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Monday—April 20, 1998
Trail Day—94/0
Trail Mile—1402/0
Location—Springer Mountain, Southern Terminus,
Appalachian Trail
I find it almost impossible, getting all
the things done that need to be done in the “real world,”
things that inevitably must go on in my absence for the next
five or six months. It’s already 2:30 p.m. as I work
feverishly, getting my little place here at the Nimblewill
straightened up and mothballed so I can depart. I should
have been out of here at least an hour ago. The bushwhack to
the summit of Springer Mountain takes at least six hours,
with the last three-quarter-mile leg being most difficult,
near straight up. I don’t want to be tackling that in the
dark.
I finally have my pack on and I’m out the
door. I guess it’s normal to have misgivings, especially
when faced with a challenge the magnitude of thru-hiking the
Appalachian Trail. This is something I have been looking
forward to and planning for years, and now that moment is
here. I have faith that the Good Lord will provide me safe
and successful passage, but the doubt and fear, those
feelings, are there none-the-less. The fact that I’ve been
on the trail 94 days and have logged over 1,400 miles in the
process is no guarantee, no assurance that I will make it
one more mile. The longest ECT segment of this incredible
“Odyssey of ‘98” lies ahead, the Appalachian National Scenic
Trail. I’ve read many an account, and have many friends told
me about this grand affair, what a far-reaching adventure it
will be. The AT stretches for over 2,100 miles, from
Springer Mountain above me here in Georgia, through
countless mountains and valleys, across fourteen states, to
“The Greatest Mountain” in Maine, Mount Katahdin.
I’ve descended now to Nimblewill Creek,
where my good friend and fellow backpacker, Robert Seaton
waits to greet me and send me off. I linger and we talk. His
is a sense of excitement too, knowing we will shake hands in
a moment, and then I’ll be gone. I know he would like to
come with me. I know I would like him to journey along.
We’ll get to do some backpacking together I’m sure, one of
these days. We bid farewell and I’m off for Springer
Mountain and that far horizon that lies out there, that
mysterious beyond that beckons the wanderlust in all of us.
The hike and bushwhack from my little
place covers over nine miles. In that distance I will climb
in excess of 2,000 feet—nearly half a mile. I’ve a short
bushwhack to start with, then a walk along paved and
woodsroads. From here I head up the horsy-bike trail around
Bull Mountain and up Lance Creek watershed. First there is
cove, then the upper ravine, then along by the creek to the
springhead near the summit of Springer Mountain. Then comes
the final ascent straight up the mountain to the blue-blaze
approach trail from Amicalola Falls State Park.
There are many different ways to gain
notoriety, some which are planned, some which simply happen.
It’s hard to believe there would be much notoriety in how
one arrives at Springer Mountain, but if you mention the
name Robie Hensley, you will realize fame can indeed come in
strange and unusual ways. For Robie is best known for how he
reached Springer to begin his Appalachian Trail thru-hike.
He parachuted onto the summit! There was no problem tagging
Robie with his trail name. He immediately became known as
Jumpstart! And so it is that I am probably the first to
walk from home to the summit of Springer Mountain, to begin
an Appalachian Trail thru-hike, but you’re not likely to
read about Walkstart in the evening paper! I arrive
and pitch on the summit of Springer Mountain just as the sun
is setting.
“This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun,
Thou know’st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.”
[Alexander Pope, The Universal Prayer]
Tuesday—April 21, 1998
Trail Day—95/1
Trail Mile—1418/16
Location—Gooch Gap Shelter
I stand here now by the old plaque on the
summit of Springer Mountain, my heart in my throat, my mind
in the mist. I have stood here countless times before…but my
presence here now, this moment, is somehow different. For
all of the intrepid who have stood here, each has a story to
tell. For from this very spot does there begin a marvelous
and incredible adventure, what many have described as, “The
journey of a lifetime.” But for me, the old Nomad,
from this point does there just continue an odyssey that
began many days and many miles to the south. So the feelings
and emotions that are flooding over me must be a jumble
compared to those experienced by others who have passed this
way.
Five sections of the Eastern Continental
Trail have been completed, 825 miles of the Florida National
Scenic Trail, 250 miles of the Florida/Alabama Roadwalk, 125
miles of the Alabama Pinhoti Trail, 140 miles of the Georgia
Pinhoti Trail, and 60 miles of the Benton MacKaye Trail. As
I look at the first white blaze leading north, marking the
Appalachian National Scenic Trail, knowing that over 2100
miles remain; emotions flood over me. For, by the Grace of
God am I here, am I at this shrine. Tears well in my eyes,
tears of sadness, tears of joy and tears of pride, emotions
I’ve never before experienced and cannot fully describe. My
obituary could have been written at least three times since
beginning this journey on New Years Day. But the Good Lord
has seen fit to open a path for me and I have had safe
passage.
I am literally living Psalm 23. For I did
lie down in green pastures, I have walked beside still
waters, and my soul, indeed is being restored. For it is
that the path o’er which I trek is directing me toward the
paths of righteousness. Slowly my countenance is beginning
to reflect that of a man at peace…at peace with himself, at
peace with the world, and at peace with the Lord. The anger,
hatred, resentment, envy, the vain pride, all of which
consumed me over the last many years, a burden carried heavy
on my mind and in my heart onto the trail in the Everglades,
a burden every bit as heavy as the physical burden of the
pack on my back is slowly going out of my body, down to the
trail beneath my feet and onto the path behind me. In a
moment, I will take that first step north—into the unknown,
to continue toward the paths of righteousness, for his
name’s sake. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me…
Within the swirling mist passing over
this summit do spirits also reside and pass, for I feel
their presence. And of these do I remember. William Bartram,
John Muir, Henry David Thoreau, Benton MacKaye, Myron Avery,
Percival Baxter, Walter Greene, Healon Taylor, George
Outerbridge, Orville Crowder, George Miller, Emma Gatewood,
and Murray Chism, God willing, I will reach Mount Katahdin,
and then too, will there be a place here for my spirit to
dwell someday.A scant three miles north by trail from
Springer Mountain is found one of the most awe-inspiring
places along the entire Appalachian Range. Here exists a
most-proud community. Its residents make up the oldest
virgin stand of hemlock in the eastern United States. As I
descend the cove at Stover Creek I sense there are grand
sky-hinged cathedral doors opening before me, as if I am
entering Nature’s very own place of worship. I stand now
among majestic, towering monarchs, ancient, almost
everlasting, their places taken here long before this land
was a civilized nation, magnificent still. How could they
possibly have endured the ravages of time and survived the
encroachment of man! Their presence is humbling,
overpowering. I stand and gaze in silence and awe. Three of
us with our arms outreaching could not encircle the girth of
these giant statesmen. It is impossible to adequately
describe these proud towers to you—you must come and rest
your eyes on them. For you too will not believe! Here is a
true legacy of the forest primeval, this small swatch that
man has somehow passed over, to remain, and to be cradled in
the bosom of Nature…by time.
It seems El Nino has chosen to continue
this journey with me. I arrive at Gooch Gap Shelter in the
hail. There were many hard pulls today and I am very tired.
A fire is going and I prepare a warm meal. And so ends my
most remarkable first day on the Appalachian Trail. Sleep
comes soon!
“Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.”
[Joyce Kilmer]
Wednesday—April 22, 1998
Trail Day—96/2
Trail Mile—1433/31
Location—Neels Gap, US19, Goose Creek Cabins
We had an international gathering at the
shelter last night. Frank Sneakers Clarkeston from
Detroit, Michigan, Eric Pure Joy from Marietta,
Georgia; and EricVoyager Schmidt from Woodstock,
Ontario, Canada. The rain pounded most of the night. What a
blessing to be in a shelter and out of it for a change! This
morning the rain has backed off but the sky remains gray and
threatening. The four of us enjoy hiking together into Woody
Gap. What a fine experience having company on the trail. But
at Woody Gap I bid farewell to these new friends for it is
my desire to reach Neels Gap by nightfall.
It is noon now and the sun is trying to
burn away the higher elevation mush. Down below, the valleys
and mountainsides are adrift in white, streaming clouds, the
sun occasionally dodging through, creating brilliant
contrast and relief across the fresh light-green fabric of
spring. The shadows from the traveling banners visit, to
linger and dance the pockets and coves all along. But alas,
the sun will have no luck with the gray swirl as it descends
again bringing an ever-darkening blanket of gray-black
clouds. First the summits are embraced and encircled
roundabout, then the saddles and spurs, and finally the
ravines below. I hike on and into it through the mist, then
through the rain, then into the driving cold wind…and
finally, through the sleet! So it seems the weather and I
have gone full circle. Let’s see; searing sun burning my
arms, face, and neck in South Florida; cold, relentless rain
in central and northern Florida and into Alabama; ditto for
subfreezing temperatures; snow and freezing rain in the
Cheaha Wilderness, and the incredible rain, wind and
lightning on Flagpole Mountain near the Alabama/Georgia
state line—the storm that spawned the tornadoes that
devastated Hall County, Georgia. Then yesterday, hail and
today sleet! Oh, did I forget to mention the month and a
half of flooding!
As the rain and sleet continue, the
treadway deteriorates. The hundreds and hundreds of
backpackers that have tramped through before me have widened
and deepened the trail to a highway-wide quagmire in many
spots, making progress slow and difficult, reminiscent of
many a day in Florida. But with age comes patience, a true
virtue. I know this trail will get better by-and-by.
Everybody is still hammering on this thing…but that will
change soon. The attrition rate for those bound for the
“Greatest Mountain” is between 80-90%. That is a staggering
statistic, a number to put fear in the heart and doubt in
the mind of the most seasoned intrepid. The Appalachian
Trail tends to takes its toll, and in that regard it doesn’t
seem as patient as me. But I believe that I’ll be there, God
willing, when the snows descent on Baxter.
I reach Walasi-Yi, Neels Gap, at 3:00
p.m., and am greeted with a grand smile by Dorothy Hansen.
Dorothy makes the call and I wait for the free shuttle to
Goose Creek Cabins. Goose Creek is a neat place with kind
and gracious hosts.
The trail leaves Springer Mountain,
Six lanes wide, deep-trodden.
But narrower it will become,
Before I reach Katahdin.
[N. Nomad]
Thursday—April 23, 1998
Trail Day—97/3
Trail Mile—1450/49
Location—Blue Mountain Shelter
Permit me just another word about the
Baileys, the good folks that run Goose Creek Cabins. Keith
is out of town so Claude, his father now has the job of
driving the shuttle to and from Neels Gap. Claude also drove
20 miles round trip to Blairsville for pizza and subs for
all of us staying at the Cabins last evening—no charge for
delivery! I meet two other thru-hikers as Claude delivers us
back to the Gap, Mary Mary-Go-Round Blewitt from
Connecticut and Dave Chambers from Indiana. Had a great time
at your place Claude, thanks!
Back at Walasi-Yi Center I go in again
for a few minutes to gab a little more with Dorothy before
heading on north. I remember a comment in one of
Wingfoot’s earlier editions of the Thru-Hiker
Handbook where he mentioned that the Hansens, Jeff and
Dorothy, put in long, hard days, especially Dorothy who also
had to care for their two small children. We chuckle as
Dorothy mentions that the 13 year-old now helps at the
Center and can run the cash register! Looks like I’m
northbound thru-hiker #992 to sign in at Walasi, heading for
Katahdin!
The sun is trying to play its bright warm
glow as I look from Cowrock Mountain. Before descending to
Tesnatee Gap, I witness the sun now and again striking the
Cliffs of Raven, transforming the stark gray vertical walls
of granite, iced now from endless rain, into brilliant
shimmering jewels, as if so many reflections from a crystal
palace. Ahh, the constant, ever-changing magic, collectively
known as the wonders of nature, revealed to those of us who
have chosen to pass this way on this grand Appalachian
National Scenic Trail!
As I stand here now in Tesnatee Gap, I am
at the spot where it is believed John Muir passed on his
1000-mile walk to the sea. Might I pause and ask you
something, and permit me please. Do you find it perhaps
strange, as do I, this time capsule in which we are
enclosed, as if so many passengers traveling along? For
indeed, we are most-definitely slaves and servants to captor
time, a medium the most brilliant of our minds have been
unable to understand or fathom. So it is now that I extend
my hand in greeting to that intrepid of many decades past,
for both of us have made our journey here. But alas, as I
wait…the greeting is not returned. I will depart this place
in a moment and my presence here will become, as did Muir’s
presence here, just another of the countless entries in the
logbook of time.
I arrive at Blue Mountain Shelter in a
driving sleet storm.
“Climb the mountains and get their good
tidings.
Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows
into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness
into you, and the storms their energy, while cares
will drop like autumn leaves.”
[Muir]
Friday—April 24, 1998
Trail Day—98/4
Trail Mile—1469/67
Location—Dick's Creek Gap, US76, Blueberry Patch
We had another international crowd at the
shelter last night, Chick Mitten with her Australian
Shepherd, Ilsa; Cheerio Kid, Montreal, Canada; Robert
and Benjamin, Columbus, Ohio; Alex from Kansas City; and
EZ1, from Shelby, North Carolina. A bit more about Lee
Barry, this gentleman who goes by the trail name EZ1.
Lee will celebrate his 75th
birthday here on the trail this coming Sunday. He’s
been hiking for 25 years, belongs to the Carolina Mountain
Club and is twice a 2,000 miler, not including a thru-hiked
in 1996 at age 73! I am talking with him here on the trail
as we hike along this morning. Folks, this EZ1 makes the
trail look EZ! This is a marvelous thing, a proud and
energetic man still going strong at the age of 75, and
having a blast! Here’s to you Lee, and as the kid from
Montreal would say, Cheerio!
As I descend into Unicoi Gap, I am
thinking about the three original AT plaques cast in bronze
in 1938. They show a hiker, pack shouldered and on the
trail, the likeness of Warner Hall, second Georgia
Appalachian Trail Club president. On these plaques are
engraved the famous lines coined by members of GATC and
believed to have gained the joyful approval of Benton
MacKaye, “A pathway for those who seek fellowship with the
wilderness.” One of these plaques marks the southern AT
terminus on the summit of Springer Mountain. It is embedded
in the granite monolith at the overlook vista. The second
rests at the trail junction in Neels Gap, across from
Walasi-Yi right beside the busy road shoulder of US19, where
thousands pass each day. And the third is fixed to a boulder
here beside SR75 at Unicoi Gap. If you haven’t seen one of
these beautiful (original) historical AT monuments--by all
means, go! I would urge you to visit Springer Mountain to
see the one there and at the same time, enjoy one of the
most beautiful vistas anywhere in the southern Appalachians.
Having seen all three of these beautiful bronze memorials in
the span of the last four days goes far to restore my faith
in humankind. For to me, it seems that for all three of
these plaques to have survived without being stolen or
molested is most-near a miracle. Count the years they have
graced this trail…yes, it’s been 60 years! This year these
beautiful memorials celebrate their 60th
anniversary!
It is a delight to have such a simple and
useful wildflower guide as has been published in the 1998
Edition of The Thru-Hiker’s Handbook. Finally I have a way
to identify these fragile, mysterious little wonders of
nature! From Blue Mountain to Powell Mountain the following
spring wildflowers, many in profusion, grace the trail
today; bluet, toadshade trillium, common blue violet,
crested dwarf iris, toothwort, great chickweed, bloodroot,
pearly everlasting, daisy fleabane, wood anemone, dandelion,
and large flowered bellwort. As if this show bordering the
trail is not enough; bright green garlands of grass dress
the pathway, almost uninterrupted, and in their way,
say—“follow us!” And follow I do, down and through the
spectacular “Swag of the Blue Ridge.” As I observe the
patience of Mother Nature, I too can learn to practice
patience in order to enjoy all that she reveals to me.
There could not have been a more perfect
day to hike the “Swag,” sunny, bright and warm…the kind of
day I’ve waited and longed for and patience has brought
forth. I’ve looked forward to visiting and passing here
again with high anticipation and I literally skip on through
as if on the “yellow brick road.” How soon we forget. For it
wasn’t that many years ago a battle raged, a virtual
tug-of-war. It involved a proposal brought by the road
builders to lay down a road right over the “Swag.” Thanks to
the Good Lord, the ATC and its staunch supporters and
allies, those that opposed this road plan prevailed. If any
of you reading this, or perhaps by now your parents or even
grandparents, were involved in that valiant, successful
effort, you have my deepest and most sincere heart-felt
thanks! Earl, looks like this beautiful showy maiden, the
“Spring of ‘98" is going to delight us all, on this the 50th
anniversary of your first AT thru-hike—your first “walk with
spring.”
“Flowers were blooming everywhere.
Sometimes
one patch extended for miles, so thick they couldn’t
be avoided, even on the footpath.”
[Shaffer, Walking With Spring]
Saturday—April 25, 1998
Trail Day—99/5
Trail Mile—1482/80
Location—Wateroak Gap, North Carolina
Professionalism always shines through.
When you’ve got your act together and know what you’re doing
it makes all the difference in the world. And that describes
the Blueberry Patch, three and one-half miles west at Dicks
Creek Gap, on US76 towards Hiawassee. Gary Trail Chef ‘91
Poteat and his petite wife, Lennie, run this delightful
little hiker hostel. First class accommodations, great
pizza, fine prayer-led breakfast; food for both body and
soul. And the word apparently got out early, as over
one-third of the “Class of ‘98" has stayed here so far.
These are kind, God-fearing folks. Thanks Gary and Lennie
for your friendship and hospitality.
I met two more members of the “Class of
‘98" here last night, The Fence from south Florida and
Phoenix (like the one that rose from ashes) who just had a
liver transplant. I manage a ride back to the trail with
Free who has stopped by the Patch, thus saving Gary the
shuttle, which otherwise would have been graciously
provided.
I have a couple of hard pulls coming out
of Dicks Creek Gap first thing this morning. It reminds me
of Ramrock Mountain last Wednesday. During that long
demanding climb I had stopped for a moment to catch my
breath, when Voyager, the gentleman from Canada, who since
has become my good friend, passed by cursing the
ever-increasing difficulty of climbing these rugged
mountains. I later talked to Voyager about how I once, too,
had that same reaction to the difficult conditions the trail
often dishes out—and how something I once heard Warren
Doyle, Jr. say turned it all around for me. Succinct, and
penetrating as an arrow, Warren said, “The trail is not here
for you, you are here for the trail.” Being mindful of this
little trail proverb for just a short while, came to me then
a total change in attitude, a whole ‘nother mindset about
the trail. So now, as a result of this inspiring
revelation—with each mountain I must climb—I say to myself,
“When I reach this summit I will be a better person, I will
be a stronger person; this mountain I am climbing will teach
me tolerance, patience and a deeper appreciation and
understanding for the meaning of the words humility and
humbleness.” And so, indeed, with this attitude are coming
all of these virtues to penetrate the very core of my being.
Thank you, Warren, for the revelation; and thank you Lord
for your grace!
So, as I near Bly Gap, I have mixed
emotions. I am indeed a better person, that I know; the
result of climbing these Georgia Mountains! But at the same
time I am leaving the beautiful Blue Ridge, my home. As I
enter Bly Gap, and to my amazement and joy, do I find it
still here. The old kneeling oak…still alive. It’s been 15
years since I was here last, since I set eyes upon this
remarkable tree. But it is as if yesterday, for the old oak
thrives in such a grand and glorious fashion. As the family
of man has its physically challenged, so, too, does the tree
family have theirs also, members with less than perfect
physical abilities and features. This old oak, so unusual it
is the subject for many a photographer and painter that I
doubt few who pass this way do not recognize and know it. I
have found that if one observes this old knot casually, it
looks entirely grotesque. As many of its human counterpart,
it appears beat down, broken and defeated. But how many of
our own do we know with this sort of disability that are
fighters, survivors—vibrant and vital, living life to the
fullest possible! And so, too, this old oak!
Upon closer observation I see a strange
transformation occur right before my eyes. For I see now a
radiance and beauty which must surely come from deep within.
No longer do I see the beat down and broken. I see instead,
tenacity, strength, courage, inner dignity and humble pride.
These virtues, these traits have made it a survivor, with
the unshakable will to live, to grow and flourish another
year. I know that soon it will bud and be beautiful, full of
life, green again—and many more will come, to photograph and
to paint…this beat down and broken old knot of an oak. And
all will marvel in disbelief at such a grotesque thing so
wrought by nature. Ahh, but dear old oak, though we appear
beat down and defeated do we not know each other! Thanks for
letting me truly see you, and through your inspiration, take
a moment to look deeper within myself, to see myself from
this new perspective, and to see us both for what we really
are…survivors!
I am blessed with yet another day of
perfect weather, and this being Saturday many are out
enjoying the AT, either for the day or packing in to their
favorite spot for the weekend. I suspect that for each of
the relatively few of us who are thru-hiking the AT this
year, there are a thousand more up and down the trail, out
for a shorter stay. Such is the case for the young couple I
chance to meet as I near Wateroak Gap. These two are most
surely the epitome of the weekend folks, at their favorite
sport on the trail, camp set up, each in their own hammock,
rocking gently without a care in the world, reading their
favorite book! “Locals” they are, so with evening
descending, I inquire as to perhaps another spot so
delightful nearby where I might pitch for the night. With
glad smiles I am promptly directed to a piped spring and a
small level spot near the gap, just off the trail! Oh, and I
promised I wouldn’t tell! A gorgeous sunset, campfire,
supper…day!
“There is no simpler lesson in courage
and
tenacity than a strong oak.”
[Clyde Ormond, Complete Book of Outdoor
Lore]
Sunday—April 26, 1998
Trail Day—100/6
Trail Mile—1506/104
Location—Wallace Gap, Old US64, Rainbow Springs
Campground
Looks like today is going to be another
clear and glorious day, a perfect day to celebrate ones 75th
birthday…Happy Birthday EZ1! The trail has been very muddy,
but conditions are improving. A few more days without rain
will help considerably. As I descend into Deep Gap I can
look across to Standing Indian Mountain. This is a big
mountain! Oh, I’m going to be a much better person in just a
little while! This old warrior is standing tall indeed, the
first climb above 5,000 feet. And a proud warrior he is this
morning—dressed in full ceremonial regalia, complete with a
war bonnet of clouds. As I reach the summit and stand atop
his white crown of quartz I have total command of the high
ground and the wide and expansive skies hereabouts and for a
brief moment do I share the heaven-reaching dominance this
old Indian has claimed his own for near eternity.
As I hike along today, 100 days into the
“Odyssey of ‘98" my thoughts turn to that AT thru-hike in
1948, this year being the 50th Anniversary; and to Earl
Shaffer, known on the trail as Crazy One, who set out on
that trek, now known as “The Lone Expedition.” Our hikes are
separated by 50 years in this mysterious capsule of time,
but the similarities of our two hikes cannot be separated.
For we share a common understanding of the days, weeks and
months, which began in peaceful, enjoyable solitude, but
which slowly through time gave way to the loneliness that
prevailed. For to walk alone, for days and weeks and months
with no one beside you and no one to talk to becomes a truly
lonely affair.
So, as was the solitary adventure for
Crazy One during “The Lone Expedition,” so, too, the long,
lonely trail for the Nomad during the “Odyssey of ’98,” from
the Everglades in south Florida to the literal trail of
hikers at Springer Mountain. The paths over which we passed
were often obscure and at times nonexistent, with instinct
and compass leading the search for any faint sign that the
trail might be beneath our feet, signs that often belonged
more appropriately in the locker of the lost and found.
“The Lone Expedition” adrift in the
clouds.
The “Odyssey” lost in the glade.
Half a century apart, the intrepid move on,
Joined through time by spring’s gay parade.
[N. Nomad]
Monday—April 27, 1998
Trail Day—101/7
Trail Mile—1513/111
Location—Siler Bald Shelter
What a neat old bunkhouse at Rainbow
Springs Campground, all rough-cut butted boards, door too,
with bread wrappers and newspapers stuffed in the cracks. I
had the place to myself, fired up the old wood stove, read
and caught up on my journals.
I came in last night in the rain and it
doesn’t look too hot this morning, the forecast being for
rain again today. So it looks like I’m in for another
slamming. Days and weeks like this in the mist and rain,
hiking along in a near-hypnotic state caused by constant
rhythmic striding gives one lots of time to think. In fact,
it becomes a process impossible to suppress. The day-to-day
static, confusion, preoccupation, and racket in our normal
lives prevent us from ever really delving into deep thought,
but out here in the seclusion and quiet it becomes easy and
natural. And so it is as I hike along today, my feet in the
mud and my mind in the mist, my thoughts turn to yesteryear.
Now seems as though, as a cloud lifts before my mind’s eye,
is there revealed a door which swings open wide. Oh, and
what a view, for here is a room full of all kinds of things
from the past! And, as I gaze with wonder and glee into this
beautiful chamber…comes a flood of wonderful memories. Ahh,
for isn’t it true, just as we’ve been told, that we really
do remember the good times!
And so I have noticed from time to time,
as my senses become keenly attuned, when it is quiet and
these thought processes are in motion, will I see something,
hear something, smell something, touch something, that I am
suddenly transported back to those wonderful days. My first
encounter with this experience occurred while passing
through a beautiful grove of cedar, their aromatic, fresh,
and most delightful fragrance pervading. Suddenly I was
eight years old again, hatchet in hand, my father by my
side, crunching through the snow, searching for that perfect
cedar for our beautiful Yule tree!
As I near Siler Bald Shelter, the sky
looks more and more ominous and though it is only 2:00 p.m.
I decided, since the next shelter is 12 miles ahead, to pull
up at Siler. And is this ever the right decision, for in
only moments the rain comes hard and steady. What a luxury
to be out of it, not to be faced with getting soaked making
and breaking camp in its presence. Warm and dry is such a
better choice!
“I thought as I sat there this was the
quiet we knew in our distant past,
when it was part of our minds and spirits. We have not
forgotten and never will,
though the scream and roar of jet engines, the grinding
vibrations of cities,
and the constant bombardment of electronic noise may seem to
have blunted our senses forever.
We can live with such clamor, it is true, but we pay a price
and do so at our peril.
The loss of quiet in our lives is one of the great tragedies
of civilization,
and to have known even for a moment the silence of the
wilderness
is one of our most precious memories.”
[Sigurd Olson]
Tuesday—April 28, 1998
Trail Day—102/8
Trail Mile—1530/128
Location—Wesser Bald Shelter
I spent an enjoyable evening last with
Jon Leuschel, a Citadel graduate and river guide for
Appalachian Rivers Raft Co. at Wesser, Dan U-Turn Glenn,
Osierfield, GA and Allison Wonderland Fuleky from Ann Arbor,
MI.
It’s cloudy this morning with a light
mist off and on, but I sense a good day in the making. At
about five miles out, the AT treadway is shared, as the
Bartram Trail joins and comes along for a little over a
mile. This trail is named in honor of William Bartram, a mid
18th century botanist from Philadelphia. He was a
wanderlust, traveling far and wide and is probably best
known for his canoe adventures to the upper reaches of the
St. Johns River in Florida. In the early stages of this
odyssey my son, Jay and I traveled that same river, as did
Bartram over 250 years ago. William and his father, John
were renowned botanists of that era. John established the
first U.S. botanical gardens in Philadelphia. Quite
remarkably, these gardens exist and flourish to this day.
Through my family genealogy, a voluminous book that has been
published and is periodically updated, I know that my
ancestors lived in Philadelphia during the mid 1700's and
would have known not only the Bartrams, but would have been
acquaintances with and would have probably bartered with
Benjamin Franklin!
Younger Bartram’s colleagues in Europe,
Linnaeus being one, constantly marveled as they opened
packages from Bartram, filled with buds, leaves and flowers
from plants they had never seen before pressed between the
pages of books. All discovered, named and cataloged by
Bartram. Bartram indeed traveled extensively, for besides
the many exotic Florida plants that he named and catalogued,
he also journeyed to these mountains, discovering and naming
many of the beautiful plants that it is such a joy to see
along the AT.
The daily entries from Bartram’s journal
of travels were published in a book entitled The Travels of
William Bartram. His writings were in classic style for the
time, being composed in a delightful, lilting, poetic prose!
It is available in paperback and I highly recommend it. If
you like John Muir’s style, you will be delighted with the
writings of Bartram, who it appears, Muir read and studies
extensively.
I was right on with my prediction for a
good day, for I am awarded sweeping, panoramic views today
from Wayah (pronounced War-ya) and Wesser Balds. Even with
the ever-present blue haze over these timeless mountains it
is possible to see into Georgia to the south and Tennessee
to the north.
I had the pleasure of meeting Bob
McCormick popping along the trail today. Bob is a spry
72-year-old from Melbourne, Florida. He is a member of the
Florida Trial Association, Indian River Chapter, also my
home FTA Chapter. We shared a most enjoyable time talking
trail.
“On approaching these shades, between
the stately columns
of the superb forest trees, presented to view, rushing from
rocky precipices under the shade of the pensile hills, the
unparalleled cascade of Falling Creek
[William Bartram, Western North
Carolina,1775]
Wednesday—April 29, 1998
Trail Day—103/9
Trail Mile—1536/134
Location—Wesser, US19, Appalachian Rivers Raft Co.
The trail contour map shows a roller
coaster downhill from Wesser Bald Shelter, across Jumpup
Lookout all the way to Wesser. Sections of this descent are
over precipitous ledges and outcroppings with breathtaking
vistas. Seen below is the dramatic demarcation line marking
the upward advancing reaches of spring. Here Jon, U-Turn and
I pause to stare in wonder. For below us, undulating the
mountainside, lies the battle line between old man winter
and fair maiden spring, a line separating the dark green
valleys and coves, lower spurs and ridges, ravines and gaps,
where the lighter green of her advancing troops leap the
budding trees to ever climb, freeing the bare, still-gray
forest, captive to the clutches of winter here at these
higher elevations. From the level in Nature’s hand is this
battlefront line scribed, being surprisingly abrupt and
evident.
Every time I see this rule about
climate/vegetation regions, and the influence elevation has
on them, I tell myself I’m going to remember it this time,
but it seems I never do. However, if memory serves me
halfway, I believe the general rule for vegetation types and
seasonal occurrences is approximately this: For every
thousand foot increase in elevation the conditions are
equivalent to being 200 miles further north. I have read
with interest, the presence of certain species of conifer in
the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and the
more-northern climatic conditions associated with them, a
fascinating variant, as if they’ve been displaced from a
region hundreds and hundreds of miles to the north, yet
their grand communities established, thriving none-the-less.
So it is that this fair maiden, “Spring of ‘98” is not only
moving north…but moving up and onto these displaced
elevation islands, bypassed so it seems in her haste, as
together we travel on.
Jon, U-Turn and I arrive at the Nantahala
River in Wesser at 11:00 a.m. Here we head for Rivers End
Restaurant to load up on the famous Wesser Burger. U-Turn
orders the Wesser Burger/Chili Burger combo, a gargantuan
open-faced platter, heaped high with bun, hamburger and
mounds of chili. I have not a clue how this skinny little
rail-of-a-friend manages to get on the outside of
this…somehow he does. But after being audience to his
mournful moaning and groaning, then to later witness his
most dramatic and highly acclaimed passing out ceremony, I’m
sure glad that better judgment prevailed on my part!
The guests of gracious host Jon, the
river raft guide, now and henceforth to be known on the
trail as Class Five, we lounge and rest in the grand
bunkroom at Appalachian Rivers Raft Co. Outpost. Oh, the
wonders of a luxurious hot shower and a warm, soft bed. The
rain comes hard and stays all night. What a remarkable day
this has been. Thank you Lord for your bountiful blessing!
“Let us remember to give thanks for air
still clean enough
to get us to the top of the hill, water still pure enough
to drink (with a little iodine), and friends still friendly
enough to share their ice cream at the end of the day.”
[Dan U-Turn Glenn, GA2ME ‘98]
Thursday—April 30, 1998
Trail Day—104/10
Trail Mile—1543/141
Location—Sassafras Gap Shelter
It’s been raining hard all morning, so we
get out late. Class Five treats U-Turn and me to breakfast,
then drives us down to where the trail leaves Wesser. Here
we linger and linger. Class Five, thanks for all your
kindness and generosity. Hope to see you on the trail again.
U-Turn and I cross the railroad tracks and head toward
Wright Gap at 1:00 p.m.
Climbing from the Nantahala River I pause
at a beautiful stone monument upon which is affixed a plaque
in memory of Wade A. Sutton, a North Carolina Forest Service
Ranger who lost his life while fighting a forest fire near
here. Standing now, reading these few short words about this
man’s life gives me pause to reflect. I have found it so
easy to take for granted these grand mountains and broad
forests. These are national treasures that belong to all of
us. People dedicate their lives to the protection and care
of these priceless resources. So too, this Appalachian
National Scenic Trail, this footpath through time. For it is
no less a national treasure that can also be taken for
granted. Lest we forget, it is this remarkable footpath that
provides us access to and passage through these verdant
mountains. So, to the thousands of men and women who have
dedicated and who this day dedicate their lives to the task
of managing all of these vast national treasures—and to
individuals like Wade A. Sutton, who have made the ultimate
sacrifice, permit me to extend my thanks and deepest
gratitude.
There are two tough pulls from Wesser
today—the climb from Wright Gap and the ascent to Swim Bald.
So comes to mind now a subject I would like to discuss. To
wit: Contour maps are such grand, impressive documents. Oh,
what fun to pour over them and study them. And so, certainly
it should be that beautiful contour maps have been created
and painstakingly prepared for the AT showing all the ups
and downs for the entire trail. I have talked about them
briefly in other entries. I carry none with me, however I
very much enjoy taking a glance over the shoulders of other
hikers while they’ve got theirs out. The reason I mention
this has to do with an observation, one which I’ve made over
the past ten days. During this period I have observed, that
by looking at a particular spike as shown on the trail
contour grid, then fixing that image in my mind—that
impressive little spike being stored here in the muscles
between my ears—then comparing the actual degree of
difficulty involved as explained to me by the muscles in my
back and in my legs…I have found surprisingly, that there is
no relationship between the two whatsoever, they simply
don’t jibe! For it is that a climb which shows on the map to
be formidable, turns out to be so much a cruise, while yet
another which is totally overlooked because of its apparent
ease, more than not turns out to be the real hump-buster! On
more than one occasion have I watched with amusement as
hiking companions pull their contour maps back out while
exclaiming, “Where to h--- did this one come from!”
And so it is that the old Nimblewill
Nomad has arrived at the most scientific solution thus to
deal with this whole perplexing dilemma. For you see, there
now has been devised a method to quiet all of this
confusion…a rating system if you will, based on what the
muscles in our backs and our legs tell us we are dealing
with…disregarding as totally irrelevant what the muscles
between our ears have picked up from our gazing the contour
maps! And the scientific basis for this grand rating system?
Ahh, dear folks this is flawless, for the system is based
entirely on the finite amount of atomic energy that is
stored within the confines of the lowly little Snickers bar!
Simple systems are always the best, and this is a very
simple system based on an ascending scale of difficulty,
with the least difficult with which we’ll trouble ourselves
being rated as a three Snickers pull, and the most difficult
nearing a ten Snickers pull. Initially now, I simply beg
your patience and indulgence, as this revolutionary new
system is inaugurated. For most assuredly you will come to
trust, respect and appreciate the uncanny accuracy of
Nomad’s judgment!
U-Turn and I spend a very entertaining
evening at Sassafras Gap Shelter with section hikers, Bob
Smilin’ Bob Nelson and Pete Broken-Spoke Fornof, both from
Edwardsville, Illinois.
“Make no little plans: They have no
magic to stir men’s blood.”
[Burnham]
Friday—May 1, 1998
Trail Day—105/11
Trail Mile—1565/163
Location—Fontana Dam, SR28, Fontana Inn
The sun teases us this morning after
hard-pounding rain all night, but the gray, swirling mist so
common to these high lofty places will have none of it and
soon the eerie cloud curtain descends to darken our path and
visit us along.
From my hike through here in the early
80’s I can remember the section from Wesser, across the
Stecoahs, to Fontana as being one of the most difficult.
There were many, many uninterrupted five Snickers pulls. The
climb from Wright Gap and Grassy Gap, over Swim Bald and
Cheoah Bald, these are all still here, but for all the rest
of the knobs in the Stecoahs, where the trail went up and
over, has their ruggedness for the most part since been
tamed by sideslabbing or switchbacking. Looking close as I
pass the short deep gaps, I can see where the old trail went
straight up, that treadway concealed now by piled up brush
and years of overgrowth. So the old knee-numbing, ankle-mushing,
back-bowing, reserve-tank-sapping pulls are pretty much
gone. Though the hike through here is still technically
difficult this section has been tamed considerably. I guess
this saddens me a little as I think about it, for more than
likely Myron Avery laid out that old treadway originally.
For Avery was noted for taking the trail up and over,
straight up…always!
I ran into toe-stubbing territory
yesterday afternoon. I assumed it was due to late-day
fatigue, but here we go right away again this morning,
toe-stubbing territory. Aww! There’s another one. Pitches me
right out there. I’ve gotta run to catch up with myself. I’m
sure not going to see any bear making this kind a racket!
As we descend to Fontana Dam, spring is
all around. The dogwoods are about to the end of their
near-exclusive show. In some small coves here, and blooming
very early, are the flame azalea and the pinxter flower
(purple honeysuckle). Other spring wildflowers that I pass
are nodding trillium, white trillium, rue anemone, false
Solomon’s seal, spring beauty and pink lady’s-slipper. We
manage to get off the trail just before the rain returns.
I catch up with Pack Mule today at
Fontana Dam Shelter. Though I was glad to get on my own way
back in Cave Spring, GA it’s great to see him again. Pack
Mule, U-Turn and I get the shuttle into the village of
Fontana Dam and Fontana Inn. Here we share a room, make an
effort to get presentable, then head straight for the AYCE
buffet at the Peppercorn Restaurant.
It’s been a long, hard but memorable day!
“Remote for detachment.
Narrow for chosen company.
Winding for leisure.
Lonely for contemplation.
The trail leads not merely north and south
But upward to the body, mind and soul of man.”
[Harold Allen]
Saturday—May 2, 1998
Trail Day—106/12
Trail Mile—1579/177
Location—Russell Field Shelter
As the trail goes, Fontana Inn is a solid
Five Star facility, hot tub, sauna, phone in the room…warm
and dry no less! There is a large and well-maintained
shelter on the trail just above the dam affectionately known
by Hiker Trash as the Fontana Hilton. We arrived last
evening however, to find the facility filled to the rafters,
so heading for town and the Fontana Inn was certainly the
right decision. Splitting a room three ways made for a very
affordable and luxurious stay. At the Hiker Hilton I was
able to meet many thru-hikers whose entries I’ve been
reading all along in the shelter registers. Among the
intrepids here last evening were Trumpet Call, Grym, P.O.D.
(for path of destruction), Yogi and Boo Boo (brothers),
In-Between, Dogfish, Moon Doggie, Hobo Rob, Gypsy, and
Mighty Mouse.
After a fine breakfast in the most
leisure and decadent fashion we pack out and head for the
village store and post office. I buy a few provisions and
mail some cards and letters. Fontana Dam is a popular
maildrop and the place is buzzing this morning, hikers lined
up at the counter and milling around on the covered walkway
outside, food boxes open and packages scattered and stacked
along the railing and all around. Here I meet David Spirit
of ’48 Donaldson, a trail moniker chosen to commemorate Earl
Shaffer’s thru-hike, the first known or recorded fifty years
ago. Thousands and thousands have since made this seemingly
endless journey since Earl proved in 1948 that it could
actually be done, and Spirit of ’48 is one of well over a
thousand of us that will attempt it again this year.
U-Turn has decided to hang a little
longer here at Fontana so Mule and I get the shuttle and
head back up to the dam. By now it’s nearly 1:30 p.m. We
won’t get far today but head on out anyway. Crossing the dam
we lean into it against Shuckstack. It rained all night and
into the morning, but it’s beginning to fair-up. On the
ascent we soon overtake and pass Moon Doggie (a smoker). The
hike to Russell Field Shelter is a relatively short
distance, but getting out late from Fontana puts us in late
at Russell, near 7:00 p.m. Down at the dam we entered the
Great Smoky Mountains National Park. This national park is
one of our most popular, a source of pride for all
Americans. Annual visitations run consistently in the ten
million range. So, I’m not surprised, and especially this
being a weekend, to find the shelter full to capacity.
Appropriately named, Russell Field does indeed have a small
grassy field, and thru-hikers are permitted to pitch around
the meadow if the shelter is full. Mule and I find a most
comfortable spot and are just setting camp when U-Turn and
In-Between come cruising in from Fontana.
Folks, aren’t these trail names a pure
hoot! And here’s a good example…Tween. For you see,
In-Between has been blessed with this novel and happy little
name by fellow hikers who’ve noticed the mud in-between her
toes as she hikes along from day-to-day in her customary
foot attire…sandals! We’ve also been hiking off and on with
Sam, who is here this evening, lounging comfortably by the
fire with his nose in a book, as usual. I’m still working on
Sam’s trail name. Bookworm just doesn’t fit…There’s
something else here. I’ll figure it out soon.
The evening is passed in pleasant
conversation with some fellows who are out on a short
section-hike. One offers me free grabs from his trove of
goodies. He’ll be leaving the Smokies tomorrow and doesn’t
want to lug the stuff any further. I go for the pop tarts,
coffee, pepperoni, lemonade mix and a Moon Pie. Yes, the guy
lets me take his Moon Pie! Made a complete hog of myself.
I’ll be toting a load till I down this grub! Aww, but
gee-whiz folks, no self-respecting member of the Hiker Trash
Clan could even, ever, pass up a treasure trove like this.
The day did indeed turn warm and
beautiful, a fine afternoon for hiking back and forth, first
from North Carolina into Tennessee and then back again into
North Carolina, following the AT as it meanders along this
grand high ridge in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
“As I wander these mountain paths and
relish their
grand vistas, I found myself in a quandary. When I
was in Tennessee, I said: This is exactly what I’ve
been seeking; but when I crossed over into North
Carolina I found it equally rewarding and cried with
vigor: This has got to be it. I can see it now. Soon
I shall have to choose between them.”
[Michener]
Sunday—May 3, 1998
Trail Day—107/13
Trail Mile—1595/193
Location—Double Spring Gap Shelter
This is my first full day in the Great
Smoky Mountains National Park. As I get rolling this morning
the sun teases and plays with me—for the better part of 15
minutes—then the dark, gray-swirling mist engulfs me once
more. At these high elevations, I am literally in the
clouds. Shortly comes the cold rain, lasting the entire day,
first in gentle greeting, then at times in hard-pelting
waves mixed with sleet and hail. Many of the pulls and
pushes range in the four to four and one-half Snickers
category. Thus now I bring forth and debut Nomad’s
new trail profile rating system. The grid spikes I describe
here are Rocky Top, Thunderhead and Derrick Knob. There are
also many three and three and one-half Snickers pulls today,
the trail being basically up or down. I find the treadway
rough and rugged, choked with mud, the bottom literally
blown out in many places. The incessant rain is making
progress slow and treacherous.
Some sections of the trail here in the
Park are shared with the horsy-back folks. Where there has
also been heavy horse traffic, the dreadful treadway
deterioration is ever evident. Equine tend to cut and groove
the treadway narrow and deep compared to the wider eroding
effect of excessive human use. These very narrow, deep
grooves, some only a foot or so wide and just as deep make
it difficult if not impossible to stay the track. The
purpose for this note in passing and to make my point…It is
my opinion horses and humans on the same trail just don’t
mix!
The rain-filled cloud-swirl breaks and
lifts occasionally, providing spectacular views o’er this
majestic, seemingly heaven-bound path. Towards evening and
in the cold mist I reach Double Spring Gap Shelter. Here I
spend the night in this very leaky-but-welcome den with
Turtle and Bear, Goback, Sam, 100#Stormcloud,
Joyful Girl and Monkey Boy. We share a most
enjoyable evening of conversation, neither heavy nor heady.
As I managed along this afternoon, I noticed skid marks in
the downhill mud, some extending for great distances,
perhaps 8-12 feet. In the course of conversation this
evening I find out the likes of how Monkey Boy is
capable of performing uninterrupted, almost vertical
downhill mud slaloms. Says he, “It’s kinda like riding a
skateboard.” Ookey Dokey! The steady rain softly serenades
us most all night.
In the next number of days, as we hike
along and as the opportunity presents, I will be profiling
some of the remarkably friendly folks that it’s been my
pleasure and good fortune to meet out here on the AT, folks
that are now my very good friends. For the most part they’re
younger people that I would find occasion to give only a nod
if met on the street or in public places, folks with whom I
would have but passing concern…and for that matter, their
response and take on me being likely the same. In the “real
world” we would have no common bond, no shared interests,
very little if anything to discuss for long. However, here
on the trail the age and generation gap, culture
differences, and the influence of career and educational
backgrounds have little play in the mix. One glaring
variant, which is immediately evident, is our usual
difference in age, for I am old enough to be father or for
that matter, grandfather to many of these younger hikers.
But I’ve found it such an interesting puzzlement. That, by
simply setting foot on the trail I immediately become
attuned with them, their interests, their lives, as if we’re
almost instantly bound together by some mysterious,
invisible sort of glue! I am totally mystified by it. Is it
the wanderlust that dwells deep within each of us coming
forth, or perhaps the love for the outdoors, for wilderness,
for nature and the sheer joy that stirs right down to our
heart and soul, is that what’s mixing and binding us
together? Whatever it is, it is very real, a force which
cannot be denied, the result being a happy, joy-filled and
very tightly knit family!
This newborn community, a subculture if
you will, is continually forming, much as the links in a
continuous chain are formed, as the folks leaving Springer
Mountain mingle, take trail names and move north toward Mt.
Katahdin. A community, that for such a short time it would
seem would be as fleeting as the passing mist, but within
this short timeframe and within this family are created
bonds and friendships that last a lifetime. I hope you will
revel and take joy, as am I, in getting to know these fellow
intrepids, who along with the old Nomad, and this
rag-tag family, journey on.
“At night, when the lights go on, there
seems to be a
great hole in North America—a dark place, fifty-five
miles long and by almost twenty miles broad, where
the glare of civilization does not shine up at the sky.
Man has imposed this area of darkness, as he has
imposed the lights around it, by his own will. He has
set aside this vast area of mountain and wood and
falling water in the valleys, to preserve his own sanity,
to refresh his body and his mind.
[Nicholas Harman, The Magnificent
Continent]
Monday—May 4, 1998
Trail Day—108/14
Trail Mile—1609/207
Location—Icewater Spring Shelter
The sun makes a show again this morning
for about twenty minutes, then the gray swirling mist
engulfs me once again, embracing the mountain peaks and
slopes all about. The treadway today seems not the least bit
forgiving but the relentless rain mostly proceeds along by
another way.
Spring Beauties form a blanket of white
and green rising and descending to embrace the trail from
the slopes and intimate little glades all around, creating
the perfect pathway for the finest formal bridal procession.
Trout lilies add just a touch of yellow while the ubiquitous
common violet graces the very trail fringe adding its formal
gesture to greet the grand procession. I literally skip
along as I weave my way through this gala of pureness. You
could not bedeck a hall for the most grand occasion with any
more beauty or fineness than that which nature has decorated
these ridges and coves, for here is the ultimate creation of
beauty in the most tender and exquisite form. Today is not a
hike on the AT but rather a remarkable journey through
fairyland.
The mist-filled clouds seem ever-present
over Clingmans Dome, as if it their permanent residence. Of
the many visits I’ve made to Clingmans only one has ever
provided me the panorama for which the dome is famous. While
standing now at the side trail to the summit, the highest
point on the AT, deciding whether to move on or take the
tour to the tower, the eerie presence of the old balsam
monarchs, embraced by the chilling swirl, their bark shed,
crowns gone, reduced to naked snags by the balsam woolly
aphid, forms the most ruthless and macabre scene. Here were
once such beautiful old sentinels, standing tall, so proud,
so strong. As I close my eyes, I can see them still. But now
can they but stand, bowing in such a sad and pitiful way,
testimony to the ravages of nature and of time, for there
has been no favor. But as I look down now into the mass of
moldering old hulks lying defeated all around, springing
forth anew with bold vigor, do I see the next generation of
fir, lush and green, determined to withstand the destructive
atmospheric acidity and the seemingly harmless little
insects which destroyed all but precious few of their
ancestors.
I have been witness to and have gazed
upon nature’s full spectrum of talent today, her most
exquisite tender touch, contrasted by her seemingly
unconscionable, ruthless wrath. I find that I cannot
comprehend the least bit of this. Indeed it has been both a
spiritual and humbling experience.
I arrive at Icewater Spring Shelter
around 3:00 p.m., just as the rain begins anew…with focused
vengeance. But I hurry in to escape its anger. Somehow today
we have taken mostly separate paths to arrive at this
evening’s destination. At 4:00 p.m. 100#Stormcloud
comes in, soaked to the bone, at 5:00 p.m., ditto for Sam
and at 7:00 p.m., incredibly, after hiking all day in 40
degree bone-chilling rain, ankle deep mud and feet-numbing
rock, In Between arrives, clad in her sandals! The
shelter, though dark and dank, proves a true blessing, for
the rain stays, driving cold and hard all night. Snickers
rated high today—four plus for Clingmans, Mt. Love and Mt.
Collins, and there were more than a few threes.
“However much you knock at nature’s door,
she
will never answer you in comprehensible words.”
[Ivan Turgenev]
Tuesday—May 5, 1998
Trail Day—109/15
Trail Mile—1622/220
Location—Tri-Corner Knob Shelter
I do manage to get out and going this
morning, but it’s already 9:00 a.m. The sun and wind finally
emerge victorious in their battle to burn and sweep the
ethereal-like mist from Charlies Bunion. And here I stand
now to get a glimpse of the far off day. For as the skies
around and the ravines and stark spires and walls of granite
below are revealed to me I begin reeling as if hanging to
the rail of a pitching ship. I must move back away from the
precipice, crouch and clutch the rock around me until my
head quits spinning. If you’ve ever clung to the railing at
a circle vision theater…then you know the feeling. It’s most
near the same reaction as the last time I stood at this spot
some 15 years ago. I will just say this, once you’ve gazed
over this hulking precipice at this mind-slamming vista and
felt the surge of emotion and raw fear that being here
evokes you will never, ever forget it! I simply cannot
adequately describe this place to you. Until you come here,
stand here, and gaze out at these crags and upon this place
can you ever possibly understand.
The Sawteeth. What an appropriate name!
Bare veined rock, leaning, weather-beaten, splintered
spires, ever reaching toward the heavens. These sheer rock
faces are all that remain from what must have been an
incredible inferno that raged and swept clean these high
places decades ago. Now, only scant, scattered evergreen,
clutching and clinging to the walls and towers of granite,
manage somehow to exist and survive. As I stare down and
past the shards of the Sawteeth, the warm, welcome sun is
lifting the remaining shroud of mist from the coves and
ravines below. Revealed now is the ever-climbing line of
spring, true to each spur and ridge weaving its gentle
pastel-green lifeline, as if fine stitches to silk,
separating the lush dark greenness of the fully-leafed
forest below from the gray, forbidding harsh clutches of
winter above. There is only the contrasting serviceberry
indicating any life in these mile-high reaches.
A blessed clear day is forming. I did not
complain, but took what joy and happiness there was to be
found in the rains of the yesterdays, my patience rewarded
now with these grand vistas, this grand day…and the high of
these high places. Oh, how we take all that is around us,
and indeed, our very existence, as ordinary commonplace,
looking every day for that one grand miracle—when every day
and everything we see and do are true miracles.
Unquestionably, one of the most brilliant minds of our time,
perhaps of the ages, Albert Einstein, said, “There are only
two ways to live your life. One is though nothing is a
miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. As
for me I choose the latter.” As to God’s mysterious
miracles, consider the mist that I have described this
morning. A wall of vapor, engulfing, permeating all,
limiting my visibility, from miles and miles to no more than
the distance of my arms outstretched, this wall created by a
gadzillion moisture particles, infinite—a number not
described by any number we know or can conceive in our mind,
much as the sands of all the seas. And yet I have watched
the gentle warmth of the sun, and the winds, and in just
moments it is all taken away and it is gone! What is such as
this, if not a miracle? So, too, I consider this beautiful
day and all that it brings me here on this path in the sky,
along this Appalachian Trail…it is all a miracle.
“For look! Within my hollow hand,
While round the earth careens,
I hold a single grain of sand
And wonder what it means.”
[Robert W. Service, A Grain of Sand]
Wednesday—May 6, 1998
Trail Day—110/16
Trail Mile—1637/236
Location—Davenport Gap, SR32, Mountain Moma’s Kuntry
Store & Bunkhouse
I am heading out of Great Smoky Mountains
National Park today. I have mixed feelings about leaving. I
have tried to describe the splendor and majesty of the Park,
an awe-inspiring place to see and visit, one of the most
popular of all our national parks. And therein lies the rub,
for the park is literally being loved to death, the sheer
number, degrading the hiking experience. The treadway in
many places has the bottom literally blown out, which has
made progress slow and treacherous.
The history of the Park, like most any
story, has two sides—one usually good, one usually not so
good. And so it is with Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
The Park is unquestionably one of the Crown Jewels in our
national parks system. Acquiring the land, protecting the
resources for all generations was farsighted, and it was
right. Yet, in a wonderful book entitled Cataloochee
Valley, Vanished Settlements of the Great Smoky
Mountains, written by Hattie Caldwell Davis, are the sad
stories told, the consequences of creating the park. For in
this book are the heartbreaking stories of families that
were uprooted and moved from their land. A few brief
passages from this book reveal the disbelief and suffering
during that time:
“In the 1830's the Cataloochee Valley was
opened up to development.
Terms of the purchase from the U. S. government specified
that the land
must be settled, so the call sent out for families willing
to “prove” the land.
Many answered that call. They came to make the wilderness
into a place
called home. After 100 years the community was informed that
the beautiful
land that surrounded them was to be shared by all. The
government has decided
to form GSM, with Cataloochee Valley at its heart—the
families had to leave.”
Folks likened the forced exodus to the
infamous Trail of Tears, where the Cherokee were driven from
their lands and relocated to Oklahoma.
“The Rev. Pat Davis was preaching at the
Palmer’s Chapel in 1928, and
announced that the government would buy all the land in the
area to establish
GMS, saying ‘you will be here no more.’ The people could not
believe this,
but, the preacher had said it, so it must be true. They
expressed their utter
amazement, then fell into depression and anger. First, there
was a lot of talking
and then worry. Some started to cry. Some were sitting on
the porch, on the
steps and in the grass. They were so sad, saying, ‘Where
will we go, what will
we do. We can’t bare to give up our homes, our land and our
good neighbors…
Oh Lord, what in the world will we do? We can’t leave
here’.”
Signs of these old homesteads exist to
this day all through these lush high ridges and valleys. An
old wagon path here, a row of stately old boxwood there. The
carefully placed rocks forming an old spring box, sour apple
trees, a cluster of clover or dandelions, little time
capsules from the past, all that remain of another time. The
pioneers have long since passed, driven from their land, but
I find this not an unhappy place, for that brave,
independent frontier spirit that brought them to these
beautifully rugged places remains and has not been driven
from the land. Indeed it is here, adding to the radiance and
beauty and I feel it as I pass.
As I descend into Davenport Gap I am
thinking about the hard three and four Snickers pulls over
the last two days: Charlies Bunion, Mt. Sequoyah, Mt.
Chapman, Mt. Guyot, Cosby Knob, Mt. Cammerer. This has been
a tough, hard hike. At this lower elevation I find to my
delight, the beautiful flame azaleas beginning to bloom.
These lush and radiantly blooming plants were discovered and
named by William Bartram. I no sooner reach the road than a
whiz-bang new Ford pickup truck pulls off and I’m offered a
ride down to Mountain Mama’s by none other than Edsel Ford.
Oh, and would you believe that Edsel has a brother named
Henry? Folks, there’s just no way I could make this stuff
up!
”The epithet ‘fiery’ I annex to this most
celebrated species of azalea, as being
expressive of the appearance of its flowers, which are in
general of color of the
finest red-lead, orange and bright gold…The clusters of the
blossoms cover the
shrubs in such incredible profusion on the hillsides that
suddenly opening to view
from dark shades, we are alarmed with apprehension of the
hills being set of fire.”
[William Bartram]
Thursday—May 7, 1998
Trail Day—111/17
Trial Mile—1653/252
Location—Max Patch Summit
Fifteen years ago, on a rainy summer’s
day, and as fate would have it, I became the first
backpacker coming through from Springer Mountain to stand in
total awe on the summit of Max Patch. The excitement of that
memorable day was recorded in an article published in the
Appalachian Trailway News, March/April 1986
issue.
Returning again to this magnificent
summit has been a very emotional experience. Thousands have
come since I was first here, but none could possibly have
felt the intensity of the moment, then or now as I relive
that memory. That article as published will be my journal
entry for today:
“It rained off and on all night, and
sleep was fretful at Groundhog Creek Shelter. I was up at
daybreak. While putting on my wet pants, wet socks and wet
boots, my blisters reminded me of the miserable mistakes I
had made in planning this journey.I was 250 miles and 16
days out of Springer Mountain, Georgia, with only one pairof
wool socks and boots that lacked a tongue web. It had rained
almost every day,and the wet trail was really taking its
toll on my feet.”
“As I left the shelter it began raining
again and my spirits really dropped. There had been heavy
horse traffic through this section, and I was having
difficulty keeping my footing through the mud and rocks. As
the rain became more intense, the trail deteriorated, and
the thought crossed my mind for the first time since leaving
Springer, that I might not make it, that I might have to
give up and quit. Burkes Garden, Virginia, my planned
destination, was still more than 300 miles ahead.
As on other occasions, I prayed for the
weather to break and for the trail to dry. But I knew that
on days when the clouds would break and the sun would come
out, the trail often stayed wet, due to the heavy canopy
above. It seemed hopeless as I slogged, soaked to the bone,
through the mud and rain.”
“I had fought off depression for the past
two days. To lift my spirits, I sang and made up silly
poems, like:”
“When it’s dismal and dreary,
When you feel there’s no hope,
When your heart’s filled with naught but regret.
May your thoughts all be heady,
Your pack feather-light,
And the trail six lanes wide when it’s wet!”
“But, there was no singing, no catchy
poem to lift me up, just the swirling gray, dismal, dreary,
damnable rain. My pack was wet and heavy and cut deep into
my shoulders, and I could no longer fight off the pain and
depression engulfing me. As the trail seemed to close around
me, I prayed I could just make it to Hot Springs”.
“Looking back now, I realize that I had
reached my mental ‘low’ for the journey. Little did I know
that I had not only ‘passed through the valley’ but, in the
short span of less than two hours, would be swept to the
highest ‘high’ I was to experience for the entire 32-day
trip!
As I entered the open at Max Patch Road, the rain stopped,
and it looked like the clouds were going to break. I gazed
toward the sky and a feeling of renewed strength and hope
came over me. To the right across the road men were working,
and even though my trail guide read, ‘trail continues N (to
left) on road 3.8 miles to Lemon Gap,’ I crossed the road to
see what was going on and for a little welcome conversation.
It was here I met Arch Nichols, Carolina Mountain Club
trails supervisor. Arch and fellow Carolina Club members
Dwight Allen, Perry Rudnick, Ed Dunn, and Jack Trump were
busy setting posts at the edge of the road. They continued
working as they enthusiastically talked about the new Max
Patch section. As I listened, I became caught up in their
enthusiasm.”
“ In a few short moments I learned that
Max Patch was a towering, 4,600-foot-high grassy bald,
part of a 392 acre Forest Service acquisition purchased to
protect and enhance the Appalachian Trail for the enjoyment
of all. I learned that the view from the summit of Max Patch
provided a panorama of some of the highest ranges in the
eastern United States. And, I also learned that through the
cooperative effort of the Carolina Mountain Club, the AT
Conference, the U. S. Forest Service, the Konnarock crew, a
chapter of the Sierra Club, a Boy Scout troop and the
Appalachian Long Distance Hiker’s Association, the 6.2 mile
relocation work on Max Patch was almost completed.”
“I was swept up with their enthusiasm
completely and I wanted to hike this new section. I asked if
the new trail was blazed and was told that it was marked
only with orange flags and orange, red, and blue ribbons.
Without further question, the five of them began mulling
whether the new section was marked well enough for someone
unfamiliar with it to follow without getting lost. After a
few minutes of discussion about how to get across a road and
where to get over two or three fences (the stiles were not
yet made), Dwight Allen looked at me and said, “You know, if
you get through there by yourself, you’ll be the first hiker
to traverse this new section, the first to reap the rewards
of our efforts over the past 14 months.”
“That did it! They asked me if I wanted
to try. After a few more minutes of directions and
instructions, I was off! The new trail dropped off Max Patch
road and back into the woods on a newly graded path, crossed
a graded road and climbed into an open field. The sky was
clearing now, and I could see the graded and widely mowed
trail above me, leading to the summit of Max Patch. As I
climbed, I realized that my feet were still as wet as
before, but they didn’t hurt anymore. My pack had become
feather-light and I could feel my spirit soaring up the
mountain ahead of me. I was living that silly poem, line by
line, written only two days previous, as I went from the
depths of depression to the heights of exhilaration.”
“As I reached the U. S. Geological Survey
marker on the summit, I felt ‘higher’ than any kite could
fly over the beautiful meadows of Max Patch. The clouds
would break momentarily here, then there. The views were
spectacular: what a truly beautiful place!
And now, for all AT hikers to enjoy.”
The Maker’s countenance ‘round,
Seen from these mountains high.
Fills us with peace…Profound!
Until the day we die.
[N. Nomad]
Friday—May 8, 1998
Trail Day—112/18
Trail Mile—1673/271
Location—Hot Springs, Sunnybank Inn
As I break camp and prepare to move on, I
pause to gaze, to try and comprehend the mystery of such a
place. These are rugged, timeless mountains, their legions
stretching to the horizon in all directions. Why does all
this exist—what does it all mean? Perhaps, someday I will
know the answer. For now I must be content to feel the
Master’s presence and to know that all is right.
Each day reveals new wildflowers to
identify. The variety and abundance of these bright,
cheerful spring children offers both delight and
astonishment. To pause at every turn in the trail would not
suffice to fully appreciate their glorious presence! Along
with others already seen, and generally in great abundance,
are the birdsfoot violet, mayapple, yellow violet and trout
lily.
The hike into Hot Springs is long but
enjoyable. These downhills give me the opportunity to
practice perfecting “Nomad’s Neutral,” a downhill
hiking technique that relieves stress on the toes, shins,
knees and hips, permitting in the progress, progress at the
rate of near four miles per hour. I arrive at Hot Springs
just before 3:00 p.m. It’s time to hurry for mail, then head
for Elmer’s Sunnybank Inn, a lovely old bed and breakfast.
Here at the old Victorian mansion I am greeted at the
kitchen door by Elmer Hall, much in the same fashion as
Elmer greeted me at this very spot 15 years ago. For Elmer
has been the proprietor and host extraordinary here at the
Inn, catering to thru-hikers for over 20 years. I am treated
to a wonderful supper and a bed for royalty! This has been a
very satisfying day.
“Someday He’ll make it plain to me,
Someday when I His face shall see;
Someday from tears I shall be free,
For someday I shall understand.”
[Linda Shivers Leech]
Saturday—May 9, 1998
Trail Day—113/19
Trail Mile—1673/271
Location—Hot Springs, Sunnybank Inn
I’ve decided to spend a couple of days
here in Hot Springs for a much-needed rest. Elmer has a
wonderful library full of hiking/wilderness-related books. I
have a very enjoyable time entertaining myself as I spend
the day reading two great ones. First is David Brill’s As
Far As the Eye Can See, and the other, Ed Garvey’s
latest book, Appalachian Hiker III: The New Appalachian
Trail. I’m also able to catch up on my journal entries.
I’m meeting many folks hiking the AT and am delighted to run
into Tim Long Distance Man Anderson from Winchester,
Virginia. Tim is a friend of my good friend Thunder
Chicken, from Rockledge, Florida, who thru-hiked the AT
last year.
”Being taken by its narrowness for chosen
company is indeed
one delightful aspect of the AT. One easily recognizes those
whom the trail has chosen. One senses kindred spirit. Some
folk say the chosen are a special breed; I mean if you
enjoy,
if you can really get into going up mountains where you can
stand up straight and bite the ground or can thrill in
downhill
descent where a person wants hobnails in the seat of his
pants;
I mean you be a special breed! Mountain wilderness lovers
are
chosen company.”
[Bruce Otto, GAME ‘74]
Sunday—May 10, 1998
Trail Day—114/20
Trail Mile—1673/271
Location—Hot Springs, French Broad Hostel
Hot Springs has a way of making you want
to linger. So I will stay the day and another night. Elmer
is fully reserved for the evening, but he tells me he’ll
make room. I know that a place will be found, but at the
same time I feel that to stay would be taking advantage of
Elmer’s soft spot for smelly, dirty hikers, so I move on to
the French Broad Hostel. Here I relax the day and work some
more on my journal entries.
“Little did I dream more than fifty years
ago when I sat down
with two men in the New Jersey Highlands and outlined to
them
my idea of a footway through the Appalachians that such
plans
would be translated into the institution that has now come
to pass.
I did little more than suggest the notion: I set the match
to the fuse
and set the chain reaction that has come about.”
[Benton MacKaye, ATC Meeting, Boone, North
Carolina, 1975]
Monday—May 11, 1998
Trail Day—115/21
Trail Mile—1685/284
Location—One gap north of Spring Mountain Shelter
This is going to be a grand day, warm and
party cloudy, perfect for hiking. The ruggedness of these
mountains through which I’ve been hiking most assuredly
discouraged early settlement, save the most determined of
the pioneers. Only scant and scattered remains give hint of
their presence long ago. But now the hills have become
gentler, the treadway and the lands traversed more friendly.
Hiking along now the trail winds from below an old
impoundment. Gaining the headwall I am greeted by a placid,
picturesque lake embraced by grassy fields and lush meadows
all around. As I look across these gently rolling pastures I
can visualize where old log dwellings and out buildings
might have stood. Ahh, but there are no shadows now from
those settlements of frontier times nor from the brave who
cleared these lands. All are gone, all long forgotten. This
is such a quiet and peaceful place. But alas, shortly the
trail passes over US25/70 and I am jolted by the noise and
grind as 18-wheelers rumble below, jake-braking the downhill
grade.
The trail soon presents another four
Snickers pull up Rich Mountain thence to descend into
Hurricane Gap. Here is the Rex Pulform Memorial, erected in
memory of Dorothy Hansen’s father who died here attempting
to thru-hike the AT in 1983. As I stand before this marker,
flood over me memories…fond memories of my father and how he
loved the forest woodlands. For he passed away in similar
fashion. Dad had just completed loading his old rickety ‘64
Ford Pickup with hickory and oak firewood, when he sat down
on the running board to rest—and the Good Lord took him then
to his final rest. I suspect Dorothy’s thoughts were much as
mine during that heartbreaking time, a whirling confusion of
sorrow and gladness—sorrow in suffering our loss, but
gladness in knowing our fathers were where they loved to be.
I soon reach Spring Mountain Shelter, one
of the old round-log structures. If this classic little
shelter is not an original, it certainly dates back many
years. And here it remains, providing comfort and safety to
countless AT hikers. I want to get a few more miles in today
so I push on to the next small gap, where is located a fine
campsite and a small spring. I build a delightful evening
campfire, prepare my hot meal, then relax for awhile before
rolling in to quickly drift into restful sleep.
“Sometimes when you’re in the middle of
business
and life as usual, you think, ‘What’s it all about?’
You’re born, you live, you die…But when you’re out
there, you know why you’re there, and you feel
grateful…”
[Dorothy Hansen, GAME ‘79]
Tuesday—May 12, 1998
Trail Day—116/22
Trail Mile—1705/303
Location—Flint Mountain Shelter
I’m out and going this morning about 8:30
a.m. as I hustle along toward State Line Gas Station at
Devil Fork Gap. Here I hope to get a pint of ice cream and a
resupply on Snickers bars. But alas, they’re closed on
Tuesday. Old places like these are fascinating, not built in
any fashion nor for that matter, with much of any thought to
looks or design. I sit down on the old gas-pump island and
lean against one of the rickety, rusty old pumps. No gas
here, just weeds. I linger and work on my journal entries as
I look the place over and take it all in. I suppose seedy
best describes the sight before me. It is certainly not
unpleasant however, more just a hodgepodge, how structures
that are needed get built. Adorning the grand old facade is
a rusty Coca-Cola sign; broken windows are simply boarded
up. The front door is secured with double-hasp/padlocks,
more to hold the door up than to keep folks out. Inside the
dingy window near the door is posted a cracked and faded
flier, “Upper Paint Creek Church, happy to announce Pastor
Jerry Boles, starting a Revival on May 14th at 7:00 p.m.”
Doesn’t say what year. Cigarettes are the reason the old
store has survived. Staring into the dreary darkness I can
see racks and racks of cigarettes…I guess they’ll be back to
rotate the stock tomorrow.
Now in gentle and more rolling terrain,
I’m not far from the daily din—the whirring sound of a
lawnmower, the rasping buzz of a chain saw, the grinding
whine of 18- wheelers; all remind me that this treadway is
no longer a quiet, secluded footpath. But over the last few
days I have been hearing many more songbirds, their happy
cheerful voices giving me a smiling face and a lighter
heart.
Well, so much for the gentler
mountains—no sooner said than I’m faced with the ascent out
of Allen Gap, for the better part of six miles, all the way
to Camp Creek Bald firetower which proves to be a hard,
nearly uninterrupted four Snickers pull. I soon arrive at
Blackstack Cliffs, a rugged and beautiful sight to see. The
cliffs are home to nesting Peregrine Falcons. This section
quickly turns to rough, muddy, boulder-strewn treadway. It’s
hard to believe that the top of a mountain could be a
bog--but here it is for the better part of a mile! Much of
the trail along this high ridgeline passes within the Pisgah
National Forest before crossing into the Cherokee National
Forest in Tennessee.
It’s time to rest and take in the sun so
I stop for a welcome lunch break at Jerry Cabin Shelter. My
puppies enjoy the break and an airing before being rewarded
with some dry socks. This place is really Sam’s Cabin,
honoring Sam Waddle, the shelter caretaker for the past 26
years. The “cabin” will soon have all the modern
conveniences, being prewired as it is for electric lights
and telephone. Hopefully someday, Sam will get around to
hooking things up!
“When the Lord led Moses out of the
desert, He took
His servant to the top of a mountain and showed the
Promised Land spread out below. The mountain was
Pisgah. Moses never entered the land of his people,
but he came down from Pisgah and died content.”
[Nicholas Harman, The Magnificent
Continent]
Wednesday—May 13, 1998
Trail Day—117/23
Trail Mile—1724/322
Location—Campsite north of Bald Mountain Shelter
What a grand and sociable evening last at
Flint Mountain Shelter. I arrived just behind 100#Stormcloud
to meet Tumbleweed, and then Tween and
U-Turn came in just before dark. We had a very fine
cooking and warming fire.
It looks to be another clear, cool,
glorious hiking day as I cross SR212 to enter a lively
meadow. A couple of stiles help the trail in then out. There
must be a hundred different ways to build a stile—these have
steps straight up and over. Above the meadow I reach a
small, old, family cemetery plot on the edge of the mountain
spur. One grave gets my attention, that of a Dorothy
Hensley, May 2, 1865–April 30, 1965. Testimony to the
longevity of these mountain folks, Dorothy lived to within
two days of her 100th birthday!
And just above the family gravesite, at
the upper reaches of this lovely little cove, and beside the
clear mountain brook, molders the remains of an old
settler’s homestead. The log cabin is pitifully broken down,
the earth reclaiming its remains. But the old weatherworn
logs seem to be waiting, hoping to be put to use once again.
Above the cabin, the trail climbs a high-reaching ravine,
then to pass tumbled remains of three old log out-buildings,
sliding and decaying into the rocks…a spot so steep as Otto
would say, “A man could might nigh stand straight up and
bite the dirt.” And as I ascend into still higher reaches is
there a cool, shaded waterfall.
Today I am not far from the trappings of
civilization, but it is not unpleasant. The treadway follows
an old fenceline along the ridge for miles, zigging first
into Tennessee, then zagging back into North Carolina. The
old woven barbs of wire which once bound the line have long
since gone to dust, but the old locust posts stand straight
and tall, solid and seemingly invincible, much as ranks of
infantry, standing ready to spring to action at the first
call, patient, ever faithful. As we struggle with our meager
packweight over these rocky ridges and knobs; I can’t but
consider what must have seemed endless backbreaking toil to
the settlers who cleared and set these fencelines. First a
path had to be opened, then trees found, felled, bucked and
split into posts. Then the near-impossible task of prying
holes between the rocks to set the posts…post after gap,
after mile! Certainly we hikers move along effortlessly as
if on wings, in comparison to the progress of those
pioneers!
As I descend a wide, high meadow the
trail now passes beautiful flowing communities of
wildflowers not before observed. I am able to identify false
Solomon seal, pure clusters of little white flowers, and in
the meadow all about, golden ragwort, a bright and cheerful
yellow-gold flower standing, waving tall in the gentle
breeze. It is all so peaceful, so serene. All that I see and
marvel hereabouts, “toil not, neither do they spin,” but
reside in pure peace and harmony. Oh, the bountiful,
gracious love of the creator of it all!
There’s a five Snickers pull up the
approach and final ascent to Big Bald. Sweating and bone-
weary I pull myself the last few steps to the summit—to find
a small child skipping about, only yards from her parent’s
BMW! The car is parked square on the highest ground, right
on the summit. Will someone who can make some sense of this
please explain it to me! The evening is most pleasant. I am
still not used to the luxury of company on the trail or
during the evening. What a pleasure sharing an off-camber
campsite with 100#Stormcloud. Great campfire,
wonderful conversation!
“Along the eastern line of Tennessee,
High in a gap with vistas either way,
The old log cabin fascinates me,
While passing by one sunlit April day.
One end is tumbledown. The chimney stands
Half sundered from the once snug-fitting wall
Long since neglected of its builder’s hands,
An aura of decay pervading all.
Who built this lofty home along the Trail
So long ago and chose the site so well?
If these old logs could speak what rustic tale
Of plans and hopes and toil would they tell?
Reluctantly, I leave for here there seems
To be fulfillment of somebody’s dreams.”
[Shaffer]
Thursday—May 14, 1998
Trail Day—118/24
Trail Mile—1740/338
Location—Uncle Johnny’s Nolichucky Hostel, Erwin,
Tennessee
The trail is mostly downhill today into
Erwin. Time to get Nomad’s neutral working again.
I’ve been hiking with Tulie and her shep, Tenaya
since Spivey Gap. Skookum and his shep, Baxter meet
us part way up Temple Hill as we are descending to the
Nolichucky River. Skookum greets us with a big smile
and ice cold, fresh strawberries. What a fitting way to
celebrate the halfway point of this “Odyssey of ‘98”—1750
miles down, 1750 to go!
We reach Uncle Johnny’s great new
Nolichucky Hostel on Chestoa Pike around 3:00 p.m. I get to
the phone right away to call my friend, Pat Garcia
Jackson who lives here in Erwin, hoping to get a ride north
to Damascus for Trail Days this weekend, but, alas, I am
told Pat “left-out” this morning. However, as this odyssey
goes, I’ve been offered a ride up and back with Skookum!
This has been another memorable hiking
day. I pitch in the cool, lush grass behind the hostel along
with many thru-hiker friends: U-Turn, Tween, Sam,
T-Bone Walker, Long Distance Man, Fletch, Joliet Joe, Joyful
Girl, Dave and Innkeeper. Johnny had the grill
going for burgers. Beer is permitted on the premises in
cups—great bunch, great evening!
“There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stand still.
So, they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest.
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.”
[Robert W. Service]
Friday—May 15, 1998
Trail Day—119/25
Trail Mile—1740/338
Location—Tent City, Front Street near Laurel Creek,
Damascus, VA
Tenting out last night on the lush,
green, lawn behind Nolichucky Hostel was the right thing to
do as those who chose the bunkhouse found it a little too
warm. I slept cool and comfortable with the fly rolled back
on my little Slumberjack.
As I work on my journal entries here at
Nolichucky Hostel, two groups of thru-hikers load up and
head for Trial Days in Damascus. About 11:00 a.m. one load
departs in an old VW bus, the back end squatting and the old
air-cooled engine wheezing. I hope they make it okay! My
ride to Damascus will be with Skookum and Tulie
and their dogs Baxter and Tenaya. They arrive about three
and we load up—three people, three packs and two dogs in his
little Ford!
We’re faced with a couple of tough pulls
thru the mountains, but what a welcome break, sitting back
and letting the little Ford do the work! We arrive in
Damascus about 6:00 p.m. I dearly love trail towns and
Damascus is probably the ultimate in trail towns. The folks
here profess to have the friendliest stopover along the AT,
and to my knowledge, that statement has never been
questioned or challenged. Damascus indeed, is a
hiker-friendly place.
I head right for Tent City down by the
river. Here is a grassy expanse, most nearly a lawn, but the
size of a meadow, stretching all along Laurel Creek. The
entire area is completely filled with tents for the better
part of a quarter-mile. The waves of brilliance throw my
color vision into overload as I attempt to fix some mental
order to this confusion. The large six to eight pound dome
tents like Eureka and North Face seem to be popular with the
couples, many being here just for the weekend. The
thru-hikers preference is evident—smaller tents—the Clip
Flashlights standing out predominantly. I probably have the
smallest and lightest one-man tent in the meadow, the little
Slumberjack. But, it has served me well so far these past
119 days. Although I am now on my second one, the folks at
Slumberjack have provided for me and have kept me going.
The atmosphere here is not “carnival,”
that description having a certain detractive connotation,
but there is certainly plenty of excitement and revelry all
around. The vendors and manufacturers have their booths and
tables set up all along the way. Every conceivable kind of
item or product even remotely associated with hiking and the
trail experience is on display and for sale. Over in one
corner, near Mountain Smith, two fellows have their large
commercial-style sewing machine set up with piles of packs
and other gear lying in a heap, awaiting repair. And food,
even the insatiable appetite of the thru-hiker can surely be
satisfied here!
The meadow by the river, the expanse that
it is with hundreds of tents, is not the only camping area
within the city of Damascus. The Methodist Hostel, known as
“The Place,” a lovely two-story residence converted years
ago, first to accommodate bicyclists on the Transcontinental
Bike Trail and now, also host to AT thru-hikers, is filled
and the lawn and yard jammed with tents clear around. Up by
the community swimming pool, just off the Virginia Creeper
Trail, and in a lovely place called “The Island,” countless
more tents are set up, row after row.
Ahh folks, this is it! It’s Friday night
in Damascus, the excitement and fun just beginning. The
“Class of ‘98" is here along with the classes of countless
years past, each with their reunion, members greeting each
other, mingling and sharing the joy of being together again.
“Trail Days,” the wheels are up, the flaps are in and this
thing is flying! Ya gotta be here—you just gotta be here!
PROFILES ‘98
This is the first in what I hope you will
find a delightful series of profiles. Each will tell a
little about the kind and friendly people I have met and
will meet during the “Odyssey of ‘98.”
I got to know David Skookum Irving
on the summit of Springer Mountain last fall. Dave is a
happy lad with an infectious excitement about the AT. He is
24 years old, single and hails from Salisbury, NH. He has a
degree in Wildlife Ecology with a minor in Conservation
Biology from the University of Maine at Orono. He is
currently employed by the Georgia Appalachian Trail Club,
The Appalachian Trail Conference and the U.S. Forest Service
as the “Ridge Runner” for the 72 miles of AT in Georgia,
along with some 20 plus miles of side trails. Dave logged
over 2000 miles in fulfilling this responsibility in 1997.
What a joy seeing Dave back again in this same capacity for
‘98! He is not only the current expert on the Georgia
section of the AT, but also knows the entire AT well, having
thru-hiked as a member of the “Class of ’96.”
Dave’s reflections on the trail: “A lot
of little things that made the big thing great. My sister,
Susan August, age 15 hiked with me for a third of the
way. She helped me escape the Virginia blues. I met a lot of
good people, both on and off the trail. The daily news gives
us such a bad impression of everything. It’s good to know
that people are still nice.” Dave’s future plans: “Goals?
Have fun! Been thinking about it…Thought maybe I’d figure it
out on my thru-hike. That didn’t happen. Then I thought
maybe I’d figure it out last year as ridge runner. That
didn’t happen. Maybe I’ll figure it out some time in the
next decade or so!” A final quote: “Alaska would be a good
place to end up. I like it in northern New England. I’ve
never experienced the west, northwest, the southwest—lots of
places to check out, lots of places to go!”
Tell me this young chap isn’t full of
wanderlust to the soul…like Muir and Bartram. It’s always a
highlight of the day when I meet Skookum and his pal
Baxter on the trail. I hope our paths cross again, my
friend!
Nature’s splendor, the great outdoors,
God’s glorious wonders to see.
No finer place to enjoy this peace,
Than along the old AT.
A life akin to the mist on the wind,
This, the wanderlust’s way.
As he roams about to his heart’s delight,
A calling he must obey.
[N. Nomad]
Saturday—May 16, 1998
Trail Day—120/26
Trail Mile—1740/338
Location—Tent City, Front Street, Damascus, VA
A sit-in jam session, mostly guitars,
continued by the bonfire right next to my tent until 2:00
a.m. After that I managed to sleep fine. I awake with a
ravenous appetite, so I skip breakfast and head straight for
the BBQ chicken dinner at Damascus V.F.D. Oh yes, was this
the right choice!
What a grand day to rest and visit again
with a number of trail friends. One, a young man that I had
met leaving Springer, bound for Katahdin. While backtracking
the AT from Three Forks to Springer on my odyssey from
Florida to connect with the AT I met this young lad. Here in
Damascus he walks up to me and asks if I remember giving him
his trail name. He’s from Hawaii and Hawaiian Hoofer
just seemed natural…and it stuck. We have a grand time
“benchhiking” as we talk about his experiences so far since
leaving Springer. I also catch up again with Garcia.
I’d met him while on the roadwalk through Alabama. And oh,
so many other great friends—to name a few; Tween, U-Turn,
Yogi and Boo Boo, Sam (now Chaser), Chris,
Selky, Saint, Hobo Rob, Pack Mule and many
others.
I relax most of the day while taking in
all the Trail Days sights and activities. I really enjoy
attending most all the Appalachian Long Distance Hikers
Association (ALDHA) meetings and programs at the Methodist
Church. Warren Doyle, Jr.’s famous, inspirational and
hysterically funny presentations are held here. One never
tires of listening to the accounts, yarns and “lies” so
eloquently woven by this raconteur extraordinary. I also
attend as many other great slide shows and presentations as
is possibly in so short a time. Later in the day I have the
notable privilege and pleasure in meeting and shaking hands
with Ed Garvey, Warren Doyle, Jr., Bill O’Brien, Larry
Luxenberg and Sam Waddle. Everyone is disappointed that Earl
Shaffer is not here this year. But Earl, as it seems, is a
bit preoccupied as he thru-hikes the AT once again on the
fiftieth anniversary of his legendary first thru-hike
accomplished in ‘48…this time at the age of 79!
Back to The Place I sit and chat with
friends. Selky is busy doing some sewing. Watching
her as the needle flies with fine precision, soon flashes on
in my head the little idea lightbulb. It is time to polish
my Yogi-ing a tad. I’m the only hiker in town still hiking
in long pants; everybody has switched to shorts weeks ago.
My problem? I have no shorts. So it is that I appeal to
Selky to cut the legs off my pants and hem them into
shorts. “No problem!” She says, so I hunt around for a pair
of scissors to accomplish the legectomy. In no time the task
is done, pantlegs cut off and my new shorts hemmed and ready
to go. Thanks, Selky!
In the evening, and to cap a perfect day
I head to Quincey’s for calzone and pizza with U-Turn
and Tween. Later I spend time with good friend, Jim
Thunder Chicken Pitts from Rockledge, Florida who
thru-hiked the AT last year, and also with his good friend
Poppasan, retired Navy fighter pilot, age 64, who
also thru-hiked the AT in ‘97.
Well, the huge bonfire is roaring again
and what they’ve got going here tonight is whooping and
dancing to bongos! This raucous goings-on continues until
after 2:00 a.m. again, but I manage again, to sleep soundly
into the morning.
“When I die, bury me well,
Six foot under the Appalachian Trail.
Lay my pack frame upon my chest,
And tell Ed Garvey I did my best!”
[Unknown West Virginia Poet]
Sunday—May 17, 1998
Trail Day—121/27
Trail Mile—1743/338
Location—Chuck & Lenore Parham’s Home, Mars Hill, NC
I haven’t mentioned the problem with my
tooth. I have a tooth problem. The reason I haven’t talked
about my tooth problem is because I have been blessed with
perfect teeth all my life. I’ve never had the least trouble,
though I’ve listened to countless friends relate their woes
about their dental pains. I have not a filling in my
head…and to this day do I proudly possess a single remaining
baby tooth at the age of near 60! So I guess denial is a
natural reaction to this whole ordeal. But my toothache is
not going to be ignored this day. My jaw is hurting and I
must get some relief. Along the midway yesterday I had the
pleasure of meeting a wonderful lady, Elizabeth McKee.
Elizabeth is the mayor of Damascus. Getting her aside I ask
if she would be kind enough to refer me to a local dentist,
with my pain and all, the day being a Saturday and the
dentists all out. She said, “You won’t be finding any
dentist today” and that my best bet would be to head over to
the drugstore and get myself some Anbesol. That I did. But I
still couldn’t bring myself to face the reality of it, so I
just shoved the bottle in my pocket, telling myself in the
process that all would be fine real soon. But real soon has
passed and all is not fine so this morning I pull the little
bottle back out and slather the stuff across my gums. Oh,
glory be, what a relief! The stuff helps immediately and
immensely. I suspect this molar is going to have to come out
pretty soon.
I have been invited to visit and spend
the evening with dear friends Chuck and Lenore Parham in
Mars Hill, NC. Chuck was a colleague for years. We hit it
right off and have been great friends. He’s retired now and
living the good life up here in the mountains. It is
intriguing how this odyssey continues to thread its way. I
have been offered a ride out of Damascus with Thunder
Chicken; all the way it seems, to Mars Hill, as his path
home passes nearby. So I am delivered straight to the
Parham’s front door. Thanks Thunder Chicken. Didn’t
we have a grand time at Trail Days! I’m no sooner greeted by
Chuck and Lenore than Chuck cranks up the grill. Dining in
the most genteel and lavish fashion in trail lingo is called
Garveying, for Ed is well known far and about for enjoying
the finest full course cuisine right on the trail. Oh, did I
ever Garvey out! Indeed, I did the clan proud!
“If I had my life to live over, I’d try to
make more mistakes.
I would relax, I would limber up, I would be sillier than I
have
been on this trip. I would be less hygienic, take more
chances;
take more trips. I would climb more mountains, swim more
rivers and watch more sunsets. I would eat more ice cream
and less beans. If I had it to do over again, I would go
places
and do things and travel lighter. If I had my life to live
over,
I would start barefooted earlier in the spring and stay that
way
later in the fall. I would play hooky more. I wouldn’t make
such good grades, except by accident. I would ride on more
merry-go-rounds—I would pick more daisies!”
[A Friar, Atonement Friars, Graymoor]
Monday—May 18, 1998
Trail Day—122/28
Trail Mile—1757/355
Location—Cherry Gap Shelter
Mars Hill is about 15 miles south of
Rufus Sams Gap on US23, so we cross the AT by road, where I
had passed five days ago by trail, as Chuck and Lenore
deliver me back to Nolichucky Hostel at Erwin. We say
farewell and I’m off towards Damascus again, this time by
the AT. Thanks Chuck and Lenore for your kindness and
hospitality.
The first day back on the trial after a
couple days off is always a tough day, especially when
you’re out late. There has been an absolute explosion of
bugs and insects since the latter part of last week. There
are crickets, grasshoppers, flies of every color and size,
tics, gnats, spiders—and butterflies, beautiful butterflies!
At the lower elevations coming out of Erwin I see the
lovely, early blooming Catawba (red) rhododendron, also
mountain laurel, flame azalea, purple honeysuckle and the
more rare yellow azalea.
I dearly need to get in a full hiking
day, so I stick with it until after 7:00 p.m. There were
some tough pulls today--four Snickers to reach both Beauty
Spot and Unaka.
Dusk arrives as I arrive at Cherry Gap
Shelter. Back County has a great cooking fire going,
so I’m able to prepare a nourishing hot meal—a real
blessing. I soon drift into a deep and restful sleep.
“ . . . the spring wildflowers are
something to see
and walk among. We saw acre-size fields of trillium,
mayapple, bloodroot, bluets, violets and buttercups . . .
fields upon fields of ferns rise out of the forest floor
in the shade of newly leafed trees”
[James and Hertha Flack]
Tuesday—May 19, 1998
Trail Day—123/29
Trail Mile—1771/369
Location—Roan High Knob Shelter
I had the pleasure of hiking some
yesterday with Little Sippi, Grym, P.O.D, Otherwise,
Half-Pint, Starburst, Tulie and Tenaya,
and Skookum and Baxter. Today I’ll be with
Second Chance, Holly Hobbie, Scrabble, Bald Eagle,
Alfredo, Long Distance Man, and Quarter-Pounder.
A day-hiker/trail angel hangs with me all the way up Roan.
Once on the summit he asks me to wait a few minutes near the
parking area while he goes to his car for an ice-cold
Coca-Cola. What a surprising and refreshing treat…I simply
can’t remember a Coke tasting so good!
As I sit here sipping and savoring my
cold Coke, before me is the most splendid scene. Roan is
famous for the Catawba (red) rhododendron, considered by
many to be among the most beautiful sights in nature. Near
Roan High Bluff are found the remains of the former
Cloudland Hotel. The Tennessee/North Carolina State line ran
right through the center of the majestic ballroom. Cloudland
was a thriving resort during the late 1800's and early
1900's. A few steps and part of the old ballroom floor are
all that remain. If one were to take a notion however, I
suppose it would still be possible to Tennessee Waltz your
partner clear into North Carolina across the old ballroom
floor! My Coke and I take the stroll.
I had two difficult ascents today, one
being the hardest so far—first, a four Snickers pull up and
over Little Rock Knob, and second, still in my memory from
15 years ago, the ascent up and onto Roan High Bluff, this
one a steep, hard five plus Snickers pull. Both of these
have all the attributes of a higher degree—that being
represented by the Four R’s: ruts, rocks, roots, and rough!
I am blessed with two more absolutely beautiful days of
hiking complete with panoramic vistas; yesterday from Beauty
Spot, and today, seemingly the top of the world, the view
from Roan Massif.
I arrive at Roan High Knob Shelter around
4:00 p.m. and quickly get a fine cooking fire going for my
evening meal and some hot coffee. The water source here is a
lovely little seep coming from the rocks under the red
spruce about 50 yards below the cabin/shelter, a wonderfully
preserved old log structure once used as a fire war |