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.

[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!

[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.

[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.

[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 75^th 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 60^th 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.

[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.

[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.

[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:

Folks likened the forced exodus to the infamous Trail of Tears, where the Cherokee were driven from their lands and relocated to Oklahoma.

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!

[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:”

“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.”

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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!

[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!

[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!

[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!

[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.

[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.

[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