When the trail stopped angling upward, it also split in two. I stopped to look around. This couldn’t be the top of the mountain, could it? I didn’t feel like I had worked hard enough to reach the tallest point on the trail.
Then I saw the sign a few feet ahead: CLINGMANS DOME 6,643 FT. The bleak isolation of the fog had masked the distance and effort it took to reach the mountaintop, and now I had it all to myself.
I followed the signs to the observation tower and, laying my gear on the wet ground, I slowly climbed the spiral ramp to the top. I don’t know why I walked to the top. I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me, let alone the distant peaks, but there was something about coming so far and still not being at the highest point that made me want to go farther.
Descending from Clingmans Dome, I found patches of ice and snow still covering the trail. The winter sun doesn’t shine on the north slope of the mountain and as a result, snow remains on the ground until late spring.
Instead of risking a dangerous fall, I chose to sit and carefully slide down the ice on my bottom. During one particularly long and steep slide, I lost control and skidded off the trail. When I stopped I found myself five feet downhill from the trail tangled in a web of evergreen branches. I wasn’t hurt, but I had little desire to stand up and continue hiking. I propped myself up amid the tree limbs and dug through my pack for a snack.
I sat still for nearly an hour, nestled against the trees, watching the mist particles dance and swirl in the breeze. Finally, the darkening sky prompted me to rise and walk—or rather skate and slide—to the lonely Mount Collins Shelter. I don’t know where the thirty hikers from last night’s shelter had disappeared to, but I now felt like I was the only one left in the park; me and whatever animals roamed in the darkness outside the chain-link fence.
Generally, I’m a positive person, so the next morning I awoke hoping for a warm, clear, sunny day. However, when I looked out on the same cold, wet fog, it shattered my optimism. I was starting to feel like a cartoon character who was followed everywhere she went by a storm cloud overhead.
Besides affecting my attitude, the cold, damp weather had greatly increased my appetite. I still had a day and a half left in the park, but I was down to a few remaining Pop-Tarts, some crackers, and the dregs of my peanut butter. I would need to start conserving food to make sure I would have enough to get me through the park.
It was disheartening to struggle through another day of cold rain. My clothes were wet, my core was chilled, and I couldn’t see anything except the trail at my feet. I needed something to do, something to take my mind off the discomfort, so I sang. Not well (I never sing well), not loudly (that would come with time), just a quiet off-key tune to help me down the trail. My playlist included popular rap songs and well-known musical numbers like “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music and “Tomorrow” from Annie. The rap songs were fun and didn’t require much of a melody. And as for the musical selections, I decided that if refugees and orphans could have a good attitude, then so could I.
When people asked me before my hike what I was most afraid of, I responded that being cold and wet was my worst fear. Yet there I was in the freezing rain, and I was singing.
I entered Tricorner knob Shelter at twilight and introduced myself to bundled faces wrapped in sleeping-bag cocoons. After my first day in the Smokies, I had only encountered a handful of thru-hikers. I felt a fond admiration for the fellow hikers bundled up on the wooden boards. They had all been outside today, doing the same thing that I had been doing, in the same conditions. We hadn’t hiked together, but we had shared a really hard day.
The four male hikers in the shelter related stories from the day’s adventures and their previous miles. However, one hiker had more stories than the rest. Dude was an older man who spent his time off-trail as a bartender, and his laid-back attitude and surfer jargon were the root of his trail name. He had a cinnamon-colored beard down to his chest that put the blossoming facial hair of the other male hikers to shame. His skin was tanned and dirty, and his voice was even more overpowering than the strong hiker-stench that surrounded him.
The stories, the smell, the weathered brow and beard—they all stemmed from the fact that Dude had not started his thru-hike from Georgia; he had started in Maine. Dude began his southbound expedition last fall. He had traveled nearly two thousand miles and only had two hundred left before he would reach Springer Mountain. I respected and envied Dude. He had accomplished something amazing: He had hiked here from Maine.
When I woke up, I knew that I was still in the South, but it felt like Maine outside. I had spent the night submerged in my sleeping bag, which was rated for twenty-degree temperatures, holding my fists between my knees in the fetal position and shivering to keep warm. The shelter was at 5,920 feet, and the weather and elevation combined to make it my coldest morning on the trail. At least the sound of rain no longer resonated from the roof above. Finally, the two straight days of precipitation had come to an end. Then I glanced outside . . .
SNOW.
It was 5:30 in the morning, and already several inches of white powder gleamed in the remaining moonlight.
Seized with adrenaline, I threw on my top layers, packed up my sleeping bag, and slipped on my shoes, which were covered with a thick layer of ice.
I ran outside and over to the bear cables to retrieve my food sack. I was still having trouble working the cables in good weather, and now that the metal lines and clasps were frozen it was almost impossible. I finally took hold of the sack and wrestled it off the wire. Under the snow that surrounded the food bag was a stiff layer of ice. I had to put it on the ground and step on the sack several times before it was malleable enough to fit in my pack. Forcing it into the compartment with cold fingers, I closed up my icy zippers, picked up my pack, and sped down the trail.
My mantra for the day was “hostel or bust.” According to the data book, I still had eighteen more miles inside the park and then I would reach a lower road with a hostel nearby. I didn’t know what to do in a snowstorm, I was almost entirely out of food, and I was wearing every item of clothing that I had. If I didn’t make it out of the snow and out of the Smokies today, I would be in big trouble.
The snow in the air was blinding, and it continued to build up on the ground, and since it’s impossible to run effectively with a pack through the snow, I did a sort of speed-shuffle. While I was striding along, watching my shins cut through the white powder, I smacked my forehead hard on a tree that had been suspended five and a half feet in the air by neighboring trees. At a normal hiking speed, it wouldn’t have hurt too much, but due to the speed-shuffle, the impact raised a small goose egg on my forehead.
Great—no food, no dry clothes, and a possible concussion . . . Hostel, here I come.
Fortunately, almost all the hiking was downhill. In parts, the decline was so steep that, by using my hiking stick as a side-to-side stabilizer, I could almost ski down the mountain.
For most of the morning, I was sheltered from the worst of the wind and snow by hiking under the cover of the forest. But every now and then, the trees would open up to an exposed ridgeline that left me completely vulnerable to the elements.
On one long stretch of exposed ridgeline I ducked my head and closed my left eye, trying to shield my face from the snow and freezing rain. The wintry mix battered my face and left my exposed skin feeling as though it had been nicked countless times with a razor blade.
When I finally reached tree cover again, I lifted my head and tried to open my eye, but it wouldn’t open. My eye was frozen shut!
A blizzard was disorienting enough; now I was going to have to navigate blustery conditions, try to stay on a snow-covered path, and locate erratic white blazes with only one eye?
Pawing at my face with my gloves, I managed to wipe the frozen crust away from my eye. Several long seconds passed before my eyelid opened and I regained my sight.
I didn’t want to stop until I was completely out of the snow, s
o I kept hiking as hard and as fast as I could. My body was now running completely on fumes. I hadn’t stopped to rest or eat all morning, and there was an acute pain in my left shin that felt like some sort of muscle pull or tear. But after five very trying hours, I reached a lower elevation and higher temperature, which turned the snow into rain and let me walk on a slushy but visible trail.
I had made it out of the blizzard. I was safe, but I was still cold, still weak, still hungry, and I still had nearly two thousand miles to go.
6
HOME
WATERVILLE SCHOOL ROAD, NC, TO
HOT SPRINGS, NC—33.4 MILES
The trail starts to feel a little easier after descending out of the Smokies. The climb to the top of Max Patch is gradual, and the summit offers a breathtaking panorama. From this viewpoint, in the heart of the southern Appalachians, the mountains start to appear less like the opposition and more like friends. Thick rhododendron tunnels lead hikers off of Max Patch and then triumphantly into the small town of Hot Springs, North Carolina.
After hiking down the last set of rock stairs and crossing the final river to exit the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I was desperately looking forward to the comfort of a hot shower and a night indoors. When I spotted a sign for Standing Bear Hostel, I turned off the trail and journeyed up a remote dirt road in search of food and warmth.
Throughout the frightening weather and difficult hiking that day, I had envisioned the hostel as beacon of hope and civilization. I was disappointed and a little dismayed when the road dead-ended at a collection of shoddy log cabins. The ramshackle hostel was eerily quiet. I became apprehensive about my decision to stop for the day. Under other circumstances, I probably would have hiked away from the deserted hostel, but after completing eighteen snow-covered miles in six hours, I didn’t have the energy to leave.
I walked up to the largest of the shacks and noticed a sign welcoming hikers. I pushed open the heavy door, and in the darkness I could barely make out several bunks and a small woodstove. I heard something rustle in the back corner of the room. One of the bunks moved and a man emerged whose clothing, deep-set wrinkles, and expressive eyes made me feel as if I had stepped back in time to rural nineteenth-century Appalachia. His mouth opened to display very few teeth, and in a gruff voice he said, “Welcome to Standin’ Bar. I’m Snapper. I’ll get Mr. Curts.” Then he headed out the back door of the bunkhouse.
The door slammed. Snapper was gone, and I was alone.
Feeling very uncertain, I removed the heavy, wet pack from my back and edged toward the woodstove in the center of the room.
I had almost regained feeling in my fingers when the back door creaked open. Snapper reappeared with a taller, slightly less sinister man in tow.
“Hey there,” he said. “Welcome to Standing Bear, I’m Curtis.”
“Cur-tis?” I asked.
“Yeah, Curtis. Here, let me show you around the place.”
I was still cold and wet, and I didn’t want to leave the warmth of the woodstove, but I reluctantly followed.
Curtis showed me the surrounding log shacks which housed the main sleeping quarters, a shower stall, laundry hut, and snack shed. During our tour, Curtis reassured me that Snapper helped him run the hostel, and although he could come across as a bit backwoods, he had a heart of gold. After our tour, Curtis walked me back to the bunkhouse. I now felt far more comfortable than when I had arrived.
Before leaving me by the woodstove where he’d found me, Curtis asked me where my home was.
“I’m from Hendersonville, North Carolina,” I answered.
“Hendersonville?” he said with surprise, then bluntly asked, “Well, then what the hell are you doing here?”
I was confused by his response, but then Curtis explained with a smile that Hendersonville was only an hour’s drive from the hostel. He suggested that, if I wanted to, I should call my parents and spend the night at home.
Home? I hadn’t intended to go home for five months, until after I reached the end of the trail, and at this point I had only been gone for two weeks. Going home felt like cheating. But the thought of my parents, my room, my clothes, and my bathtub led me to at least consider the option.
Curtis pointed me in the direction of the phone. I hesitantly dialed the number, and as soon as I heard my dad’s voice on the opposite end, I suddenly felt okay not spending the night at the hostel. Before I had even suggested the idea, my father asked me where I was and then turned his truck toward the Smokies.
My dad’s comforting voice was incentive enough to return home, but the mention of watching the University of North Carolina men’s basketball team play in the NCAA Final Four sealed the deal. Tar Heel basketball was a family tradition. In my mother’s opinion, the only thing more grievous than the fact that I would be in constant peril and out of touch for several months was that I was missing March Madness.
While I waited for my dad at the hostel, I decided to make the most of the surrounding shacks. I started with a load of laundry and then took one of the coldest showers of my entire life. I stood under the breath-stealing stream in the outdoor stall, with the temperature of the surrounding air somewhere just above thirty-two degrees. I thought that the water would have to warm up at some point, but I finally gave up mid-shampoo, my fingers blue and my body covered in goose bumps.
With soap suds still in my hair, I returned to the bunkhouse, where Snapper sat near the stove. Too cold for inhibition, I sat down directly beside him, as close to the fire as possible.
As my teeth slowed their violent clacking and my cold stiffness and social tensions began to ease, we began to talk.
“I’m glad you git to go home,” he said. “But it’s too bad it’s tonight.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“It’s Friday, so Mr. Curts take us to the Mexican restaurant. They’s got a real good bluegrass band on Fridays.”
A bluegrass band at a Mexican restaurant? That would be something to see!
“I’m sad that I’ll miss it,” I said. “Especially the food, I’m starving.”
In response, Snapper got up and left the room. Five minutes later he returned with some leftovers from the nearby Mexican restaurant.
“These’s from last night. Go ’head, e’t it,” he insisted.
Snapper watched proudly as I enjoyed his leftover tamales. And after I finally reached a point where I was warm, happy, and no longer ravenous, my dad appeared. I was elated to see him, and I ran over and threw my arms around him. We were both ready to head home, but before we left, my dad went to settle up with Curtis. Curtis greeted my dad but refused to take any money from him. I had spent most of the afternoon at the hostel, and taken full advantage of their shower and laundry, yet Curtis refused payment.
“Just take your daughter home and take good care of her,” he said. “That’ll be payment enough.”
Curtis picked up my pack and helped me carry it to my dad’s truck, then he stood in the driveway and waved good-bye as we disappeared down the dirt road.
As we drove home, I gushed to my dad about my first few weeks on the trail. The only break in our conversation came when he stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru to order a Big Mac value meal. I typically didn’t eat much fast food, but the past few weeks made two beef patties smothered in sauce on a sesame-seed bun rank high on my list of delicacies.
My dad and I didn’t go straight to our house, but rather to the home of some friends of the family, where I ate my second dinner, took my second shower, and soaked my feet as we watched the first half of the basketball game.
As a six-foot-tall North Carolina native, basketball had been an intrinsic part of my life growing up. I don’t remember consciously choosing to play basketball, but due to my height, I’d been recruited by every YMCA and AAU coach in the area. Eventually my ball-handling skills and shooting improved, and I learned to love the sport. But despite years of playing the game, my fondest basketball memories are of gathering in the living room
with my family and friends to cheer on the Tar Heels.
My dad and I drove home for the second half, and although it was a close game, I found myself strangely distracted. I laid on the floor with our golden retriever and began flipping through my Appalachian Trail Data Book, calculating mileages and planning my next few days on the trail. When I did glance up at the TV screen, I was more interested in the spectators than in the basketball players. It was odd how much energy was expended by the stadium full of screaming, yelling, cheering fans, urging both teams to victory. It was strange to think how much vocal support and enthusiasm surrounded these athletes when, back on the trail, I knew that I would have to push my physical limits and athletic aptitude in solitude and silence.
That night, after the Tar Heels won, I went to bed at 1:00 AM. On the trail I had been falling asleep around 8:30 every night, but at home the electricity, cable, and running water kept me awake much later than I had planned. The late night, combined with daylight saving time and a 6:00 AM wake-up call, translated to just under four hours of sleep.
One might imagine that after spending so many nights on the cold hard ground, I would have been inclined to spend a little more time in my own bed. However, my dad promised that if I could hike the thirty-three miles from the hostel at the base of the Smokies to nearby Hot Springs in a day and a half, then he would bring me home to watch Carolina play in the National Championship.
After an hour-long car ride back to the Smokies’ eastern boundary, I hugged my dad, said good-bye, and started to hike uphill away from the road. I had a little over thirty miles to cover in just over thirty hours. And as I hiked up and out of the gap, I discovered the trail was still covered in snow.
At first, just a few inches covered the ground, and I had fun shuffling my feet through the undisturbed white blanket. It felt special being the first one to pass through the winter landscape. As the trail continued to climb, however, the snow on the ground grew deeper, and by the end of the morning, I found myself trudging through three-foot snowdrifts. At that point, I didn’t feel as special, and the snow didn’t seem as fun.
Becoming Odyssa Page 6