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)

Mosquito Hill Nature Center

Huh...and I never saw a single one...

Two miles east of New London, WI off County Hwy S lies the Mosquito Hill Nature Center. I used to see the signs from the old route that Hwy 45 took around New London many years ago. Frankly, I had all but forgotten about it. The day after the Blue Jay reunion, I was driving homeward, taking my time on a nice Green Bay Packerless Sunday, when while looking for what I thought was called something like the Kalwitz Marsh along the Wolf River, I came upon the signs once again. I drove the short distance to the nature center and was instantly rewarded by a splendid view of fall colors on the adjacent hillside next to the parking lot. I strapped on the birding gear and headed towards the buildings just off the lot when a series of signs caught my eye. One in particular; the largest, said that this area not only had trails, but an honest to goodness "birding" trail. I was instantly intrigued and stoked.

Doubling back after reading the large sign, I cherry-picked several birding related brochures from a handy weather-resistant informative smorgasbord of leaflets, maps, newsletters and cards. I was impressed with the ability to gather so much information about this new place, without needing to go into a building to ask questions; forget the fact that it was a Sunday and no one would likely be stationed here anyway. The Lexan-protected birding trail map I studied seemed to indicate that the birding trail I sought was clearly marked with large silhouettes of a Northern cardinal posted periodically along the designated trail. Easy, I thought; just watch the birdie and you can't miss. Except it wasn't that easy after all. The trail did however provide nifty interpretive signage about actual birds that could be seen along the route, but reading them would have been a tiny bit easier had they not been at munchkin height. So, no large east to follow cardinals on posts, and low signage...other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?

The area around the "hill" was alive with color. The burnt oranges and brownish reds of the Sugar maples, lemon yellows of the poplars, and the scarlet Sumac leaves mixed with the dark of the evergreens lifted the spirits on this cold and breezy afternoon. The bucolic twists of the Wolf River with its shimmering lazy flowing water, served as icing on this cake of stunning natural beauty. I paused on the ingeniously self-adjusting wooden dock like structures that hung into the stream way to watch both an Eastern Phoebe and Swainson's Thrush, while the leaf litter virtually pop-corned with the hoppings of barely visible Tree sparrows. I was half expecting that at each sign along the way that described yet another bird that could be seen on Mosquito Hill; a perfectly placed representative (matching) species would be plainly on display for all to check off their handy list. No such luck. I guess someone must have seen something similar at one time in the past in that clearing, or near that pine and decided the corresponding sign should be pounded into the ground right there. That was okay by me I decided, and set off deep into the woods to see just how steep the "hill" actually was.

Yellow-rumped warblers and Golden-crowned kinglets were by far the most prolific species on the hillside that day. The woods was ringing with their buzzing and chirping sounds, as each one seemed to try and be recognized individually. Woodpeckers, Blue Jays, chickadees and nuthatches also made their presence known as they flitted in and out of the high branches. A lone Eastern Bluebird sat on one of the many houses that dotted the clearings, holding onto the last rays of warming sunshine. No other humans had ventured out to my section of the 430 acre parcel. Jack-o-lanterns lined the pathways, looking as if the night before they had been alight in spooky splendor for some sort of celebration of the season. Only once as I neared the amazing 1500 square foot Butterfly house, did I see a small family unit out for a walk. The butterflies already all put away somewhere for the fall, would have nearly frozen in the 38 degree air. The shadows began to get longer and longer so I wound my way back towards the parking lot. I figured that the interpretive center must have been open, as the hours on the brochure said as much, but I did not venture in. Instead, I had spent the past two lovely hours walking the grounds, looking for birds in this wonderful hidden oasis before finally climbing back into the WPT heading once more for Milwaukee and the real world. Yep...no mosquitoes today.

Don't you just love days like that?

PS: I never did find that ol' marsh...hmmmpf...maybe next time.