get to Sassafras Gap Shelter. In some ways, this weather is conducive to such a march. There is nowhere to stop, not much can be seen, and walking is the only way to stay warm.
This is a wonderfully large shelter with two levels of bunks, a large covered area in front, and clerestory windows. Two hikers are already here. They’ve been holed up since last night, having better sense than to venture out in the rain. Four more soaked hikers drag in after me. Most everyone I’m seeing on the trail is a thru-hiker.
The rain continues and shows no signs of letting up. I get chills once I stop walking, so I have some hot food and jump into my sleeping bag with wet cloth
es, testing the theory that body heat dries them out.
At 8:00 a.m., it’s been raining for more than twenty-four hours. Sleeping in wet clothes is good for the clothes but bad for the sleeping bag. My brand-new down bag kept me warm, but it is now dank and smelly. Walking in the rain is doable, but my wet feet will get more blisters (I now have three blisters on each foot), and even with a rain cover my pack slowly absorbs water from the space between me and the pack. I have to be careful to keep my sleeping bag dry. I’m going to wait for the rain to stop.
I spend much of my rainy day talking with Mike, a robust, round-faced, bearded technical writer from Minnesota. He has a technical approach to thru-hiking as well. He has studied the trail guides and maps and can recite the elevation gain and loss that we will face in the Smokies. He knows the pros and cons to all the equipment choices. His soft-spoken demeanor reminds me of football announcer Merlin Olson, and he has wizardly acumen. I think he should have the trail name “Merlin,” but I am inhibited about telling him so.
Due to my rain-shortened walk yesterday, I will abandon my plan to travel six days without resupplying. I set my sights on Fontana Dam, two days away. I need to move on at least nine miles to the next shelter to make that happen, but it is well past noon and it is still raining. Mike bemoans being “stuck” for another night, since he doesn’t have the speed to move on so late in the day.
