I am crossing Rocky Top, Tennessee. Horizontal rain. Fog shredding across the craggy ridge top. Wind shaking my pack and me like a dog with a rag toy. As I stagger to and fro across the path, the insidious question arises – WHY did I agree to a thru hike?
But then … then …
The trail dives over the edge of the ridge, onto the leeward side. Moist, dead leaves cushion my footsteps. The wind stops, birds sing, heat creeps into my fingers. I am enveloped in a mother-of-pearl cloud as morning sun warms the fog.
“Wouldn’t it be romantic to eat breakfast on top of Shuckstack Mountain this morning?” Jay’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Well, okay,” I agreed. Quickly we packed up our campsite and set off up the trail. Ten minutes into the hike, I realized I had given my approval to climbing a mountain before breakfast! What was I thinking?
Deep fog shrouded the landscape. Jay became a dim black shape on the trail ahead of me. Would the trail break out of the obscuring water vapor in time for a view? I kept climbing, accompanied by the grumbles of an unromantic stomach.
When we finally reached the fire tower on Shuckstack, a fiercely howling icy wind tore mist shrouded clouds off the top of the mountain, revealing 360 degrees of – more mountains! What a view, but way too cold and uncomfortable for breakfast! We took a few quick looks, then fled down and around to the lee of the ridge, until we found a comfortable log to perch on while we hungrily consumed breakfast and lunch all in one meal!
We hike for miles through winter dormant forest, passing endless gray tree trunks rising from a carpet of brown dead leaves, occasionally punctuated by dappled rocks. I know the forest is not dead, and yet, the neutral colors for unmeasured miles makes me forget the boundless life just below the surface.
Suddenly, I see a single strawberry plant, bravely sending out leaves in an excess of buoyant hope of spring. A slate colored boulder is enlivened with a shaggy fringe of green ferns flopping over its edge, as if wearing a wig. Bright orange fungus beckons my eyes. In just a few weeks, a boundless carpet of wildflowers will dominate the landscape. In the midst of winter dormancy, I suddenly realize that LIFE is happening!
Our trail turns up Standing Indian Mountain, and we see evidence of the forest fires which dominated the news just a few months ago at the end of the drought. A slight dusting of brown leaves cover black ashes across the forest floor. Carbonized logs crisscross beneath coal-black tree trunks. I wonder, what has survived? Will wildflower seeds still germinate without the deep layers of leaf mould to protect them?
And yet, even in this devastation, I see signs of LIFE peeping out. A log, seared charcoal on its underside, has bright green moss growing across its top! (That is one tough plant!) Half-burned clumps of rhododendron leaves support healthy looking buds above. A moss-filtered spring cascades over rock in a glittering beaded curtain of water. Yes, life is chosen.
The chorus of a 1782 hymn by Matthias Claudius accompanies me up the rest of the mountain:
All good gifts around us are sent from heaven above,
Then thank the Lord, oh thank the Lord, for all His love.
About 5:00 p.m., we stopped at Plum Orchard Gap Shelter to fill up on water. Due to a predicted icy temperature drop, several thru-hikers were gathered for the night at this low elevation shelter.
Dave vainly put his lighter to some leaves in the fire ring. “Does anyone have a tip for starting a fire with wet wood?” he asked morosely, as the leaves sputtered but refused to burn.
I squatted by the pile of sticks and leaves. “Maybe I can help,” I volunteered. “I used to be a Girl Scout, decades ago. My mom was the troop leader. On our camping trips, she would give each girl three matches and send us out to build our dinner fire. No fire, no dinner.” As I talked, my hands were busy feeling the twigs piled in front of me, keeping dry stems, rejecting most of them as too wet.
A sudden stillness from the shelter made me look up. All the young men were looking at me with identical expressions of incredulity. Is this woman for real? Dave spoke for them as he said, “That sounds kind of rough!”
“Well, our troop always won the fire building contests at the yearly Girl Scout Jamborees,” I laughed. I held up a small handful of slender dry twigs. “Let’s try your lighter again.” The sticks sputtered. “Hmm, needs some wind,” I muttered.
“Here,” Jay volunteered, “let the tuba player operate the bellows.” He knelt down and began a long, slow, steady blow on the tiny flame. I added more thin branches, and after just a few moments, a cheerful little fire was burning.
Dave looked in amazement at the blaze. “I’ve been messing with this for hours! You come in, and it’s burning in less than five minutes!” he marveled.
“Well, we have had a few decades of experience.” I shouldered my pack.
“Wait, you’re leaving already? You built the fire and you’re not even staying to enjoy it?” Dave asked.
“It’s a beautiful evening, and I think we’re not quite ready to stop walking for the day. Guess we’ll see y’all down the trail. Have fun with the fire tonight!”
Sarah being a helpful busybody, rearranging Dave’s fuel for his campfire.
When writing about the AT, there are so many choices! What should I focus upon? Talk about the other hikers? Keep a log of miles and campsites? Try to find moments to savor through each day? Today, I found moments.
I’m walking through fog, wisps of wet mist threading between tree branches. One optimistic young tree has catkins dangling from twig tips. Droplets of mist reflect the pearly luminescence of morning light filtering through clouds.
Some moments are full of peace, some moments are a little more thrilling. We found a merry-go-round at Hickory Flats Cemetery, administered by the New Bethel Baptist Church. My pack and I had a quick ride.
One more moment for the day – swinging from vines, of course!
The mating call of the bobolink filled the air as Jay recorded his cd of Birding by Ear Eastern/Central (Peterson Field Guides) onto his smart phone. Gear covered the bed, as once again I unpacked my pack. I had to slough at least three more pounds. What could I possibly live without???
I weighed my gaiters as I thought. Only four ounces, but realistically, how often would they be worn? Ruthlessly, I banished them. Only 2 pounds 12 ounces to go…
Recruiting Followers
In a place where the Appalachian Trail is simply known as “The Trail”, Jay and I gave a presentation about our upcoming adventure to the senior center, where my parents now reside. Many in the audience had been avid hikers, and the questions we fielded were specific and insightful. We hope we will live up to their enthusiastic proclamations of allegiance!
Sarah and Jay Hike 