It’s not just walking
With all due respect to the honorable Lone Wolf, it’s not just walking.
This is my story of a very short AT attempt. This will bring out the haters and elitists in droves and should generate some sordidly entertaining comments and responses. The gentle people here will wonder why I put myself out there for such a beating. The answer; in spite of what sounds like a terrible misadventure, this was a GREAT experience for me, I loved every moment, and I am hopelessly hooked now on the AT and I will be back.
I have no lessons to teach, yet some may get some ideas or information from any discussion this generates. The story will show how clueless and unprepared a person can start hiking on the AT.
In 2006, I sustained an injury to my foot that almost led to the loss of my lower leg. During the long convalescence and related illnesses, I gained over 50 pounds of weight and lost any semblance of physical fitness. As I struggled to walk again, I became interested in the AT and discovered White Blaze which fueled my interest and provided much information.
Being born and raised in central Florida, I have only hiked in this flat, tropical environment. I was worried about what happens to water below 32 degrees.
I started buying equipment and walking with it, hiking local loop trails. I got to where I could carry 40 pounds 8 to 12 miles on a regular basis. I was ready to go!
My brother drove me to Amicalola Falls, counseling me that I was going to die. At the top of the falls I got out of the car and was struck with how icy cold the wind was at 40 degrees. It was drizzling rain. We shook hands at the top of the falls and I started walking up the approach trail. One hundred feet later, I turned around and was glad he had driven off because I was completely winded. First observation, walking uphill is very different than walking on flat ground. I crossed a small stream and started up the first real grade. I was so winded I thought by lungs were going to explode. I stepped off the path to let some young people pass. One asked if I was OK. I wasn’t. I nodded big and waved them to continue, unable to speak while wheezing violently. One looked back at me a couple of times with a look of concern, I thought, “what a nice young man”.
With a determination that I do possess, I powered on. On a positive note, my muscles did not hurt or feel weak and my feet did not show any tendency to develop hot spots.
On the summit of Frosty Mountain, I realized that the inside of my raingear was much wetter than the outside. I took off my raingear to discover that my clothes were drenched. For the next couple of hours of hiking, they dried well in the misty drizzle.
At 3 o’clock, I made it to Black Gap Shelter. Even though I was winded on the inclines every 20 to 50 feet, I felt good and it was too early for me to stop. The summit of Springer Mountain was less than 2 miles away. I started my start-stop climb out of the Gap and before reaching the next ridge, climbed into the clouds, a first for me. As I reached the top of the ridge, I saw a dim flash and wondered if I was pushing too hard. Then I heard a not too distant rumble. I thought, “This ridge is not where I want to be”.
I headed up the ridge toward Springer with purpose when rain descended upon me with heavy large drops and pea sized hail. It rained so hard that the world mostly disappeared and I stopped, standing in the trail wondering how bad it could get.
Suddenly, the world lit up with a flashbulb blue light, and an intense, stabbing pain shot into my left foot. It hurt so bad that I cried out, but by the time I did, the pain and light was gone. I stood blinking as all I could see was blue dots. I smelt a smell of burning lint or maybe hair. As my vision cleared, I began to realize I had just been hit by lightening, not directly or I would be dead, but close enough to get zapped. I tried to look my boot over and couldn’t see any damage. There was no pain and as the rain was still intense, I took a step and then started walking. Another bright flash and close boom of thunder caused me to jump, I was a believer now. In just moments, another followed and I realized I couldn’t continue. The temperature was dropping fast and I knew this had hypothermia written all over it.
I stepped off the trail between two trees and in as hard a rain as I’ve ever seen, broke open my pack and started setting up camp. Up went the tarp, then the hammock. I rigged the quilts, then crouched under the tarp, I stripped off my soaked clothes and struggled into my merino wool bottom and top. I was shivering as I crawled into the hammock and warmth of the down quilts. The storm raged. About ten thirty that night, the rain turned to snow. At five thirty in the morning, my thermometer was reading 23 degrees, the coldest I’ve ever been out in.
I next awoke at eight o’clock in the morning. The wind sounded like freight trains coming through the woods. Snow had blown under the tarp and I could not see the ground or anything I’d left laying there. My breath had turned to frost on the mosquito net. I lay there thinking. I was cold but comfortable. I knew I couldn’t stay on that exposed ridge. I formulated a plan. I would break camp, summit Springer, and descend back to the warm world of below. Set up camp. Rig clothes lines and dry all my stuff so that I would be back like I was when I started.
I put on my dry clothes, brushed the snow out of my frozen boots and struggled to get my feet into the solid blocks. Out of the tarp it was still snowing and the world was amazing! Breaking camp was easy but packing was not. Everything was frozen in a solid block in whatever shape it landed.
By the time I got the pack on, I was numb with cold. I pushed up the face of Springer to the top where the wind was really howling. I managed to get a picture of my poles leaning against the plaque but my fingers were to cold to try to sign the register. I needed to get off that mountain and so I headed down the Appalachian Trail as fast as I could on the snowy icy trail.
At the parking lot, the temperature was 29 degrees, some hikers told me that it was going to get colder than last night, and I realized that I was not going to be able thaw or dry my stuff, and that it might not be safe for me to try another night with my equipment covered in ice and snow. I got the number of Ron Brown who braved the icy, steep, narrow road to rescue me and drop me at a motel in Ellijay where I could thaw out, dry out, and put my gear back trail ready. I was not in the least daunted by my disastrous beginning. How much worse could it get? I had been struck by lightening, got everything wet in a thunderstorm on a ridge, and survived a snowstorm. Not bad for a Florida boy on his first outing.
Three days later, Ron dropped me back off at the Springer Mountain parking lot on forest road 42. What a different world. The ice and snow was gone. My gear was dry and properly packed. I was so glad to be back on the trail that I could just sing.
The next three miles were down hill. I made smoking good time and stopped for a quick ten minute break at Stover Creek Shelter. By the time I got to the bottom at Three Forks, I was feeling a new, unusual pain along the forward insides of my ankles, but it wasn’t bad and as I started uphill, it seemed less and wasn’t a problem. The uphills were still winding me completely, but I now knew that I could power through that. I was quite proud of myself as I was able to make Hawk Mountain Shelter at three o’clock which I felt was very respectable time. That pain was concerning me though as I descended down the blue blaze to the shelter.
What a magical afternoon and night spent with fellow hikers. I was very happy with my equipment and overall setup, though I was looking forward to be able to tweek some things at Neil’s Gap.
The next morning, after a great breakfast of oatmeal and hot coffee, I broke camp and headed out with Gooch Gap in my sights. Knowing another storm front was coming through the next day, I was determined to be set up and enjoy as zero there and just bask in the pleasure of the trail that I was enjoying.
Coming down Hawk Mountain, I knew I was in trouble. That pain was steadily increasing all the way down. Climbing out of Hightower Gap, the pain just kept getting worse, adding to the winding of the climbs. By the time I topped out on the first summit, my pace was down to an unproductive shuffle and constant grimace.
Standing on the ridge with the amazing vistas, soaking up the beauty of the trail, I began coming to terms with the crushing realization that I was not going to make it. I was not going to get to Gooch Gap. I was not capable of climbing Sassafras Mountain. I couldn’t even make it to the next water source. Tears ran down my face as I reached out, wanting to grasp any solution to figure out how to continue the trail.
The next two hours were agonizing as I made my way at a snails pace down into Horse Gap, wondering what I needed to do.
The unexplainable magic of the Appalachian Trail is a constant tale of lore. I certainly cannot explain what happened as I stripped my pack and plopped down on the ground, having finally made it down to Horse Gap, at the foot of Sassafras, knowing that I could go no further. There was a silver car sitting there looking out of place. Shortly, a nice looking friendly young man came walking down the trail with no pack. He started asking me questions and seemed very interested in my story. At length, Scott told me that the nearest bus station was in Gainesville Georgia and that he lived in Beaufort, just south of it. He would be ready to leave as soon as he put out the trail magic that he was actually there to deliver and would be glad to give me a ride. Yes, the silver car was his.
My Appalachian Trail adventure is over for this season, but I am hopelessly hooked. Though short, painful, and trying, it was more than I had even fantasized. Everything about the trail experience exceeded my hopes and expectations. I’m back home yearning for more. I will heal. I’m going to take up running to build my wind. I’m going to find some stairs to build the tendons that have never been stressed in that particular way. I will make some changes to clothing, gear, and techniques. I will try again and again. The Appalachian Trail has not seen the last of me!