Enjoying a Rising Son Along the Appalachian Trail - P5 (and the end of an amazing journey)

This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it…and the nine upcoming "strenuous" miles and 1500 feet of altitude gain.

My pants were still damp as I pulled them on over my socks. Sitting on a tattered log drinking a cup of instant coffee granules, my thoughts turned to contemplating the sheer desolation of the trail.  It was easy to understand how some people get themselves into trouble out here, in a quick hurry.  One misstep and one fractured ankle later; all bets are off.  Rescue is extremely problematic.  No cell service ensures that one of you (provided there were two of you in the first place) go for help – and help is a mere 5-6 hours away minimum.  Then there’s the marshaling of emergency personnel and the 5-6 hour trip back to find you.  You better hope you have enough water while you waited, or were fortunate to have crash-landed next to a stream - with the Katadyn filter; and that’s the rosier picture.  What if you were alone?  Think someone could land a helicopter; think again.  Maybe, just maybe a skilled pilot could winch a rescue basket down to the narrow trail below, but the trees are enormously tall, and dense.  Your best bet is to be prepared to go it alone in every possible way.  My sincere advice: watch LOTS of Bear Grylls and take careful notes.

Breakfast turned out better.  I didn’t scorch the milky granola this time.  That made clean-up much more pleasant. The air felt close and low in this area as we began packing up the campsite.  Thankfully the rain had not restarted overnight, so the items on the line were no wetter.  They weren’t much drier either.  Placing a damp, cool bandana against my forehead, I tied it in a loose knot as per usual.  The temperature was already going up and it was only 8:30 EST.  We lowered our packs from the stainless steel cabling and added our various other wet items to their contents.  I gingerly made my way down in my socks and filled the water bottles at the creek while Nelson packed the tent.  The last thing left to do, was to get my feet ready for the day's journey.  

Nelson had already created his own make-shift version of footwear by slipping his bare feet into the gallon-sized reclosable bags, into dry socks and then into his wet boots.  My strategy had my feet in the socks first and then into the bags; but first I had to apply fresh blister medicated bandages and some moleskin for good measure.  These alternative arrangements were not preferable; but necessary – we had to get back somehow.  In the shape I was in, I had earlier opined that I was more than fine with hanging out for an entire day before attempting a return; however Nelson thought he might go stir-crazy.  Possible stir-crazy had won out. Packed and moving by 9:00 AM, we passed back through the two women’s (not as “cute”) campsite. They were both sitting on their log eating something.  I couldn't help myself so I asked, “I thought I heard a dog barking last night, do you guys have one here?”  They looked at each other and one quizzically replied, “No, we don’t have a dog.”  “Huh...I could swear I heard high-pitched barking…” I muttered as we headed for the trail-head.  Whatever; to each her own.

Nelson checks the "freshness"
of some bear sign with his staff.

Nelson had this interesting habit of pulling out his harmonica and blowing once across the entire board when he saw bear spoor on the trail.  I can almost hear that familiar “dwidddddllllll-oot!” as I recount this tale, and it causes me to smile.  It was both amusing and dear at once.  He later told me that it was his way of announcing his/our presence to the surrounding woods. In case the animal was still in earshot.  It was curious how the only bear ‘sign” we saw, were the occasional piles of soft, blackened, seed-laden, dung; and they were always smack dab in the center of the trail.   Nelson’s enduring stamina and pleasant attitude were a pleasure to behold as I plodded up the grade behind him.  For many miles (and a few of my falls) he insisted on walking behind me in case of; well, in case of anything.  He was worried about me and that was nice.  After a while though I began to feel like a bit of an anchor to his steady progress with all the mini-breaks I took to slow my racing heart, so I insisted that he go ahead and set his own pace.  He begrudgingly did so, but was always waiting at some point on the path to see my huffing and puffing frame coming, before he’d start out again.  

As I moved uphill, I concentrated on my feet.  Not because they hurt all that much; they were pretty much numb, but because I didn’t want to become that ill-fated casualty I described earlier. For some strange reason I was amazingly “urpy” as I walked along.  You know that feeling where your guts feel kinda bubbly and angry?  My assumption was that it was “something I ate” but the tiniest nagging feeling came over me about water quality.  More than once I stopped to gag and cough.  Nelson looked alarmed, but the feeling passed and I continued walking once more.  I told him that I was “OK” but he looked dubious.  I wondered if it was the “fruity” taste of the MIO (electrolyte and caffeine) product that I had squirted into my Nalgene.  One thing I know about myself at age 50, is that “fruity” drinks and tastes sometimes raise hell with my guts.  I switched to “regular” water and began to slowly recover as I walked; that sick feeling blessedly passing with the miles.

A picture of exhaustion

We stopped at the approximately five-mile mark to rest.  Nelson pulled out one of his Powerbars.  I took out a peanut butter Cliff and started to nibble.  My stomach just didn’t like that taste, so I switched to a handful of Jack Link’s jerky and tried to eat that.  I was extremely tired and sweaty.  Nelson looked great.  Funny how 28 years difference (and a predominantly desk job) takes the starch out of a person.  I wasn’t all that disappointed in myself considering that I was still here on mile 26, but one always wonders what their children think of their parents, and whether your star is tarnishing in their eyes.  All I knew for sure was that I was thoroughly enjoying this special time with my son, and that I was more than ready to get the refrigerator off my aching back.

The metal tower in the distance looked broken.  It was.  Uprooted trees had been blown onto the structure at some point in the past; rendering it unusable.  Perhaps it was a communications tower but the pink "caution" tape that surrounded it, along with the sections of sawn logs, made it clear that it was now junk.  I mention this because it was at this point that the strenuous Noland Divide “trail” we had chosen to follow to the north; had basically disappeared.  We knew we were “close” to the road because we could occasionally hear traffic noise, but we couldn’t see a clear direction of travel.  Nelson took the lead and in about 15 minutes, I could hear a “Whooop!” from his direction.  I had fallen quite some distance behind and could not see him, however his shout made it clear that he had reached the road.  Hallelujah!

At Nelson’s excellent suggestion, we “hid” our packs just off the road so that we could walk the next one-half mile upward on the road, sans weight.  Why not drive back down the roadway and fetch the gear on the way back?  We walked along the twisty asphalt’s narrow shoulder in extremely low-hanging cloud cover.  It looked like it could begin raining at any moment.  I guess that’s why they call them the Smoky Mountains, as they looked as though they were covered in smoke.  Cars and trucks would pass by us and some drivers would wave at the “real hikers.”  We made a half-hearted attempt at thumbing a ride to a few “likely” vehicles, but debated whether we “needed” to finish our trek on foot.  Finally, a large, white, late-model, extended pick-up with Florida plates, diesel-rumbled its approach as Nelson stuck out his thumb.  It actually passed us by.  Nelson made that pleading “what the heck?” gesture with his both palms up, and the driver spotted him.  He stopped100 yards ahead and we ran to climb into the open back; nestling between the guy’s many large coolers.  I admit that that short 1000 yard ride to the top was welcome and a perfect way to arrive at the parking lot where the WPT quietly awaited our triumphant return.

We DID it!

Happy that the truck had not been towed, and that I could actually locate the key to the driver's door; we celebrated.  I stuck the camera on the hood and the two of us posed for a quick (post-hike) victory shot.  Nelson had already peeled off his plastic-bagged boots and gone barefoot.  I had to drive, so I kept them on for the time being.  The area was now bustling.  Many tourists had driven up to Clingmans Dome that afternoon, despite the threat of inclement weather.  Everyone’s face looked happy and smiling as they milled around the parking lot on their way back and forth from their vehicles.  I distinctly remember having that feeling you sometimes get when you know that you have just completed something major in your life; that “ahhhhh…” feeling.  That, “it’s good to be alive” feeling.  That, “I did something extraordinary that most of you folks would never consider” feeling.  Life was indeed good!

The rest of our time together (about 2 days) was different than originally planned.  We were going to take most of our time together hiking, but (as chronicled) circumstances dictated that we re-think that plan. I’m not sorry in the least that it turned out differently.  There were a few more unscheduled hotel-stays, some awesome Pigeon Forge Mellow Mushroom Pizza, plus the newest Spiderman film seen outside Louisville, KY, and of course: the magnificent Kentucky Bourbon Trail (more on that in a future blog).  We talked and drove, and drove and sat quietly; comfortable in each other’s company.  It was truly a remarkable time together.  The miles flew by.  The memories piled up.  THEN: I eventually dropped my son and his gear off at his mother's, but not before a big hug and the promise to "do it again."

Even a birthday party has to end sometime.
Epilogue

Back at my house; all that was really left to do was to sort out the pile of camping gear.  I had some already in the apartment and some was left in the truck.  Some was this person's and some was that; some was even mine purchased expressly for the trip.  This reverse-process was cathartic in a way; a chance to reflect on the planning and the incredible journey.  Incredible because I had the precious chance to be with my son doing "guy-stuff" for five-whole days.  The sun was shining but the temperature was still below 80 degrees as I stood leaning into the open door of the truck.  I picked up the loose change from the many toll-booth exchanges, the unused ketchup packages from the console, the half-drunk Nalgene bottle with the water from Deep Creek flavored with the fruity electrolytes of MIO that my son had squirted in. Wistfully I lingered over the one spent Krystal hamburger box I found under the back seat, thinking about how irresponsible but cool it was to have a dozen to stuff into our faces as we drove.  I wrapped up the cord from the I-Pod where we had listened to an audio book of James Patterson as the miles flew by and thought blissfully about the amazing five days we had shared.  Too damn few, too far between.

Nelson was at his mother's now and gearing up for the rest of his other (real) life beyond "home."  I was left waxing memories of the times that were.  In the apartment alone, my eyes were misty and my throat was choked up as I also realized that my son had grown up and just how fortunate I had been to be able to "hang" with him; even for a time. Yes, the unique mirror I had been privileged to be looking in showed me an incredibly solid human being and all around wonderful young man...and that's a beautiful reflection to behold indeed.

Yes dear reader; take the time and spend it with the ones you love...you'll never regret saying "yes."

Enjoying a Rising Son Along the Appalachian Trail - P4

► MY 100th BLOG ENTRY!!!

After a simple freeze-dried meal of some sort of (boiling-water-prepared) Italian concoction, the two of us began to relax.  Boy, would a cold beer have tasted amazing.  Exhaustion is a beautiful thing sometimes.  It has a way of blissfully descending into place to relieve one of extemporaneous and cluttered thoughts...it is insistent.  I gave way to the feeling once the tent was in place and the gear was safely hanging from a nearby bear-proof, cable device. The smell of smoldering wood and the sound of the rushing creek blended with muffled laughter from the other nearby campfire scene; yet I faded fast into sweet unawareness.

The next morning, I rolled out of the tent first; up and over Nelson, who was lying at the zippered flap.  I quietly pulled on some clothes, and fetched the plastic cat-hole trowel and necessary bio-paperwork for some "light reading" in the woods.  Early dappled sunlight filtered into the valley where Deep Creek rippled and meandered.  It was going to be another scorcher. Insects were busily buzzing as I chose my likely spot for some personal business.  I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say that things "worked out" well as I carefully "left no footprint" or scar upon the pristine landscape.  I even felt like kicking and scuffing my feet backward just like any self-respecting hound dog, but stifled that crazy urge.  Fiber tablets are a beautiful thing indeed.

I wandered about the other sleeping campers trying to stay quiet as I went to the creek bed for a better look at the surroundings.  I felt much more alive this morning and that was a good thing considering the trek of the coming day.  We had about eight miles to traverse today before the next campsite stop.  Nelson was up within the hour and the two of us gingerly ate the scorched powdered-milk, strawberry granola I screwed up in my brand new backpack cookware.  I did my best to scrape out the blackened oat-crud from the bottom, but there's a permanent burn-mark to remind me how fast the damn thing heats up.  Good thing I hadn't borrowed that gizmo and decided to purchase one myself; I would have hated doing that to someone else's gear.  I gave Nelson the choice of dishes and filling up the water bottles from the creek, or packing up the tent; he chose the tent.  The Katadyn Hiker Pro did the job once again in short order.  I didn't know how anyone could survive in these mountains without one.

There continued to be high humidity as we packed up the camp into our two backpacks.  Sweat was already dripping from my brow as Nelson and I started down the trail.  I felt physically neutral for the first few miles, as the going was predominantly flat along the creek bank.  The terrain was fairly rocky and zigzagged in and out of the brush; crossing smaller tributaries that fed Deep Creek.  Those sections were treacherously moss-covered and slippery, so the going was slow and careful.  

White flower petals from the beautiful and plentiful Rosebay rhododendron littered the ground as we walked.  Pipevine Swallowtail and Question Mark butterflies could be seen congregating on rocky islands that poked out of the creek bed.

About 175 species have reportedly been logged in North Carolina as of 2011.  Small rushing waterfalls appeared from the uphill side of the barely existent trail to join the main flow of the creek.  I stopped every once in a while to wring out the kerchief I had around my forehead, and to take a few pictures.

Around 11:00 we came to another designated campsite.  Unfortunately it was not OUR designated campsite.  It was site 54 and was deserted.  A little further down the trail came site 55.  It came complete with a rough-hewn and battered picnic table and thoroughly decrepit horse stall arrangement.  We poked around it for a few minutes and discovered even more butterflies amassed on the rubber mats that were lying between each horse/wooden division.  

I could see that there were even more Pipevine, and even a few Spicebush, Black, and Appalachian Tiger Swallowtails also milling around together.  Something had attracted them to that spot; regardless it was a wonder to behold.  Plus anything that took my mind off my aching feet and knee was welcome respite.  We had traversed 3.4 miles to that point and had many more to go before nightfall, but not before a swim in the icy cold, rushing waters of Deep Creek and a "cracker and cheese" lunch from my pack.

This point in the trail featured a bridge over the creek.  The bridge was made of a giant peeled log that was flattened on one-third to fashion a footbridge.  A peeled-log railing ran along the top for supporting hikers.  When we had taken a nice one-half hour break (I could have used much more) we crossed the creek.  Since this portion of the "strenuous" (Pole Road Creek Trail) was shared with equestrian hikers, I imagined that the horses must cross the creek IN the water, and not balance on the log.  I think I'm safe with that assumption.  Nelson and I finished the crossing and headed UP the trail, and away from Deep Creek.  We had another 4.3 miles to walk.  

The trail began to get steeper and more rocky with stones, etc. having been dislodged by horse hooves.  Places along the extremely narrow ledges, hoof-prints had nearly slid off the edge, into the green beyond.  Then the going got rough(er).  It started to rain.  Then it started to really rain.  Finally, it began to really, really rain!  We stopped long enough to secure our packs from the rain with the pack covers we had smartly brought, however the rest of us was wide open to the elements.  As the heavy rain continued; thunder and lightning accompanied the deluge.  Nelson asked me, "what do we do if the lighting gets closer?"  I responded, "die."  When you think about it, where WOULD one go where it was "safe"?

Since the trail canted upward in front of us, small rivulets of water flowed directly at us.  These rivulets became minor torrents and loose soil was being washed along with the water.  The footing was more and more treacherous and slick.  Our "water-resistant" boots were in full failure mode, but still we kept plodding. Just after I had crossed a small confluence of two creeks dumping into "Pole Road Creek" I dumped.  I was just bearing down with my right foot on a small, greasy incline when it broke away, causing me and everything else to pitch forward.  The top of my pack frame cracked into the back of my skull and I couldn't brace my fall very well.  I went squoooosh...into the mud.  Nelson had been facing me and my attempted maneuver when the fall occurred.  I looked up at him; covered in mud, and he simply said, "you might wanna' wipe that off."

The rain continued to fall and fall for a total of 45 minutes before tapering off.  We had climbed about 800 feet before it had nearly stopped, followed by some bright sunlight.  My water bottles were almost empty and I began to fret a bit about the possibility of finding water.  We were now far from Deep Creek and hadn't even heard the slightest noise from moving water.  The trees were amazing at sucking up all surrounding nature sounds.  I was pretty much out of gas and had lagged a bit behind Nelson.  I stood on the slanted hillside trying to gather a bit of rest, when he came back to me.  His face looked alarmed and he spoke slowly and shakily saying, "we might, want, to wait a bit before we go up there," pointing from where he had just come.  The way he looked and the way he spoke made my tired mind jump to a strange place in that moment.  I immediately imagined that he had either come upon a bear, or some tragedy involving fellow hikers; I was alarmed.  I quietly asked him, "what's the matter honey?"  He looked at me strangely and almost as quietly said, "bees."  Nelson did not care for bees.  I truthfully didn't now that fact, but it wasn't all that odd; many people have trouble with bees.  We both walked the rest of the way up the incline and what turned out to be the trail crossroads.  Dozens of small bees were indeed drifting around the open area near the old wooden trail markers.  I could see many holes in the ground where reddish dirt has been removed in piles surrounding them.  "Ground bees, it's OK" I said.  Nelson kept his distance anyway.

The last leg of our journey for that day was still to come.  Site 61 our "reserved" site, was about one mile away from us. Our feet were water-logged and our clothing was completely sopping wet.  The humidity, heat and no breeze whatsoever made it impossible to dry out anything.    I hoped against hope that it was closer; but it wasn't, so off we trudged.  The new switchback path now led completely downward.  I remember thinking that I was saddened by giving up so much altitude at the end of the day.  We had steadily been climbing upward for hours and now, down we went again.  That meant that tomorrow (the day we had chosen to shorten our trip with) we would be climbing back up the way we had just came.  Hoo-Ray!  Down, down, down, switch, switch, switch we went.  My water was now completely gone and a wee bit of panic at the unknown drifted into my subconscious.  Would we find water any time soon?  If we didn't, would there at least be water at site 61?  Just about ten minutes later, I heard a small gurgling sound ahead and was delighted to see a smallish eruption of water from the side hill; crossing the path.  My heart lept with relief.  It wasn't long before I was plumbing filtered water gleefully into my bottles; thanking God for small things.

Another 30 minutes later and (having fallen behind Nelson again) I arrived at site 61.  Nelson was standing and talking to a pair of females that had just emerged from their tent in various stages of undress; hastily dressing and talking to him nervously.  Completely soggy, red-faced, dirty, and exhausted; I walked up just in time to hear the spokes-girl make a plea for the two of us to "...take the lower camp site...it was really cute."  I made a quick judgement call that what we had just interrupted was of a personal nature between the two women, and didn't care if the site was indeed "cute," I just wanted to fall down somewhere.  We stepped through a narrow gap in the brush and discovered that there was an additional site in a clearing nearer to a raging creek.

This site even had its own bear cables and a rock-ringed fire-pit.  We dumped our gear on the ground.  I dumped myself on a log.  We each stripped off all our wet clothing and boots.  I strung a quick line near the fire ring and we hung the clothing there for what that was worth.  I didn't have any other pants whatsoever, so I simply wore fresh camo-underpants and new tee-shirt.  I sat on the log tending my poor abused feet.  They were white, wrinkly, and many toes were blistered.  I had no other shoes or boots, so I pulled on some dry socks and shuffled around the dirt trying to find some dry wood.  Nelson had better luck than I and hauled some moss-covered dead-falls to the pit area.  He jumped on the wood to break it into smaller pieces.  We lit a barely-burning, pitiful and smoky fire while we decided on freeze-dried "Mountain Chili" as our meal.  It was the best chili I had ever had.

While we rearranged the logs to keep them burning, we talked about our decision to cut the mountain adventure short, and felt good about it.  While I was in far worse shape than my young son; he admitted to some bodily discomfort as well.  Add that to the wet boots, blisters, and damp clothing, and I was eager to extricate myself from paradise.  This day had been a bit of a trial and we had both had passed...best not push our luck.  Tent set up and gear in the air; we crashed at 8:30 with the sun still awake, and the creek rushing over the rocks behind us.

(Stay tuned for the LAST part of the mountain adventure trip...number five in this series...)

Enjoying a Rising Son Along the Appalachian Trail ...P3

<< We interrupt this unfolding mountain-saga to actually comment on the bird life encountered. >>

Never having been in the Smoky Mountains before, I didn’t know what to expect.  That also goes for the local birding.  I think that of all the things I learned during this particular adventure, it was the positively “layered” location of the various species.  What I mean is, Nelson and I encountered specific elevations that seemed to harbor a specific bird's unique taste in environment.  While that interesting notion didn’t exactly dawn on me on the way down the mountain, I was convinced upon the return climb.  Using the smaller pair of Bushnell binoculars I had in a pouch on my web belt was not very practical due to the dense foliage and humid conditions, however using my ears worked quite well instead.  If you read this blog with regularity, you know  how important listening is to a bird-watcher.

 

When we began the hike from Clingmans Dome (at 6,643 ft) on our chosen segment of the Appalachian Trail; the prominent bird was the Carolina Chickadee.  I could hear its "feebee feebay, chick'adee-dee-dee" song as we carefully picked our feet up and around the endless loose cobblestones.  Another bird species that inhabited the similar higher elevation were Dark-eyed Juncos.  Hailing from Wisconsin as I do, I don’t get to see juncos in the summer time.  It took me a few minutes to figure out what bird was making the sounds I was hearing.  Juncos nest in boreal coniferous forests so I guess; the Great Smokies are a natural place for its family-building activities. As we lost some elevation, the high “tsee, tsee, tsee", sound of Golden-crowned kinglets filled the trees.  As per my rough calculations; I would estimate that the optimal elevation for these kinglets was between 4500 and 3800 feet as I did not hear them above, nor below.  This small discovery alone was something wonderful to concentrate on while my blistering feet were constantly reminding me of their own unmistakable existence.  Funny how when you are struggling through something unpleasant, even the smallest pleasant distraction can provide one renewed determination and energy.

 

Around 3,500 feet I heard the unmistakable calls of an Eastern towhee.  I asked if Nelson could discern the “drink your teaaaa” song.  He said that he could and laughed.  In this part of the country, Eastern towhees begin their breeding migration to the (GSM) Smoky Mountains in March and will remain there until October.  A primarily ground-dwelling species, the Eastern towhee is a bi-pedal (both feet simultaneously backward) scratcher.  They forage through the leaf and needle litter for their summer food source of insects.  Beginning around 3000 feet, many other new bird songs were detected as we trudged along.  Eastern wood pewee, Great-crested flycatcher, Acadian flycatcher, and Chimney swifts made their presence known.  Red-eyed and Yellow-throated vireo sat high in treetops singing their familiar songs of, “Here I am, over here, see me, where are you…” as the summer sun and humidity washed over Deep Creek valley.

As we walked along the rocky bank of Deep Creek, I was hoping to catch (and share) a glimpse of my “spark bird,” the American dipper fishing in the rushing waters of the creek; but alas none were to be sighted.  I think that perhaps the lower water level, and numerous rocks were prohibitive.  As dusk settled in to campsite 53, a barred owl could be heard asking its unanswerable question of “who cooks for you…who cooks for you-all?”  No other night sounds could be heard above the constant whooshing of Deep Creek’s rushing water.  None unless you count the annoying verbal titter of an unlikely Swedish boy and girlfriend combo (also on site 53) that had decided to hold an extended authentic American campfire experience. Unfortunately, that bed-time distraction seemed to fade away only when Nelson and I simply passed out from trail-exhaustion.

One of the most ethereal sounds to drift through the tall trees was that of the Wood thrush and Veery.  We heard them between the 5000 to 3500 foot range.  Their (twin) syrinx-generated, double flute-like notes are difficult to pinpoint as they float on the still forest air, but are musically moving nonetheless.  Finally, to round out this avian interlude, I will account the list of other notable birds “heard” during our hard-core back-packing experience:  Canada warbler, Black-throated green warbler, and Indigo bunting.  While this particular trip was not quite crafted to be birder's holiday, it did provide a small glimpse into the summer season, high altitude, life-cycle of more than a few species I traditionally lose sight of back in Milwaukee.  That my bird-blog reading friends - is a wonderful thing anytime.

► Stay tuned for part four of this blog-entry which will detail day two – a “strenuous” climb in the (pouring) rain ... and bees.

Enjoying a Rising Son Along the Appalachian Trail ...P2

I looked into the small bathroom structure for a possible cold water tap from which to fill our water bottles.  The only thing I found was antibacterial soap dispensers.  I guess having water in locations over 6000 feet was rather unlikely after all.  “We should have filled at the Sugarlands,” I told Nelson with a shake of my head.  With our backs fully loaded under the weight of our packs; we began walking up the sloping asphalt to the small convenience store.  I purchased five reasonably-priced, twenty-oz. bottles of water for $1.49 each and we sloshed the Nalgene bottles full. We ended up with one bottle of spring water as a spare.  The time was 11:30 AM and the sun was beating down steadily now above us.  Tourists of all shapes, ages and sizes milled around the base of the path to Clingmans Dome tower as Nelson and I turned and trudged upward.  Some even wished us "good luck" and "good hiking" as they passed us coming down the long roadway from the dome.

Maybe it was the altitude, or maybe it was just my age and overall marginal physical shape, but after I had climbed the one-half mile of steep pathway I was already spent.  I stood at the sign that marked the actual Appalachian Trail, removed my pack and panted, completely out of gas.  I was sweating bullets and overheating.  My heart was thumping like a tympani and I was beginning to worry that I had bit off more than I could chew.  At 6,643 feet, Clingmans Dome is the highest point in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It is the highest point in Tennessee, and the third highest mountain east of the Mississippi. Only Mt. Mitchell (6,684 feet) and Mt. Craig (6,647), both located in Mt. Mitchell State Park in western North Carolina, rise higher.  Nelson cheerfully hiked the last few hundred feet up the winding ramp to the summit of the tower to get a look.  Apparently one can see over 100 miles on clear days.  I didn’t actually care one way or the other about the view from the top.  At the moment, I only cared if my heart-rate would ever return to normal.

When Nelson returned from taking a few pictures, against my own better judgment; I saddled up the pack and the two of us finally stepped onto the AT.  From the moment we began walking, the “trail” was little more than a narrow, rock strewn path that didn't get any better.  Rocks twisted and rolled under our feet as we navigated the barely visible suggestion of a route.  Nelson pulled out the harmonica I had given him and began to blow a few random notes as he walked.  My brain argued against this possibility as I had everything I could do just to breathe while I plodded.  Then he did the unthinkable in contrast to me in my minimally functioning condition; he pulled out an actual concert flute from his pack and began to play it.  The sound of jaunty flute music filled the quiet woods.  Nelson told me it was to both keep bears away and to practice at the same time.  I was truly impressed and jealous.

The next six hours of steep downward hiking saw us leave the AT and switch to the Fork Ridge Trail.  A few hundred yards along the trail we encountered our first (and only) actual fellow hiker on the trail.  A shaved-head, youngish, white male wearing black was sitting along the trail drinking from a water bottle.  He introduced himself, asked where we were headed and informed us that he “already had a tent down there and we were welcome to share the site with him.” He gathered his stuff and began to head down the trail behind us.  I suggested to him that he would no doubt be faster than us and we let him pass.  As he did, he remarked, “you’ll like the trail cause’ it’s all downhill from here, really…all downhill.” 

We hiked onward.  Down, down, down, down, down, down...

My first fall was a kind-of a slight skid off the dirt, down to one knee number…not too bad, but a decent tumble nonetheless.  The pathway here was extremely narrow and brushed over and had the look and feel of a goat path.  While I can’t exactly say that I have ever traversed an actual goat path; I have a pretty good idea of what one would resemble.  The zigzag path was also quite near the very edge of the mountain ridge.  We had to be quite mindful of where our feet were being placed even though most of the time you couldn’t really see them through the plant life.  Plus, those wild storms of the past couple of days had strewn many additional branches, limbs and even entire trees about, making the egress more difficult.  Stinging nettles occasionally brushed against Nelson’s bare legs and brought him some discomfort.  Fortunately, I was wearing my newly-purchased Cabelas zip-off (legs-on) cargo pants/shorts and was merely bothered by the snagging, slicing, thorny, vine-y, things that crisscrossed the way ahead.  I wondered too about poison ivy and oak.  We both drank our fill of water, with me drinking far more of it than Nelson.  A pair of hiking socks and a single glove was lying on the trail ahead.  I stuffed them into Nelson’s pack, thinking about the guy we had met.

As we began our eighth mile steadily downward, I was about to wearily remark to Nelson that I would be shortly needing a rest when suddenly, I performed one of those toe-stub on a root, cross-the-feet, lose your balance, pile-driver type pratfalls onto the trail – first doing a 180 degree flip, landing on my backpack (back) in the process.  Whooooof!  Nelson was behind me, so he couldn’t help but witness the grace with which I slammed to earth.  He stood with his mouth agape as I muttered, “Whoah, I’m ogay, bud I waz gonna’ say I needed a ress soon and then I tribbed and fell.  I think I’ll just lay here a minud, and cash my breath.”  I later learned that some things inside Nelson were immediately in huge conflict at that very moment – 1) Is my Dad hurt, coupled with 2) how could we both possibly get to the first campsite at this rate - before it got completely dark? 

I levered myself up and back onto my feet and took stock of my condition.  I brushed off the excess dirt and flora from my debris-covered ass with my hands.  My left knee was killing me (not from the fall, but in general) with each careful-braking step down the ol’ goat path and my toes and left heel were getting pretty “hot” on me.  This I knew was a sure sign of blistering, and I was not excited to pull my boots off to check just then.  We started off again for site 53 at the junction of Fork Ridge and Deep Creek Trails.  I hoped to hell that it wasn’t too much farther.  We were running out of water quickly thanks largely to my profuse sweating and (refill) drinking routine.  We began to worry about the placement of the supposed campsite VS proximity to water, whether we just ought to climb back out the next day, what body parts were currently hurting us both when we heard the faint sound.  


“That’s water!” I exclaimed with a glint in my eye as I began to feel buoyed by the prospect of reaching it.  A quick glance ahead told me that even though we heard it from here; we could be still quite some distance from it.  The trees to the right side of the goat path were still waaaay down below by my calculations and the trail slope was not as direct as I would have wished for at that moment.  Switchback after switchback loomed ahead as my remaining stamina waned quickly.  My wristwatch told me it was 5:30 PM EST so the prospect of making it while it was still light was good; if I could make it at all with the way my knee was currently throbbing.

It was 6:15 when Nelson sprinted down the last 100 yards to DeepCreek.  I stood on the ridge overlooking his arrival and willed my aching feet and body to join him.  He located the hiker man and gave him his possessions for which he was grateful.  When I finally did join him, I immediately dropped my pack, pulled off my boots and socks, and scuttled barefoot over some mossy rocks to the raging water’s edge.  Swinging my legs around I inserted them into the ice-cold water.  I swear I could hear a sizzle as I did so; the heat immediately being drawn off my poor barking dogs. 

A blonde woman wearing round glasses suddenly appeared across the stream and smiled at me as I sat there enjoying the absolutely glorious sensation.  Three more young boys made their way to the water’s edge as well.  I waved and smiled a completely weary, glad-to-have-survived smile back.  You know the one; when you feel you have cheated death or at least avoided some great danger…that smile.  The one that makes you feel fortunate and safe and kind of amazing inside all at once…yeah, that one.  Woot woot! - I had MADE it dammit, a nearly 3000 feet decent in the last five mile stretch!

I still had to cross Deep Creek to get to the designated camping area.  I humped my heavy pack onto my back once more for the attempt.  Like some kind of blistered, barefoot, bedraggled Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle I had to literally crawl across the stream’s slippery rocks all bent over, because my stupid knee didn't seem to want to support my own weight plus the burden I was schlepping.  “Where the heck was Nelson”, I wondered, stuck in the center of the fast-moving water as I seemingly could not move another inch.  One of the boys called out, “you need some help Mr?”  Without hesitation, I acknowledged that I indeed did and passed him my hiking boots and socks I had been also carrying.  He waded out to grab them from me as Nelson also finally appeared to assist me with the remainder of my fantastic journey of the last ten yards.  My gawd was I tired and sore!

This is the end of part two...(Next up...BIRDS)

Enjoying a Rising Son Along the Appalachian Trail - P1

"A son is a mirror to the face of his father; be always mindful of influence and behavior which may  forever be reflected." 

As you know if you've read any number of these blog entries; you get a mixed bag of content.  At times the subject is strictly about birds and bird-like information, and others it's hard to separate my musings from the story-line.  This latest entry is the wistful celebration of a fortunate Dad (who just happens to like birding).  I hope you find it entertaining as well as informative.

I've always tried hard to find ways to say, 'yes' to opportunity.  Surely not everything turns out the way it started in theory, but that's not a good excuse to not try something.  So it was with the plan.  Plan "A" was crafted carefully over the months after the initial "let's do it" was agreed upon.  My son Nelson and I decided to hike and camp the Great Smoky Mountains together in July of 2012.  We began with the idea some six-months prior, and I slowly filled in the missing pieces to make it happen.  He arranged his busy schedule to carve out a week of precious time and I did the same thing.  The trip began on the sixth of July in the early hours of that Friday morning.  We were to drive all the way to Pigeon Forge, TN and spend the night.  We'd head out of the highest point in Tennessee, Clingman's Dome the following morning as early as possible.  The trip was to take about four and a half days and cover over 45 miles.

After loading up the WPT with our backpacking gear, (mine was mostly borrowed) and some extra overnight clothing; we started the six hundred and sixty six mile drive.  The weather had been extra hot in the weeks prior; in the record-breaking ranges, and the day promised as much.  The compulsory stop for gasoline and a McDonald's steak, egg, and cheese bagel sandwich was also accounted for and executed.  I had previously "Googled" for directions to our overnight destination and had also printed them out.  Technology advances (such as Nelson's I-Phone) had practically made that process archaic if not quaint.  All one needs to do now is tap on the touch-screen of their handheld communication device of choice, and instantly (via GPS) your exact whereabouts are digitally displayed along your intended route.  Nelson, along with being a (almost 23 yr-old) recent undergraduate bearer of two music degrees; is also an accomplished passenger-navigator.  As a result, we had no problems with our directions to the southeastern edge of Tennessee.  Traveling around the traffic-challenged city of Chicago is however another matter for another blog.

Dumping the contents of my borrowed (exterior frame) Gregory backpack on the hotel bed; I sorted through the miscellaneous flotsam to determine just how to shave off a few of the over 45 pounds I had loaded into and onto the pack.  Now I'm not exactly in the greatest of physical condition, but I was fairly sure I could "handle" the weight, as it was (of course) strapped to my back.   However the more times I hefted it behind me, the less certain I was becoming of the poundage VS the distance(s) to be carried.  I also worried slightly about an unforeseen dislocation or nagging back strain.  Ultimately about a dozen instant meals were left behind as well as some extra "meal bars."  That shaved about four pounds off my total, but planning for a five-day hike meant extra gear was anticipated.  Confident we had what was necessary for the adventure, we walked down the steep driveway and across the six-lane, jam-packed in both directions, street to the Tony Roma's of Pigeon Forge for one last civilized dining experience (complete with beer, of course).

My oldest son Nelson is cool.  I know I am dating myself when I use that phrase, but that is just what he is.  He might disagree with me because he's pretty hard on himself at times in a perfectionist manner, but trust me; I know "cool" and he is it.  This is a kid who has been mostly on his own for the better part of five years since high school while getting his education.  He's experienced quite a slice of humanity in his short life.  He likes almost everybody and they like him after meeting him.  I am proud of his accomplishments in his chosen field of music (he primarily plays the saxophone) and I am impressed with his ability to smile in the face of adversity.  He has a clever sense of humor along with a positive outlook on life.  He tells me often that, "life is too short not to enjoy it."  Nelson is in great physical shape.  He runs as well as using his bike to get back and forth to work.  I knew he'd be just fine; it was me I was worried about...

The next day held several surprises on the way to the beginning of the trail-head we had chosen.  First, mother nature had decided to deliver an aggressive storm in the days prior to our arrival.  The area was littered with the remnants of downed trees and limbs.  Our drive to the Sugarlands Visitor Center was quite a bit longer than the 18 miles it was supposed to be.  We were preempted first by an horrific traffic accident in the small village of Sevierville on Wears Valley Rd. that (as we later discovered) had tragically claimed the lives of three family members killed in a head-on traffic accident.  While we waited in line on the narrow and twisting section of road, we met Curtis Clarke from Allstate Insurance (who was attempting an 8:00 appointment) and had the unique and unexpected opportunity to sample the original "Grandmother's Cathead Biscuits".  Nelson had volunteered to gather the tasty breakfast while Curtis and I stood watching the long line of cars and flashing emergency vehicles in the distance.  Nelson returned with a bag containing two small biscuit-sandwiches.  He explained that "Cathead" meant literally the SIZE (or as they say down here, "s'aahs") of the biscuit and how he chose differently when provided the facts. The biscuit sandwiches (bacon and cheese, and sausage) were nonetheless delicious. An hour had passed with no movement, so with the aid of his I-Phone, we eventually navigated a new (unorthodox) route past the lengthening line of stopped vehicles.

Unbeknownst to us, the only road from Cades Cove to Sugarlands was closed and blockaded against through-traffic due to multiple downed trees.  We arrived at the "T" intersection and proceeded left.  The flashing lights of the National Parks Service vehicles and arms-crossed  officials standing on the roadway told us the unfortunate truth. This caused us to have to backtrack our entire route all the way into Pigeon Forge.  The accident was still in place as the State Patrol performed their triage and diagnostics of the disaster, so around the detour we navigated once more; finally pulling into Sugarlands around 10:30.  So much for the early start we had tried to get.  I filled out a back-country permit with our preliminary destinations for each day.  This listed the exact day and campsite we expected to overnight in for the entire week.  We each visited the restrooms and the gift shop before getting back in the truck to drive the 23 additional miles up to Clingman's Dome.  Up, up, up we drove to just about the 6000 foot mark to the parking lot.  I unlocked the three Masterlock padlocks on the gate of the WPT and we each claimed our individual burdens of gear.

The blazing sun was shining brightly at this extreme altitude and the temperature topped 90 degrees as we mingled with the dozens and dozens of giddy families who had driven up and parked with a far different expectation in mind. Nelson shouldered his pack with youthful ease, and a typical Nelson (this is so cool) grin.  I grabbed mine and labored it to my back; shoving my arms clumsily through the twin straps.  The 42-pound block of stuff on my back whispered into my ear, "what a fool you are Devereaux...ha, ha, ha..." as I began to trundle up the unforgiving side of Mount Crumpet.   But first, we needed to fill our water bottles...but how?

(This is the end of part one...)