Hiking My Hike - Part 2 By Marcie Baria This month - Marcie Baria tackles the Appalachian Trail solo again, this time with only her trusty dog, Oscar, for company. Click here to read Part One in our archives! Of Husbands and Bears
He decides he will go with me. The girls and I started at Dick’s Creek, about seventy miles from the beginning of the trail. I had decided I would like to do the first seventy miles up to that point. David begins re-deciding the part of the trail he wants to hike and all the other things that “David the-family-Travel-Agent” would normally decide. I do not like this—this is my pilgrimage. Luckily for our marriage, he gets too busy to go, so it is just me (and Oscar) again. The appointed day arrives. Oscar and I leave at six am, arrive in Hiawassee, Ga. around five pm. We check into a little mountain hotel, run into Hiawassee and I have my last, non-trail meal and margarita. Oscar contentedly waits curled up in the driver’s seat, enjoying my leftovers when I am through. A Promising First Day We are up bright and early the next morning, make (instant black) coffee out on our little deck beside the stream flowing outside our hotel door with my new (and previously tested) alcohol stove. We are at Sallie and Joyce’s by eight am. I leave my car at their house. They take me to the head of the trail and will pick me up when I am through. Throughout this process, I have had a lot of people express their fears about being on the trail alone—“what about snakes, bears, crazy people…?” (I figured that (1) I have survived 24 years of law practice, so this should be a piece of cake and (2) as long as I didn’t see any lawyers, I would be fine, and just in case…I had bear spray.) As for snakes, I intended to make a lot of noise and keep my eyes open. As for bears, those on the Appalachian Trail are black bears, much less aggressive and dangerous than the Grizzlies out west. Most hikers never see one; they are notoriously shy. “I’m sure I won’t even see one,” had been my frequent refrain. And as for crazy people, I was hoping to avoid them; but, hedging my bets, I had Oscar, bear spray (much stronger than mace, capable of causing third-degree burns) and a good knife, the latter two I intended to keep in my Eno with me at night. To psych myself up-- that I could in-fact sleep out in the middle of the woods all by myself--I (of course) did some more reading. Perhaps the most helpful book for me was “Untamed” by Will Harlan, about Carol Ruckdeschel, “the wildest woman in America and the fight for Cumberland Island.” Carol was a largely self-taught biologist who lived on Cumberland Island during the 1970s and 80s, off the coast of Georgia, establishing largely single-handedly that it was fishing (largely shrimping) practices that precipitated the ruinous decline in the world sea turtle populations. She managed this as a by-product of living (for the most part) in the wild, sleeping in the woods and on the dunes of Cumberland Island, dissecting sea turtles when they washed up, monitoring the invasive wild boar population during their night-time maraudings-- while continually subjected to their potential assaults—not to mention those of snakes and gators. Carol lived in the wilderness because she loved it and her discoveries were a result of her chosen way of life, not so much visa versa. Reading about her single-mindedness, fearlessness and wholesale disregard of convention gave me confidence that I could manage a few nights in the woods, on the relatively tame Appalachian Trail, by myself. All of these thoughts about snakes, bears and crazy people are scrolling through my head as we head up the dirt forest service road that will get me to within a mile of the beginning of the trail. Oddly enough, there is no way to get to the head of the trail by car. You have to hike in—either six miles from a real road, or, you can use a forest service road that will get you to a point that is one mile down the trail from the start. This way you have to hike down the trail to the beginning, then retrace the mile you just walked, if you want to actually get to the beginning. I opted for the one-mile package. As we round the last curve before my drop off, I see a baby bear waddling across the road, diving for cover on the far side as he notices us coming. So much for all of my predictions. I unload, say my goodbyes to Sallie, and Oscar and I take off at a trot. Despite the bear sighting, I am excited and ready to go. I do keep Oscar on the leash until we retrace our steps and then some from our drop-off point. We make good time, which is good, because despite our relatively early start, it was almost eleven am when we get on the trail. The beginning of the trail is relatively busy. I pass several hikers who are starting out as well. Those that I stop to talk with are all planning several day section-hikes too. I figure that I will be seeing them again before long, when they overtake me. All goes well throughout the day. I feel good, my feet don’t hurt. My pack is heavy—heavier than it was with the girls. I have to carry everything this time, and I can feel the difference. But it’s still all right. Late in the afternoon, I scale a stiff incline and impress myself at how strong I feel and what a good pace I am keeping. This despite the fact that I am carrying two additional large bottles of water because there is a long stretch of trail just ahead with no water source. I am thinking that all my scary-person beach hiking (especially my fourth-of-July hike down the crowded beach) was worth it after all. That is until I begin having some sort of serious arrhythmia at the top of the hill. I keep walking, slowing the pace a little, giving my heart a chance to calm down and get back on track. Well, it doesn’t. It keeps charging ahead like a team of spooked horses. Finally, I lie back, as best one can with a large back-pack still on one’s back, on a large rock and see if it if will abate. Finally, it begins to slow down--so much for over-confidence. I decided I should find a good spot and set up camp. Horse Gap is the next eligible spot, lucky for me it is at the bottom of “Arrhythmia Hill.” I will have done eleven and a half miles. Not too bad for a half a day on the trail. When I get there, the campsite is located right next to a forest service road. This is not indicated on the guide that I use as my trail bible. This is not good. It is not recommended that one, especially a lone female, camp at sites with road access. This is where people tend to run into trouble. Usually “trouble” in human form does not appear as a fellow hiker. (I mean, who wants to hike up and down a bunch of mountains and buy a bunch of expensive equipment to cause trouble when you can cause trouble without having to do all that crap?). “Trouble” most often drives to--or at least close to-- the trail. That being the case, I am still done for the day and that’s that, road or no road. And to top things off, the only two trees that lend themselves to Eno set-up are right next to the road. Great. Up goes the Eno. Then, lucky for me, here comes another hiker down from the hill--a man, looking to be about 60. He asks if I mind if he sets up camp a little down from me. “Heck no!” Oscar introduces himself. Using my new alcohol stove, I make my first lone dinner. All goes well. The guy down the hill and I find a sort-of suitable tree and bear hang our food. We are all ready to turn in now. I have debated what to do with Oscar’s sleeping arrangements since he won’t have the girls to sleep with in the tent this time. I ended up bringing him a little blowup mattress that I will put just under my Eno. I also have a little tarp that I am going to hang from the Eno to act as a little tee pee to keep the bugs and rain off of him. I climb into the Eno and call Oscar to try to situate him on his little bed. He is having none of that. He puts his front feet up on the edge of the Eno and makes clear his intent to sleep in it, with me. “Ok, ok.” In he climbs. Lucky for me, the Eno is a double one. Much to my surprise, Oscar makes room (and the Eno accommodates him) next to me and passes out. Oscar is a surprisingly good Eno mate. He adjusts when I adjust and moves out of the way when I need him to with a minimum of difficulty. About two in the morning, I am awakened to hear something scuffling around on the plastic air mattress I put down for Oscar. Hmmm, I think. I lie there frozen for a few minutes. “Ok, first, that guy is right down the hill; second, it can’t be that big cause I am not that far off the ground; third, it is starting to get on my nerves…” So, I hit my Eno and make some noise to scare it off. It doesn’t flinch. I turn on my headlamp and press my forehead into the bottom of the Eno to scare it off with the light. Continue scuffle, scuffle. Hmmm. After a while, I deduce that it is not going away. Out comes the iPad and I read until I put myself to sleep. It is gone in the morning. Oscar never woke up. Day Two - Making Good Progress Bright eyed and bushy tailed, we are off the next morning. My campsite mate left before us but we soon overtake him and come upon a group of guys from Florida at a stream with large rocks creating a handy bridge across it. We all stop there to water-up and rest a while. The group from Florida is all discussing how much harder it is to climb these mountains than they had anticipated—particularly coming from the land of sea level and no hills. We are all in agreement on this. After a brief rest, Oscar and I hoist our packs and head on up the trail. All day we make good time. We don’t stop for lunch but share some Cliff bars along the trail. All goes well on day two, we end up doing about sixteen miles, making it to Jarrard Gap. There we come upon a family with two young children and a dog named Rowan. Oscar is thrilled. We are late getting into camp and hurry to get set up, make it to the spring .03 miles down the hill and cook supper before dark. We just make it. All goes well—no critters come to visit, or if they do, they are quiet and we both sleep. In the morning, the mom of the family says that they had something scratching on the outside of their tent. Rowan slept through that too. Day Three - An Unexpected Detour and a Midnight Marauder Day three…we will make it to Neel Gap today! Thirty-one point 7 miles in! And at Neel Gap, there is a store and a shower! Before we make it to Neel Gap, we have to climb Blood Mountain. We begin the ascent; it is not too bad as ascents go. Before we know it we have reached the top. We find we have a lot of company. Blood Mountain is a popular day-climb from Neel Gap on the far side. As we start down the other side, we are passing lots of day-hikers on the way up from Neel Gap. It is here that I learn that I can absolutely tell that these people have showered much more recently than I have. This gives rise to concern on my part. If I can smell them, they can probably smell me… they smell good…
We are not on the trail an hour before my feet start killing me. I mean killing me. I have already pretty much wrapped them in duct tape because of the blisters, but they are starting to swell, noticeably. And, of course, I begin feeling my shorts rubbing the insides of my thighs—and it hurts—like with every step. Oh great. We soldier on, and as Murphy’s law would have it, the trail takes an immediate turn for the hellish. We climb incline after incline after incline but there is no good place to stop for the night. My Xeroxed paper trail guide (pages from The A.T. Guide are my bible for how far I am from everything and where the next water is) has now gotten so wet—repeatedly-- it has almost disintegrated; there was no place on me to keep it that stayed dry and I had to consult it often, folding and unfolding it. I could barely still make out that the next shelter was at Whatley Gap, about seven miles past Neel Gap—making for about a twelve mile day. I press on, as fast as my lame feet will carry me. Finally, Oscar and I arrive, too close to dark for my tastes. The stream is .03 miles down the hill. We run down a couple of times to get enough water for cooking and drinking (putting in an extra mile or so just for good measure). We just manage to get set up and eat before it gets dark. As I take Oscar’s pack off, I see that it has rubbed him raw across his belly. In fact it has cut into him. I feel terrible. I am going to have to carry his pack for him tomorrow. On the way down to Neel Gap, we had passed dozens of people. Since Neel Gap, we’ve seen about two, in over seven miles. Whatley Gap feels very remote, very quiet. No one else is around. Oscar and I retire to the Eno. I pull out my iPad, pop two Benadryl and read myself to sleep, managing to put the fact that I am in the middle of a lot of miles of inky blackness without anyone but sleepy Oscar around. About two am, I feel something scratching at the back of my head through my Eno. I am suddenly very awake. When panic subsides, I analyze the situation. Hmm. “Well, it doesn’t feel like a bear. After all, I am almost on the ground, I have hung my Eno low to accommodate Oscar….” “Ok, stop it!” I hit my Eno. It scratches my head again. I growl and make other (what I interpret to be) scary noises. It scratches some more. I keep trying the hitting, noises and headlamp things, to no avail. But, luckily, the other night when the critter was under my Eno, I thought that in the future I should put my hiking poles under me in case I needed them to fend off something in the night. Unluckily, I did not think to put them inside the mosquito net surrounding my Eno, so I would have to stick my hand down exactly where the critter was to retrieve said pole and risk being bitten by the rabid creature. So I opt to forego the poles. This scratching thing went on for, oh, about an hour or so. Then the critter started licking my head. Great. I pulled out the iPad. I did my best to read between the licking and scratching. Finally, I was fed up. “Ok, I’m bear spraying it’s a**.” I pull down the side of the Eno, take aim directly under me and shoot. A strong blast launches from the can filling the air with hot pepper spray, but it’s not too bad inside the Eno. Silence…for about a minute… and here it goes again, scratch, scratch, dammit. Crap. I give up and start reading. Oscar never wakes up. The Slow Burn and Blisters In the morning, I unzip the mosquito net and we crawl out of the Eno. Inspecting the turf below. I find that I have covered my hiking poles and water bottle in bear spray (which is oil based). Lovely. I make several trips to the stream to wash/scrub these off. (Another mile or so for fun.) Finally after a protracted morning pack-up, Oscar and I set off down the trail—only to discover that the trail ends just past our campsite. “Wait a minute, I know this trail goes on for a couple of thousand miles…what is up with this?” We look all over, and the only way to go is back the way we came. It turns out that between my pain, haste and disintegrating trail guide, I have taken us 1 and ½ miles (downhill) off the trail to this shelter—three miles out of the way! (Not to mention the extra couple of miles I have trekked back and forth to the spring.) Cuss. We climb all the way back up the hill 1 and ½ miles to the trail proper and proceed. Instead of counting today, I plant my poles to the chant of “dumb a**, dumb a**, dumb a**.” As the day progresses, the palms of my hands burn, and burn and burn, thanks to my good aim with the bear spray. We come to a stream--I scrub them with sand. It helps some. Wiping my face with them, however, does not as my eyes start to burn like –well, like someone put hot sauce in them. My feet swell and swell some more. My shorts are rubbing the crap out of the insides of my thighs. Oh for some non-chafing cream! Oscar is limping now. Good Lord. The good news is we have a long stretch of good terrain. After our initial climb, we jog about seven miles in no time. But it becomes more and more apparent as the day wears on, we are going to have to take a down/no-miles day tomorrow. I only have two days left to hike. If I take a down day tomorrow, then I will be getting back on and off the trail the last day. I don’t like this idea. I am thinking I may have to just get off tonight and stay off—come back for the next round. But, how to get off? Sallie and Joyce aren’t expecting me for two days. I will have to do seventeen miles to get to a road today and then, I don’t know if I will have cell service or be able to find a ride and it will be about dark. Well, it’s our only option. We press on. I wrap my thighs in duct tape because I cannot stand it any more. This works until the duct tape comes unwrapped and becomes stuck to my pubic hair. Really!? What fresh hell is this? At least we are getting close. The easy part of the trail ends. It starts up, down, up and up…. We limp. We sit. I lie down on my pack on the down-slopes. Oscar curls up at my feet on the trail. This has to be the last hill. It isn’t. Finally it was and down we went to Unicoi Gap, the road and a parking lot. Now, if I can just reach Joyce and Sallie. They answer, thank god. Soon Oscar and I are ensconced in Sallie’s luxurious Subaru, on the way to my luxurious Prius and we have reservations at a “hiker hotel” in Hiawassee. I have never been so happy to see a hotel in my life. To say that it was not luxurious would be a monumental understatement. But, it seemed pretty clean. (Admittedly, everything seemed pretty clean compared to us.) I cursorily showered, we go to get food and come back. I set about doctoring my feet, which have been reduced to one big blister. They are disgusting. The duct tape and dirt has formed a formidable sticky concoction that will not yield to soap, water and/or scrubbing. I will just have to live with them looking awful for a while. I did what I could for them, cleaned Oscar up too and we climbed up in the bed and passed out. The next morning we awoke, got in the car to go to the shipping store to ship my pack home (as we were now on the way to Massachusetts to pick Bess up from a summer camp at Amherst College and didn’t want to take it or ride with it in the car because it stunk, bad). As I pulled the seat belt across my shoulder, I winced. It hurt like crazy for the seat belt to touch my collarbone where my pack had been or to touch my hips where the pack sat. Every part of my body hurt. My feet were still swollen. I did not think I would ever recover. But I did. Oscar and I made the trek to Massachusetts. I was surprised that by the next morning, I felt like a new person. I was not nearly as sore, and felt like I could have actually taken to the trail again. But, alas, children called. My short stints on the trail were eventful, certainly challenging on many levels, fun, even. In hindsight, I undoubtedly pushed Oscar and myself too hard on our solo hike. Next time I will go easier on us. Next time I will not worry so much about being super woman and worry about looking around and taking a little more time. Even going too fast and doing too much, there was so much to see and so much to take in, so much that I did see and did take in. There was great challenge and gratification in having to make decisions and live with the immediacy of the consequences. There was a simplicity in this that is lost in my daily life. But, perhaps the most significant thing about my experience was that being out there, doing something of my own, on my own, gave me back something I had lost in life’s maelstrom of finding a mate, establishing a career, having and rearing children and trying to do what I am “supposed” to be doing in life. The trail gave me back knowing there is a me outside children, husband and law practice…that there is a me that can aspire, that there is a me that can attain. My challenge now is to give air, light and voice to her, and not just on the Appalachian Trail. Miss Part One of Marcie's AT Adventure? Click here.
Why the A.T. I used to feel around with my feet for bullfrogs under the mud in the ponds in the woods behind my house. I spent most of my free time wandering through them, swimming the Pearl, wading through waist-high flood waters of its tributaries during cold spring floods, finding bob cat dens, snakes, making forts, sledding down big hills in the winter (the rare years there was snow) and testing out the ice on the ox-bow lakes when they froze over —none of which were particularly good ideas from a safety perspective—but I didn’t know any better and thankfully no one stopped me. As I got older, I developed other interests, namely Kevin and cheerleading. Then came college (art school) and, for reasons that I will have to get back to you on (when I figure out what the hell I was thinking) law school. Twenty-four years, four children and one husband later (I mean, he’s still around), it dawned on me that I HATED practicing law—so much so that it (at least I decided “it”) was giving me chronic migraines. Coincidentally, I guess, I was turning 50—and I left the practice. That year our sixteen-year-old, Bess attended a therapeutic wilderness program called Second Nature in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Georgia along the Appalachian Trail. My husband and I visited her during her stay in the woods and we all slept under her tarp, on the ground. (She slept under her tarp on the ground for 11 weeks throughout the winter of that year. Much to her credit, she emerged from this program sane(r), happy (ier) and less omniscient than she went in.) I emerged with a need to go back to the woods myself. I had never been much of a camper, just a woods day-wanderer. But somehow it began to come to me that I needed to be in the woods as a purgative to cleanse my innards of the toxic residue of twenty-four years of law practice and—maybe most importantly—I needed to go to the woods as a pilgrimage back to something I left behind in the Pearl River woods a long time ago. While visiting my daughter, we had run into some Appalachian Trail - which, I came to learn, is commonly referred to by those in the area and those hiking it as the “AT” - hikers at the hotel we stayed in the night before we met her in the woods. The thought of actually hiking part of the AT occurred to me then, but seemed a little out there (not to mention, umm, scary). And those guys and girls were all twenty-something to boot. After our return home my desire to be in the woods only intensified and I began to give it some serious consideration. Things were rather complicated because of the children, the youngest of whom was six, and David—my husband (who for years had encouraged me to go take “girl trips” to Gulf Shores and other similar condo zones—which just wasn’t me). But I knew that going to the woods was and I was going to do this. I had been living in the worlds of children and lawyers since 1990, trying desperately to keep up with all that they entail for so long, I couldn’t remember doing something I wanted to do. Frankly I had pretty much forgotten how to want something. Being a mother and a lawyer is sort of antithetical to wanting anything for yourself. But this was clear, I wanted…needed to do this. So Much To Learn I wasn’t sure how to begin, so I set about reading—what I do in the face of—well, everything. I read about through-hikers who do all 2200 or so miles at once, about girls who did it alone, about Jennifer Pharr Davis who set the speed record for hiking the whole thing, covering an average of 47 miles a day, about Grandma Gatewood hiking it three times in her sixties and seventies with only keds, an army blanket, rain poncho and shower curtain, about Lucy and Susan Lechter, the sisters that hiked it barefoot, about Bill Bryson hiking it, hilariously. I figured if they could do it, I could do it too. I knew I didn’t have the time to “through hike”-- but I could hike some of it. I started planning. I talked my two daughters, 17 and 16 into doing some of it with me. It was very reassuring to me that Bess had just spent eleven weeks primitive camping and knew a whole lot about living in the woods. I perused all the “what you need to hike the AT” lists I could find in books and on line (always keeping in mind that Grandma Gatewood did it with much less). I researched backpacks, water filters, shoes, water bottles, tents, Enos (hammocks), hats, hiking poles, knives, blisters, bandages, first aid items, coffee, food, read review upon review of all the camping gear, boned up on how much weight you need to carry, how many cubic centimeters your pack should be, whether to buy titanium cook ware or aluminum, whether to buy the Jet Boil fancy deal or use an aluminum can alcohol stove…and much more. During this research period, my two overriding concerns about the trail were—(1) coffee and (2) reading material. I knew this endeavor was doomed if I were to be deprived of (good) coffee and (plenty of) books. (Maybe I am beginning to see why I have never been a big camper before.) According to all the people who seemed to know what they were talking about, the number one concern you should have as you prepare is weight—keeping it down—‘cause you will be climbing straight up a rocky-ass mountain with whatever you take on your back. The super hard-core backpackers cut the handles off of their toothbrushes and the like. Undeterred by these, whom I would characterize as going-slightly-overboard on-the-weight thing enthusiasts, I decided that the best “books” option for me was bringing my iPad—with my kindle app on it, that way I would have lots of reading material (in the event I was so scared at night that I could not sleep at all and needed to read A LOT). Of course, charging it was an issue but I found that you could buy an effective solar charger for MOBILE DEVICES at REI—a big outdoor outfitter. There was one in Atlanta, so I decided we would just swing by there on the way to the trail and pick that up. After much research on hikers’ coffee presses, cowboy coffee, instant coffee (au contrere) and milk-based creamers, I decided on (au contrere) Starbucks Via packs—yes, instant. They were the best choice weight-wise and they were actually good. The sacrifice I did make was drinking my coffee black— but I girded my loins in the face of this adversity and continued preparations. Having resolved the two make-or-break issues, I started shopping for gear--I shopped on eBay, on Sierra Trading Post at REI, at Dicks, you name it—wherever I could find the best deals. It took me the better part of three months to do the research and the ultimate purchasing for a three-person hike. Before long the items were making a pretty good pile in our downstairs hall closet in anticipation of our early summer launch date. My oldest daughter was graduating from high school in May, so things were a little hectic up until the end of school. The first week of summer vacation, our entire family was heading to North Georgia so that David and the girls could raft the Chattooga River while Max (the six-year-old and I did some other things). Then the girls and I were staying to hike. Well, as ours are wont to do, the plans changed. Our oldest heard she had an audition for something in New Orleans the next week and “could not miss it.” I had sensed a complete lack of enthusiasm on her part for the whole hiking thing and think this was, ahem, a convenient and welcome excuse. story continued below... So, we all drove back home, reshuffled the plans so my sixteen-year-old, her friend, JoJo, Oscar (our dog) and I could go instead. The Friday before we were going to leave on Monday, we met at our house, laid out the stuff and divided up our freeze-dried camp meals including Katmandu Curry, Beef Stroganoff, Huevos Rancheros, Granola with blueberries and powdered milk, Pasta with pesto, New Orleans Red Beans and Rice, mixed veggies, cheesecake, chocolate mousse and apple cobbler. Bess and I both had heavy, large packs. Jojo had a small backpack and was just going to carry some of the food and water. Bess designated me as “medicine man”, meaning I had all the blister stuff and other first aid supplies. Bess carried our “tool kit”—all the patching, cutting, extra-this-and-that bag and we divided the other stuff as best we could between the three of us. While we had been in Georgia for the rafting trip, there had been some heavy rain. I had been planning on doing the primitive thing and just sleeping on the ground under a tarp in a sleeping bag, but after the rain, I panicked. The thought of lying on the ground all night long, soaking wet—and all my stuff being wet—and being awake for all that—was more than I could take (even if my iPad was working). The girls would be sleeping in a tent. So, I figured they could weather nights pretty well with the gear we had. As for moi, I headed straight for Dicks Sporting Goods to the “Eno” section. Enos are the new cool thing for hikers. They are lightweight hammocks easily attached to trees so that you can sleep up off the ground. They also have mosquito nets that can enclose you totally and a rain tarp that will keep you dry (all sold separately, of course). In my panic, I dropped a bunch of cash for the entire Eno set-up. I felt better. For cooking, I had ordered a dragonfly camp stove from eBay. I had not managed to purchase the gas canisters required to go with it, (much less test it out) but figured I would pick the canisters up on the way at REI along with the solar charger for the iPad and phone. Oscar, our two-year-old part Border collie was going too and needed a backpack in order to carry his own food and water--another item we would pick up at REI in Atlanta. Hitting the Trail - Day One Sunday arrived and my plan was to pack the car, attend a graduation party in the next town over (in the direction of the AT) for a friend of the children’s Sunday night along with Bess and Jojo, let Oscar stay in the car and get a start that night so that we would knock some of the ten hour trip off before morning. We had a five-mile hike in to our first campsite the next day, so we didn’t need to get to the trail late. I hoped to get there by about two pm so that we could take our time hiking in and setting up camp. But again the plans changed. Bess begged to go back home after the graduation party, get up early and leave… “I will drive and you can sleep…I promise.” We started at about 4:30 the next morning. Bess drove for thirty minutes until it started pouring rain on I-10 and she flipped out. I drove the rest of the ten hours while she, Jojo and Oscar napped a lot. We made our planned stop in Atlanta at REI. Since we were running late, we ran in, I grabbed the solar charger I had researched on line, Bess grabbed the Oscar back-pack and a warm jacket because the girls were short on warm clothes. Even in the summer, it gets cool in the mountains at night. We checked out quickly and were on our way. On the road I started calling services to pick us up from the trail and transport us back to our car at the end of our hike. I found one, Sallie and Joyce. They say they will pick us up in five days at Albert Mountain Bypass--thirty miles from where we start. I had set a goal for us of about seven miles a day. I heard this was reasonable…so…. I figured we could do about that for the next four days and meet up with them on schedule. They tell us that we may have some cell service when we are pretty high up on some of the mountains and to try to call them to let them know about our progress along the way so they can gauge when we will be getting out. A couple of hours up the road, we realized we had forgotten the gas canisters for the stove. This was only a problem with our freeze-dried food and only if we didn’t want to eat it dry. What was a problematic, was, our food, with scant exception, was all freeze-dried. To make a long story short, we took a hour detour and ended up at a Walmart that didn’t have what we needed. We decided we would just have to build fires—if we didn’t want to eat dry freeze-dried food. Now we were really late and didn’t get to the trail until 6pm—yes, pm. I figured we had about two hours until dark. We were getting on at Dick’s Creek Gap in North Georgia, (about seventy miles north of the beginning of the trail back at Springer Mountain), just south of the North Carolina border. We park at the little roadside lot at the Dick’s Creek AT entrance, strap on our packs, strap on Oscar’s, he doesn’t even blink, take a couple of pics and head up into the woods on the trail. Bess takes the lead, Oscar next, then Jojo. I bring up the rear. The trail starts out up a gentle hill then tracks level along the side of a easily sloping mountain. This is good. We can make good time. We are jogging so that we can make it the five miles to Plum Orchard Gap before we lose daylight. The trees arch cathedral-like hundreds of feet above. It is still a bright sunny day back out on the road, but as we push into the woods, the colors go deep and the air becomes a luminous green, it smells green. The path is soft and brown under foot. It’s quiet and still but for our steady plodding. Down at the bottom of the hill’s incline, there are large rhododendrons—which Bess calls “rhodo.” These are one of the most prolific plants along this part of the trail. Rhododendrons are the wild cousins of the ubiquitous southern azalea. While Bess was there during the winter, they used them as thermometers, when the temperature reaches freezing, the evergreen leaves roll into long protective tubes. They also grow where there is a water source, another helpful indicator in the woods. Lucky for us, they bloom later than their citified azalea cousins, the ones on the lower mountains bloom in June and those at higher elevations, significantly later in the summer. Its pink and white blooms appear here and there as we hurry along. story continued below... The trail is, well, a trail-- basically 12 inches wide, which is a little surprising. I guess I expected something bigger. And someone has been through just a head of us with something (like a sling blade? :/ ) cutting prolific amounts of poison ivy that had apparently been growing out into the trail. It is lying all over the path. I mean lots of poison ivy, for miles. Yikes. We keep jogging. Bess, Jojo and Oscar are troopers. Oscar trots ahead, not questioning his new gear or our mission, just glancing back at me every few yards. He is very glad to have a job to do. After a relatively short time and while there’s still light, we descend to the base of the mountain we have been travelling along, coming to a wide place under a tall canopy of pines, the ground spread with an even carpet of pine needles. The trail branches out into another trail to our right and we see a sign. Plum Orchard Gap. We made it, quicker than we thought we would. For all of our planning, or lack thereof, we did not bring water for this first leg of the trail. We have our filters and plenty of water bladders and bottles for the rest of our time, but…. We are really thirsty when we got here and all head down the trail to the shelter and to water. We find our first “stream” here-- more what I would term a“trickle.” But, it works. A lot of these streams have pipes inserted (perpendicular to the stream bed) allowing water to flow into it at one end and out the other over the edge of that particular level of the stream, creating a little water faucet. This did not seem particularly useful or necessary to me until we came to some of the streams without a pipe. I discovered it’s pretty dang hard to fill water bottles in these very shallow streams and nigh-on impossible to fill a bladder (flexible water containers), of which we had a bunch we needed to fill to make camp each night. These pipes, it turns out, are both useful and necessary. We fill our bottles from the cold stream, drink a few of them through the screw-on water filters that we attach to the mouths, and climb up a ways further on the trail to find the shelter. The AT has established shelters at approximately five-mile intervals (give or take a lot). Hikers are requested to stay at the shelter areas or at other designated camping areas along the trail to avoid trampling and/or damaging vegetation and habitat all along the trail. The shelters are usually three sided wooden affairs built up off the ground that you can roll out your sleeping bag on and spend the night (and stay dry if the rain isn’t blowing sideways). The problem is that during the spring, there are lots, I mean lots like thousands, of people that start out hiking the AT. Most of these have the intention of “hiking through” to Mount Katahdin in Maine. (A lot don’t make it, but that’s another story.) But enough make it far enough along the trail to leave a lot of food and waste as they go. Being resourceful critters, the woodland mice and rats have figured this out and have scoped the shelters out as good places to hang out. For this reason, we opt to camp near, but not in, the shelters. Oscar inspects the Plum Orchard Gap shelter We find the Plum Orchard Shelter atop a low hill, canopied by trees, like the rest of the terrain we have been traversing. It looks a little like an enchanted cottage from a fairy tale, possessed of more architectural character than I had been anticipating. There are four college guys there with their Enos set up on the front side of the shelter. There’s ample camping area and a cowboy pit (established fire pit, usually ringed with rocks, that are ok to use to build fires in) on the backside, so we say our hellos, claim that for ourselves and begin set up. Bess assumes Captain mode and starts directing us as to what needs doing first. “Mom, go fill all the water bladders for supper and clean up.” “Jojo, unpack the tent and start setting it up.” “Then everybody start wood-collect before it gets too dark to see.” “ Jojo, you filter the water Mom brings up for our drinking water for tonight and tomorrow.” Bess takes over fire duty and during short breaks, sets up my whole Eno contraption, which is sort of complicated. In the meantime, Oscar makes the rounds chasing scent trails into the woods and acquainting himself with the four guys on the other side of the shelter. Before long we have everything in order, tent up, Eno up, fire going and water boiling. We won the race against dark. We, including Oscar, collapse by the fire and choose from our smorgasbord of dried food. I choose Katmandu Curry. Bess and Jojo have the Pasta with pesto. We all share the chocolate mousse. Amazingly, the food is good—really good. We feed Oscar from his pack and he snacks on a few almonds (his favorite). One very cool thing about hiking the trail is that most people burn at least 5000 calories a day. Of course the amount varies from person to person, with the amount of weight you carry, the terrain you encounter and the distance you go…but we took heart at the news that we were part of the burning-huge-amounts-of-calories-club and decided that (even though we had only gone five miles that day) we could still eat whatever we wanted. After supper we all lick our dishes clean, not because we don’t know better, but because that is a “thing.” Throwing out food along the trail, as discussed, attracts mice—and larger varmints—including bears. So it is not advisable to be throwing food scraps out around your campsite; thus, the licking your plate clean thing, and the “bear-hang” are trail necessities. Once we lick our dishes clean, we wash them as best we can, throw the dirty water a ways away from our campsite, collect all “clean” dishes and edibles, put them in a couple of large stuff-sacks and string them up in a tree as far away from your campsite as you can manage after dark—which inevitably turns out to be a lot closer in the morning than it was the night before. That way, hopefully the varmints head for your bear-hang and not you, if they happen along at night. By the time we get this done it’s about nine o’clock--midnight-thirty trail time. Bess and Jojo retire to their tent. I climb in my Eno for the first time—since I hadn’t set it up or tested it out (either) before we left home. It’s pretty comfortable. When I climb in, the parachute material rises way up on the sides, I can’t see out, and Oscar can’t see in. This, he does not like. He stands beside me, I pull the side down to see him staring intently at me. I assure him I’m ok, he’s ok. He’s unconvinced. I lie back down. He whines and scratches me. “Oscar, it’s ok.” Whine. “Oscar.” Scratch. Good Lord. After doing a little wandering around, he settles down and lies right under my Eno but the bugs are after him. He keeps flapping his ears. Finally he has enough, goes to the girls’ tent and scratches to get in. Smart dog. story continues below... Day 2 - The Going Gets Tough We wake up in the morning to the sound of the guys in the front of the shelter heading out for the day. We take our time building another fire, making breakfast, packing up and refilling our water bottles. Around 10:30, we are ready to hit the trail. The trail starts out up a pretty steep incline. We make it up that ok, but, I feel every bit of my 40-or-so pounds of pack. I have hiking poles that help immensely. Serious hikers debate the use of poles, some arguing that it is better (for some reason) not to use them. I think they are smoking something. I could not have made it without them. Not to mention the fact that they are life-savers when it comes to helping steady and balance yourself over incredibly rocky and uneven terrain, they allow you to use your upper body strength to actually assist in climbing these mountains--and I needed all the strength I had anywhere for that. I must digress here to try to communicate the difference between the abstract thought of “climbing a mountain” while walking along at home on the (very flat) beach and the actual act of climbing one with a forty pound pack on your back. There is a lot of just straight-up rock climbing involved—ok, rock stepping. But they are big rocks, bigger than stair steps and they keep on going a lot longer than any stairs I have yet to encounter. The climbs are so much harder and more intense than I have imagined them I resort to counting to ten, only articulating the odd numbers in order to save my strength, with each plant of my poles. This helps to keep focus on the task at hand, helps me not quit and make me feel as though I have accomplished something each time I get to ten, small “something” though it is. It becomes so steep that we all take breaks every few minutes. Oscar, on the other hand, is doing just fine, turning around panting and watching patiently while he waits. I should, in the spirit of full disclosure, mention the sweat. The temperature is in the 80s out in the sunlight. But the trail is almost entirely fully shaded and it is very pleasant, there are even cool breezes that grace us every few minutes. At night it is downright cool, high fifties. But the minute we start an ascent, it is as though someone turned on a mister all over my body and it feels HOT. Sweat begins running into my eyes, dripping steadily off of my chin onto my map wallet, which is attached to the chest strap of my pack. Within a few minutes, my hair and clothes, all synthetic, quick-dry clothes are soaking wet. I brought a hat, but it too gets soaking wet and it is too hot to wear it. As the trail continues its upward trajectory on day two, Bess, who has taken the rear, falls behind. I didn’t really think about it (it’s hard to pay any attention to what anyone else is doing when you are at the point that you are only able to say the odd numbers when counting to ten). She falls even further behind once the trail becomes so steep that it turns into a set of switchbacks up an almost vertical incline. Jojo, Ocar and I make it up a pretty good way when we hear Bess “blowing her emergency whistle.” Her pack is equipped with one on the shoulder strap in handy proximity to your mouth if you turn your head in its direction. I unload my pack on the trail (which is still only about twelve inches wide and barely clinging to the side of this vertical incline), Jojo and Oscar sit down on the trail, as best they can, and I start back down for Bess. I find her a surprisingly long ways back, plodding, head hanging, shoulders slumping, blowing her whistle rhythmically with every other step. “Bess, what the heck!” “I can’t do it. I have to stop.” Eye roll. “Give me your pack.”
The End of the Trail - sort of
We continue, “camping” the Appalachian Trail for a grand total of four days and three nights. We experience a serious rainstorm on night two. I learn that my Eno does not leak, a welcome discovery. I learn that you start to smell really bad really quick when you don’t bathe and you sweat more than I thought humanly possible (and you have one set of clothes). I learn that I stay awake a lot at night listening for stuff so my iPad is a good call. I learn that “you” should test stuff out before “you” come out on the trail…like your stove, your solar charger (apparently I grabbed the wrong charger in our haste at REI) and your dog backpack (which was too big for him). I learn a lot from Bess about how to manage things in the woods, I learn to tell white pines from yellow pines, I learn what hemlock looks like, I learn that you can make great kindling from the twigs. I learn that Oscar is a great trail dog, that Bess does not really want to hike so much as camp, that Jojo is a trouper, no muss, no fuss, and I learn I need to go back, spend more time in the woods, as soon as I can. Next month - Marcie returns to the trail - ALONE |
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