by Jeff Alt
Our Cades Cove adventure had just taken an unexpected twist. We walked back to the bikes and rode the remainder of the loop. The weather was great: not too hot and not too cool, with plenty of sunshine. The gates were now open to cars, but the cars had not caught up to us yet, so we still had an open road. We passed by more historic barns, cabins, and picturesque, fence-lined grassy fields. We rounded a bend in the road and encountered three wild turkeys. They were scratching the ground for food and were not bothered by our presence, making it obvious they weren’t afraid of hunters. Turkeys are some of the largest birds in the country, and they were an impressive sight to see up close. I took a few pictures, and then we continued riding towards the campground.
I rode up alongside Papa Lewis and asked, “What’s the story on Horace Kephart?”
“Horace Kephart was a well-known travel writer who helped establish the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He wrote some popular books, Our Southern Highlanders, and Camping and Wood Craft: A Guidebook For Those Who Travel in the Wilderness. That second one, as you can well imagine, really came in handy for folks back then. Our Southern Highlanders was about the people who lived in the Great Smoky Mountains. Kephart was a successful librarian. But he had a deep passion to explore the last of the eastern wilderness. So he up and left his family, and moved to the Smokies. He lived among the locals up in the Smokies before it became a park. When he saw the devastation from the logging, he used his writing fame to persuade others to support the creation of the park. He partnered with a photographer, George Masa, and together they created compelling brochures that were used to persuade others to support the creation of the park. He also helped map the Appalachian Trail through the Great Smoky Mountains.”
“Wow! He sounds like he was quite an adventurer.”
“He was. Unfortunately, he was killed in a car accident before the Smokies officially became a national park.”
We arrived back at our campsite by midday. We all ate lunch and discussed plans.
“We need a head count of who is going to hike and who is going to go on horseback,” Papa Lewis said.
Uncle Boone and Aunt Walks-a-Lot walked over to the open tailgate of their Land Rover and conversed with each other as they fumbled through some of the gear piled in the back of the car. The rest of us remained seated at the picnic table.
“I want to hike,” Crockett said.
“Me too,” Hug-a-Bug said.
“Same here,” I said.
“I’ll ride,” Grandma said.
Uncle Boone and Aunt Walks-a-Lot walked back over to the picnic table where we were gathered. Uncle Boone handed Crockett a bright blue backpack stuffed full of provisions with trekking poles strapped to the side and a hydration hose dangling from the top of the pack.
“We’re going to ride with Grandma. It’ll be fun. I’ll get my hiking fix on Mt. Le Conte later, before we leave the park,” Aunt Walks-a-Lot said.
“I’ll ride along with Grandma and you guys. This will be a good opportunity for Lewis and Clark to backpack together,” Mom said.
“Okay, I’ll make shelter reservations for the five of us,” Dad said.
Papa Lewis gave Uncle Boone the contact information for his horse owner friends in Townsend and reviewed maps and plans with him. Uncle Boone said goodbye to us, hopped in his Range Rover, backed out of the campsite, and off he went. Dad walked up to the campground office to make shelter reservations while Papa Lewis, Hug-a-Bug, and I replenished our backpacks with food and snacks for three days, and filled up our water containers. Crockett’s pack was all set so he sat idle, waiting for us to go.
When Dad returned with our shelter permits, Papa Lewis reviewed plans with everyone.
“We’re going to hike up to the Spence Field shelter and stay the night. The horseback riding team will stay here at the campground tonight and head up the mountain in the morning. With horses, they’ll be traveling faster than us. They’ll ride down the other side of the mountain to the old copper mine in the Hazel Creek area where Kephart once lived. While they’re looking for Wild Bill at the copper mine, we’ll hike towards the Derrick Knob shelter, where an old rancher’s hut that Kephart once stayed at used to be.”
Papa pulled out two satellite phones from a haversack and handed one to Grandma. He put the other one in his vintage canvas backpack. Based on his 1940s era clothing, you would get the impression that Papa Lewis would not be up to date with technology, so the high-tech satellite phones surprised us. The satellite phones were smart for what we were about to do. Cellular phones are unreliable in the mountains, but a satellite phone can make contact from anywhere as long as you have open sky. This would allow our two teams to communicate. Our search plan to find Wild Bill was as organized as any professional search team could be.
“We’ll wait until tomorrow morning to turn on our satellite phones, to preserve the battery power. When each team reaches their destination, or finds Wild Bill— whichever comes first—they are to call the other team and report in,” Papa Lewis explained.
Crockett, Hug-a-Bug, and I hugged our moms and Grandma goodbye, slipped on our backpacks, cinched down the straps, clipped our hip belts together, grabbed our hiking poles, waved a final goodbye, and marched out of the campground with “Lewis” and “Clark” toward the Anthony Creek Trail.
CHAPTER 14
OVER THE HILLS
AND THROUGH THE WOODS
It was a little less than five miles to the Spence Field Shelter. We found the Anthony Creek Trail at the back of the picnic area adjacent to the campground. The trail followed a creek, which added the soothing sound of flowing water. We passed through the Anthony Creek horse camp where Uncle Boone, Aunt Walks-a-Lot, Grandma, and Mom would begin their ride in the morning. The trail was framed by newly bloomed pink and white rhododendrons.
“The white rhododendrons are called Rosebay and the pink flowers are referred to as Catawba,” Papa Lewis told us.
The hike went smoothly and we soon reached a trail junction. We stopped and drank some water, and I pulled out my map to confirm which way to go. We took a left toward the Bote Mountain Trail and the incline began to get steeper. Papa Lewis and Dad were hiking behind me and Crockett and Hug-a-Bug were ahead of me. Crockett had to put more effort into each step due to his bad leg. His leg brace was a visible reminder of his added struggle to walk, but it didn’t slow him down or seem to bother him. He was leading us at a good pace, and he was in good shape. Even if he had walked slower, I wouldn’t have minded. As a matter of fact, I was going at my full pace just to keep up! You could tell he was raised by a mom named Walks-a-Lot and a dad named Boone! We walked past a campsite and turned right onto the Bote Mountain Trail in our final approach up to the fabled Appalachian Trail, and then to our shelter for the night. We passed through a tunnel of rhododendron, as if it were a rite of passage before summiting onto the AT.
I had to wipe the sweat dripping from my forehead to keep it out of my eyes as I continued to put one foot in front of the other. We hiked for a while longer and at last the terrain began to level off. We had reached the Appalachian Trail. The wind whistled in my ears as gusts blew over the top of the mountain. It was noticeably cooler up on the mountain than it had been at the campground. Thick, low-hanging clouds moved through the trees. We kept walking and soon came to another trail intersection. A post with two wooden signs jutted out of the ground. We paused to confirm our directional bearings. One sign read “Appalachian Trail” and the other sign read “Eagle Creek Trail.” The Spence Field shelter was just 0.2 miles down the Eagle Creek Trail, so we all continued in that direction. Tall, thick grass edged the well-worn dirt trail. Interspersed among the trees in every direction was mountain laurel in full bloom showing off its pink and white flowers.
“This is one of the perks of hiking this time of year. You get to see the mountain laurel and the rhododendrons bloom,” Papa Lewis said.
“Papa, why is grass growing up here? It’s like a field on top of the mountain,” Hug-a
-Bug asked.
“James Spence cleared this area to graze sheep and cattle. He had a cabin up here. The forest has reclaimed most of it, but the Park Service maintains some of the grassy parts. The Spence Field shelter, where we’re headed, is named after the Spence family,” Papa Lewis explained.
Crockett and Hug-a-Bug stopped and turned back to me. Without saying a word, I knew exactly what they were thinking: was I planning to time-travel?
“Guys, I’m tired and hungry. I just want to get to the shelter, take this pack off, and eat. Can we save the timetravel for later?” I asked.
“Sounds good, Bubba Jones,” Crockett responded.
“Yeah, I’m bushed too,” Hug-a-Bug replied.
“Since this morning, we’ve biked eleven miles and backpacked almost five. I would say that qualifies as a biathlon,” I said.
“Yep, we’ve all had a big day. I think some food and a good night’s rest will do us some good,” Dad said.
“You guys are doing great! I’ve never traveled with better adventurers,” Papa Lewis chimed in from the back of our single-file line along the trail.
“I think we’re here,” Crockett shouted.
Up ahead we could see a small structure with walls of stone. A feeling of relief washed over me, knowing we had reached our camp for the night. My feet felt like they were on fire and my entire body was spent. We walked towards the shelter, eager to take our packs off and settle in. The closer we got to the shelter, the more inviting it looked. It had three stone walls and a fireplace with a stone chimney on one end, which we could see from outside because one wall was completely missing. The entire front of the shelter was open to the great outdoors—no doors or windows needed. A roofed porch provided a place to gather for protection from rain and snow. Posts supported the roof shelter, and there were skylights that allowed natural daylight to illuminate the inside of the shelter. Wooden benches surrounded the posts in front. Inside the three stone walls were two rows of wooden bunks, which could in total sleep ten people comfortably. A fire ring was located in front of the shelter, and as at all shelters and backcountry campsites in the Smokies, there was a cable pulley system in place to hang our food bags and toiletries high in the air, safely out of reach of bear paws.
We all dropped our packs and sat down. Papa Lewis and Dad went to work laying out their sleeping pads and sleeping bags.
“Hey Clark, what bunk do you want?” Papa Lewis asked Dad.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’ll take the end bunk here, Clark, why don’t you take the other end?”
“Sounds like a plan, Dad.”
Hug-a-Bug, Crockett, and I rolled out our sleeping pads and sleeping bags on the upper bunks. Then we all changed out of our sweaty hiking clothes and into dry outfits. Crockett and Hug-a-Bug volunteered to go pump water out of the nearby spring. I came along to fill a pan with water to use for dinner. The water was coming out of the rocks through a pipe and formed a small puddle between some rocks, then trickled down the mountain in a small stream. This was probably the water source the Spence family had used when they lived up here. We walked back to the shelter, where Dad had already set up our one-burner hiking stove. I put the pot of water on the burner, and Dad gave his gas canister a few pumps, turned the fuel knob on, and lit the stove with a lighter. A blue flame flared up. Dad adjusted the fuel lever and in five minutes the little flame brought our pot of water to a boil. We had three packages of freeze-dried lasagna dinners already open and lined up. I poured an equal amount of water into each package, then resealed the tops. Ten minutes later, we all sat down on the log benches eating lasagna and sipping some lemonade that Hug-a-Bug had made.
We cleaned up our dishes, brushed our teeth, went to the bathroom, and we were all zipped into our sleeping bags by dark.
“Is this where the thru-hikers stay on the Appalachian Trail?” Hug-a-Bug asked.
“Yep. There are three-walled shelters similar to this one, spaced every ten miles or so for the entire length of the Appalachian Trail,” Dad answered.
That was the only conversation we had before all fading off to sleep, with a nice cool mountain breeze wafting in over us—until a noise outside the shelter woke me up. I looked at my watch; it was four-thirty in the morning. In the dimly moonlit shelter I could see the silhouettes of Crockett and Hug-a-Bug sitting up in their sleeping bags, awoken by the noise as well. There it went again. Somewhere out in front of the shelter, we could hear something tearing the grass up from the ground.
“What is that?” Crockett whispered.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. I imagined some man-eating beast circling our shelter, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.
I grabbed my headlamp, turned it on and aimed it out into the darkness, illuminating the source of the noise: five deer standing just a few feet from the shelter. They froze in the light for a minute and then returned to eating grass. With each bite, they pulled the grass up, tearing it out of the ground.
“It’s just deer,” I whispered, with a chuckle.
We all lay back down to sleep. I must have dozed off into a deep sleep once again, because the next thing I knew, it was daylight, and Papa Lewis and Dad were boiling water for coffee, and preparing freeze-dried eggs for breakfast. We were literally in a fog. The air was filled with a cool mist which limited our visibility to just a few feet. I felt refreshed as I unzipped from my sleeping bag. Crockett and Hug-a-Bug were both sitting up in their sleeping bags staring out into the fog.
“I slept great,” Hug-a-Bug declared. She jumped down from the top bunk.
“I always sleep better in the cool mountain air,” Papa Lewis chimed in. He was sitting with Dad, sipping on his morning coffee.
We joined Lewis and Clark for some eggs, hot cocoa, and granola bars. Then we all changed into our hiking clothes, deflated our sleeping pads, stuffed our sleeping bags and gear into our backpacks, used the privy, and were on the trail by eight AM. Papa Lewis turned on his satellite phone and clipped it to the shoulder strap of his backpack.
Hug-a-Bug led the way along the Eagle Creek Trail back towards the Appalachian Trail. We reached the trail junction and turned right, heading north on the AT towards the Derrick Knob Shelter, in pursuit of Wild Bill. We had a little over six miles to go. We would hike over the famous “Rocky Top” and Thunderhead Mountains along the way.
Hug-a-Bug stopped suddenly on the trail. A few feet ahead of her stood a stout, dark-haired, short-legged animal. It resembled a pig, but looked more like the big, bad wolf than one of the three little pigs. Its snout was much longer than Old McDonald’s pig. On either side of its snout were sharp tusks that could easily stab any one of us. Its tail was straight instead of curly. The ground beneath Hug-a-Bug’s feet looked like it had been freshly plowed. This beast had completely torn up the trail and surrounding area. It stared at us for a few seconds, and then trotted off into the forest.
“What was that?” Hug-a-Bug asked tremulously.
“That was a wild boar. European boar were brought to the U.S. to stock game reserves. But a bunch of them escaped into the Great Smoky Mountains, and have adapted and multiplied. They’re not native to the park and, as you can see, they tear up the land. They also carry disease, and they destroy the habitat and food sources for the native species. The Park Rangers actively remove the wild boars through trapping and hunting,” Papa Lewis explained.
We continued down the trail. The fog began to lift and we once again enjoyed some blue sky in the Smokies. The trees thinned out and gave way to grassy balds and spectacular views. We climbed up to Rocky Top and took a few pictures of the stunning view—nothing but green, forested mountains for miles.
“Hey guys, did Papa Lewis tell you that your left foot is in Tennessee and your right foot is in North Carolina?” Dad asked.
“It’s true. Here in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, the Appalachian Trail is the state line between Tennessee and North Carolina,” Papa Lewis added.
“Cool!�
� I said imagining a dotted line on the trail between my left foot and my right.
We continued on up to Thunderhead and climbed up a mound of stones and enjoyed the most amazing view in every direction. After we spent time on top of Thunderhead, we continued down the AT.
We finally reached the Derrick Knob Shelter around eleven AM, our eyes eagerly scanning the area for Wild Bill. To our great disappointment, the shelter was empty, with no sign that anyone had been there recently. We were beginning to think we might never catch up with Wild Bill. We took off our packs and sat down for a break. Everyone took out a snack and sipped on their water. I gnawed on a chocolate chip energy bar. Papa Lewis walked back onto the trail to get a clear view up to the sky for a satellite signal, and called Grandma. I could hear him explain that we had reached our destination, but had not found Wild Bill. You could tell Grandma was explaining what they had found from the other end as he nodded his head and listened. After a few minutes, he took the phone away from his ear, folded up the antenna and walked back over to where we sat. We eagerly waited for Papa to tell us what the other team had found.
“Boone, Walks-a-Lot, Petunia, and Grandma rode up and over the mountain at dawn this morning, led by a guide. About an hour ago, they reached the area where Kephart once lived, but no one was there. They said halfburnt logs were in the fire ring, and someone may have camped there as recently as two nights ago. Now, they’re heading back over the mountain to Cades Cove,” Papa Lewis explained.
“So now what?” I asked in frustration.
“Yeah, we’ve chased Wild Bill clear across this park and we still haven’t found him,” Hug-a-Bug added.
“I’m as frustrated as anyone. I just can’t...” Papa Lewis stopped talking mid-sentence.
Something was moving towards us from the northeast. We could hear bushes shake and rocks click as they were being stepped on. It was not on the trail though, which led us to believe the source of the noise might be a large animal rather than a person.