Trail Journal

We were up and at 'em by 7am due to some very loud flatulation by Hopin' Toe.  The shelter vibrated every 5 minutes or so from a violent burst of gas from that crazy man above us.  Blatant farting is one of Sean's pet peeves, and I knew it was probably driving him crazy.  We bid Hopin' Toe farewell as we set off with our hearts set on Clingman's Dome.  By 8:30am we summitted Thunderhead which afforded an excellent view of the cloud-filled valleys below and Clingman's Dome in the hazy distance.  In fact, it seemed so far away, it was a bit of a discouragement.  We could barely make it out and yet we had to reach the summit by 5pm.  It was going to be a long day.

We crossed over many grassy fields in the morning.  So beautiful, yet so annoying.  Dew and rainwater had built up on the grass the night before.  The result was soaked feet (and legs) for Sean and me.  I was soaked right down to the bone and my feet were slopping around in wet boots.  It was terrible.  The wetness slowed me down as I tried to prevent my feet from blistering.  Hikers are most susceptible to blisters with wet feet.  We were also traversing what is known as the "roller coaster", a ridgeline of countless, steep up and downs that proved to be energy depleting.  By 11:30am we arrived at Derrick Knob Shelter and took a good break.  I removed my shoes and socks in an effort to get my feet to dry out as much as possible.  The filth and stench of hiking for over a week filled the shelter.

We set off from that shelter and quickly came upon a maintenance crew adding runoff logs and stairs to a steep section of the trail.  Just past there, we arrived at the end of the 14-mile "roller coaster" (which we started the day before) at Buckeye Gap.  From that point on, we would be ascending 6,643 ft. Clingman's Dome.  The next 3 miles stretched on for an eternity.  The elevation didn't change rapidly, nor did we go over an rough, rocky paths.  For whatever reason, I was pushing myself too hard through this section.  I reached Silers Bald Shelter by 2pm with Sean at my heels.  I was beat and both of us were discussing how we didn't think we could make it all the way.  The trail had been extremely hard that day and we were maintaining a pace slightly faster than 2mph.

It was in this despair that a funny looking man with a hobo stick and NO SHOES came in to the shelter from the opposite direction along the AT.  He sat down next to Sean and let out a massive, nasty fart.  Trail mannerisms at their finest.  His gear was made out of some sort of tape and he was nearly blinded by his poor vision (and lack of glasses).

"You must have some kind of crazy story to tell us," I said to the man.  He smiled back.

"Why, actually, I do."

He went on to tell us about how he had trained with a company of soldiers for the Vietnam War many years ago.  He was forced to stay behind while his buddies all went into battle.  Everyone died.  He had felt an enormous amount of guilt, anger, etc. about not being there with them.  He felt like he had the right to do whatever he wanted since they were fighting for his freedom.  With that freedom, he took off his shoes... and never put them on again.  Many years later he realized he was doing it as a hollow memorial, with a bad attitude.  He decided to make some changes in his life.  To promote his new purpose in life (pre/post-support and counseling for soldiers at war) he started walking down the AT barefoot.  He also made all of his gear out of Tyvek housewrap.  This guy would make a good pair with Hopin' Toe.  I shot some video of the guy, then we headed out around 3pm feeling completely different about our situation.  If this guy could do it barefoot, we could certainly do it with boots (and all of our designer gear).

By 3:45pm we were standing at Double Gap Spring Shelter where the Spruce Firs begin (due to the elevation).  The views were becoming spectacular.  We busted up the trail as fast as we could go savoring the last few miles of the trip.  We were giddy with excitement for food, beds, HOME.  We were ready.  We summitted Mt. Buckley at 5pm, thinking we had just reached the top of Clingman's Dome.  Instead, Clingman's was just ahead, another small climb away.  Our conversation became light-hearted.  The trail was tough at this point, mainly because of fatigue.  We started passing other day-hikers.  Some were asking what was the other way.  We would laugh and reply "nothing."

Shortly before reaching the tower at the Dome, Brian jumped out from beside the trail flashing a camera.  He had electrolyte drinks in his hands and was wearing a huge smile.  We were happy to see him again and even happier to see the end just ahead.  We finished the AT section with our heads held high.

I stared down the next part of the trail with the strange itch inside of me.

I wasn't ready to go home.

Those little white blazes called out to me.  I took a few steps down the trail.  Brian and Sean asked what I was doing.  They were right, I had to go home.  I frowned and stepped off the AT, a long trip finished.  We were greeted by many weekend nancies spilling out over the summit of Clingman's.  They asked us many questions like where we had come from, what it was like out there, what we ate, etc.  I climbed the tower and looked back to the west.  A little girl asked me where we had been.  I pointed to the furthest mountain that could be seen in the distance.

"You see that mountain?" I asked.  Her parents came over and listened.  "This morning I was standing on it looking this way."  They reeled with excitement.  "I came almost 100 miles from down near the border of North Carolina and Georgia - further than you can even see here."  The parents and others at the tower were whispering with excitement.  We heard them telling other people.

Sean and I just smiled and ignored them, staring back to the west thinking about the past 9 days of our life.  We didn't really have to say anything; we knew that one of the greatest adventures of our lives was ending.  So many stories, so many lessons, so many battles - wins and losses - mental challenges, physical challenges, and -- footsteps.  Those things are impossible to put into words or photos.  Simple lines like 'the next 4 miles were hard' are impossible for a reader to understand without actually being out there and feeling the pain.

We looked down at Brian who was smiling at us from a bench below the tower.

He understood.

The Asian kid kept at it most of the night, so by 5:30am I was awake and ready to go.  Sean and I walked over to the Fontana Dam Visitor's Center as the sun began to rise to the east.  I took a refreshing shower, then we crossed the dam and headed in to the Smokies.  We passed by the sign welcoming us to bear country and a killer ascent to Shuckstack around 7:15am.  By 9am we had summitted Shuckstack and climbed the tower there.  The 2,200 foot climb wasn't as bad as I had pictured it, but it was also early in the morning.  To the northeast we could see the Smokies stretched out before us like regal castles daring us to approach.  Our determination picked up here and we went so hard and so fast that we were keeping a 3mph pace.  We slowed on a final ascent in to Mollies Ridge Shelter, our stop for lunch.

Signs at the shelter announced the presence of dangerous bears that had been attacking backpackers at that location.  The only sign of life we saw was a lone turkey.  Sean took about an hour nap at the shelter as I reviewed the maps and had lunch.  We set off, again, at a hard pace as a small rainstorm accompanied our voyage to Russell Field Shelter.  At this shelter we gathered some really nasty, stagnant water from a small pool about 100 yards down a side path deep in the woods.  Two older gentlemen were relaxing here after a "grueling 4 mile hike" from a parking and recreation area just north of the shelter.  Their clothes were all scattered about drying after a thorough wash.  These guys would have a pretty hard time hanging with us.  They stared intently at a hand-held GPS unit as they tried to compute mileage, elevation change, etc.

"Incredible!  We climbed over 700 feet on the trip to this shelter," old guy #1 mused.

"Oh, is that so, well no wonder we're tired."  Old guy #2 looked our way.  He informed us that we could move their stuff around to make room in the shelter.  We politely replied that we would be traveling on to the next shelter.

"Tonight?" Old guy #1 was confused.

"Yeah, it's no big deal," I replied.  They both looked at each other, then went back to their ramblings about GPS, maps, and bears.  We left shortly after.

Within a mile of the shelter we saw our one and only bear on the trip.  He was in a thicket of Rhodes, less than 20 yards away munching on something tasty.  He was so scared by our presence that he shot off into the woods before we had much time to react.  He was small and probably not quite an adult.

We reached Spence Field Shelter by 6pm, just a few moments before a major thunderstorm hit.  At the shelter, an old drifter named "Hopin' Toe" introduced himself.  He was a friendly, strange old man who had a tendency to fart - often and loud.  He rambled on and on about this and that, and I found his ramblings quite amusing while Sean found them terrifying.  Sean ate dinner quickly and quietly then tucked in to bed before 7pm.  I was left to hear all about Hopin' Toe's life and musings.  The guy was quite strange for many reasons.  He referred to instant rice as a "four course meal" and would smoke a blunt of herbal tea at least once an hour.  He was a dedicated smoker but had run out of nicotine days earlier.  All he had left was a few pieces of paper to roll and herbal tea to smoke.  Strange indeed.  He was very crafty, and he sat in his sleeping bag most of the night making things up on the second platform of the shelter.  I could have sworn one of the things looked like a small crack pipe, but when I asked, he showed me that he was actually making small candles about 3cm in height.  What you would do with such a small candle, I have no idea.  But he lit one to show me nonetheless.  He also carried a small radio which he kept dialed in to true southern country music most of the time.  At one point he even showed his cunning skill for music by popping out a small harmonica and playing the most wretched, he-haw performance with a harmonica I have yet to hear to this day.  He verified the origin of his trail name by hopin' his toe up and down to what he thought was the beat (which, as a drummer, I will inform you did not resemble anything of a beat or even a constant tempo).  It was entertainment pure and simple.  I smiled and thanked him as I reached for my snow stake, my only real hand-to-hand protection in the woods.

In the distance, a lone coyote sang us to sleep.  I slept with that snow stake inches from my right hand ready to spring up at any moment.  Hopin' Toe seemed nice, but he was unpredictable, and I was not about to let him get away with anything.  A lone, brown shelter mouse played with my pillow all night long as I slept hard on my last night of the trip.

We were able to sleep in quite a bit in our Fontana beds.  By 11am we had become restless, so we set off to explore the village.  We visited the local outfitter store, Hazel Creek Outfitter, and used their computer.  We were going to stop and eat lunch at the little grill, but the place was crawling, and I mean crawling with kids and teens.  We had to get out of there, and fast.  We made tracks to the restaurant once again and devoured a hearty lunch.  Later, we ventured down to the small grocery and general store to buy a few supplies and gifts.  It was there that Brian engaged a harmless bee to the relief of the scared little Fontana cashier girl.  She ran and squealed as Sean and I watched.  I was enjoying a small tub of ice cream, and Brian was quite entertaining.

We ran into Mississippi a couple of times while in Fontana.  He was staying with his mother in one of the cabins at the resort.  From what they had said at the front desk, most of the cabins lacked air conditioning, so I felt bad for the guy.  But just a day earlier we had all cringed with envy upon him telling us about his waiting cabin.  Sean ended up playing some pool with him for awhile.  Little did we know, it would be the very last time we ever saw Mississippi.

We visited the restaurant for a third time and devoured our last civilized meal.  We had to tell the little waitress girl that Sean and been flirting with goodbye.  He made sure she had his number, even though she was "sort of engaged", whatever that meant.  Brian was going to stop here at Fontana, and Sean and I would be the only ones left continuing on the trip.  We had very mixed feelings about this.  On one hand we were sad to lose our third man, but on the other hand we were extremely proud of Brian for making it out this far and sticking with us despite his injury.  He had maintained a positive attitude the entire time, and we were going to miss him.  We shed all of the gear we possibly could and crawled in the public safety SUV around 8:30pm with light loads and confident smiles.

Sean borrowed Brian's hiking poles for the next leg of the trip.  Almost immediately, he was sent tumbling down the trail from his lack of coordination with the new poles.  I was laughing hysterically.  At 9pm we approached the Fontana "Hilton", an amazing shelter on the edge of Fontana Lake.  A large group had already assembled there and built an inviting fire.  Nine people were at the shelter that night.  Four were traveling together in a group more or less attempting a late thru-hike.  One of the girls was from Sweden.  Another fella had been zeroing at the shelter unable to determine his next move.  He had been pacing with a fast thru-hiker group the week before in the Smokies when he burnt out and came back to Fontana.  His only plans were to climb Shuckstack again and "take some pictures", then climb back down.  I felt bad for the guy.  Two Asian-looking guys came strolling in around midnight from the dam after taking showers.  They began to cook dinner and make a whole lot of racket.  Sean and I were still up talking (and chasing a frog around), but everyone else was asleep.  Idiots.

That night one of those guys slept on the same platform as me.  He had some terrible sort of dream that sounded like he was wrestling, then choking some sort of beast.  He gargled and flung himself around violently with fists clenched kicking the floor and making terrible sounds with his mouth.  I was truly scared.  Because of this strange kid, I didn't sleep as well as I wanted.

We awoke to a peaceful morning accompanied by the roar of the "tent man's" stove.  He was a friendly older gentleman with a long, scruffy beard and thin glasses.  He smiled a toothy glare at Brian and I as we sat up blurry-eyed.  I looked over at Mississippi.  He had a rough night.  I heard him tossing and turning around, even talking in his sleep right next to me.  "Tent man" who we later named Looney Tunes (and whose real trail name was "Rock Dancer"), began the morning discussion talking about his adventures through the Smokies, bear encounters included, and the rest of his travels down the AT.  He was finishing his last section hike to Springer to complete his lifelong goal of finishing the AT.  I respected that.  He turned out to be a physics kind of guy and took interest in my work.  I explained to him what shape metrics were and how we used them in medicine.  His face lit up.  OK, maybe I liked Looney Tunes after all... just a little.

By 9am we were on the trail, slowly walking down an easy section toward Fontana.  This section of trail is out in the middle of nowhere, so it surprised us all when a finely dressed old couple went waltzing by in the other direction with no packs or anything as if they had just stepped out of their Mercedes-Benz.  We never did see a road or anything until many miles later that evening at Fontana.  There was no way they hiked from there.  The only conclusion we could draw was that we had either imagined them or they had taken some side trail that we didn't see.

Most of the day was uneventful.  We watered up and took a break at Cable Gap Shelter, an old log shelter.  Mississippi revealed his massive singing voice as he rolled in just behind us, unaware of our presence.  He was a fine tenor.  A mile or so past the shelter we found the word "RATTLER" spelled out in sticks on the trail.  We figured Mississippi had run into one ahead of us.  I stepped lightly and quickly, but saw no sign of snakes.  At this point the day began to stretch on endlessly.  It was after 2pm, and Fontana was about 7 miles ahead nestled about 2,000 feet below the mountain ridge we were following.  It all began to blur together as I pushed harder and harder, trail town on my mind.  I was thinking of all the wonderful things there probably were to eat down there.  Boy, if I only knew.  It seemed like we'd never get there, as it always does when you're approaching a major milestone in a trip.  It was enhanced by the never ending 4-mile descent from Yellow Creek Mountain.  We were in such a big hurry that we arrived at Fontana Crossing at around 4:30pm, having made excellent time.  I think I only stopped once in that 7-mile stretch.  At Fontana Crossing we were surprised to see a very large sign welcoming us to Fontana and a direct phone line to the village office to call for a ride and/or reserve lodging.  I called the lady and booked a room for the 3 of us and had her send a ride.  We were treated to our first look at ourselves in the bathroom mirror at the Crossings parking lot.  Nastly looking cowboys.  A large sign also informed us about the upcoming Smokies, along with the most recent bear warnings.

Our shuttle arrived shortly, and before we knew it, we were packed in a public safety officer's SUV flying toward civilization.  The Lodge was a pretty nice place sporting an excellent view of Shuckstack, the next mountain to climb.  It taunted us from the windows as we checked in.  Our room was very nice - especially the shower.  We all washed off days of filth down the drain as we began our hiker de-tox and our civilized re-tox.

The next order of business was a serious one.  FOOD.  We nearly ran to the restaurant upstairs with smiles wider than the Fontana Dam.  The hostess seated us in a corner of the room as not to attract too much attention.  We were, after all, in a dinning room with table cloths, wine glasses, and crystal candles.  We were mangy, unshaven, giddy hikers in our trail outfits (you don't bring dinner clothes with you on a trip like this).  We sat down and immediately started ordering anything we saw.  Appetizers, bread, salads, meat, wine... I ordered two complete meals: a Caesar salad with garlic roasted chicken breast and the Asian salmon meal which I devoured on contact with the table.  Sean and Brian ordered enormous steaks.  We ate until we could hardly move.  Our spirits were once again as large as our bellies.

We enjoyed a nice evening under the stars sitting in lawn chairs as we reflected on how quickly we knocked out the 30+ miles between Wesser and Fontana.  It was a great night.  We slept sound and hard under cotton sheets with insanely high thread counts.  What a day.