the highest point on the trail

As I walked past the shelter that I left hours before, I mentally hit “reset” and tried to start my day over. The weather was improving and the sun was trying to come out. Today’s hike plan was pretty ambitious (even before my detour), taking me over the top of Clingman’s Dome, the highest point in the Smokies and highest on the entire trail itself. I have been excited for this day since I first began planning to hike the AT. Clingman’s Dome has an elevation of 6,643. Only Mount Mitchell (6,684) and Mount Craig (6,647) stand taller anywhere east of the Mississippi. What makes this peak even more impressive is that, despite being amid the mountains of the Smokies, it rises 5,000 of those feet from base to summit. So, it’s quite a climb. It is a beautiful one though, most notably because you pass through the magnificent spruce fir forest that covers the mountain making this part of the trail seem dark and haunting.

I made this chart myself (note: I did not make this chart myself)

I had a short downhill followed by almost 10 miles of climbing to reach the summit of Clingman. With this sort of elevation I had seen in the Smokies, averaging about two miles an hour was about all I could manage…and this was going to be a pretty steep mountain. It was already noon, so I estimated I would be at the top of Clingman by 6pm. My hike plan had me staying at Icewater Shelter another 12 miles past Clingman, so a minimum of another 6 hours. I knew was not likely to make it…unless I could climb Clingman at practically a run. My boyfriend had decided to come meet me on the trail and hike a couple of days with me when I reached Hot Springs, so my hike plan wasn’t really flexible. I was desperate for his company and didn’t want to miss that meeting point. So, I began to jog. No joke – with 45 pounds on my back, I began to run (well, it was more of a weird shuffle, the kind you do at the airport when you are pulling your bags behind you and trying to run while also trying to look like you have it all under control).

I came upon Bluebird and her crew shortly beyond the previous night’s shelter. It was early afternoon and they had traveled a grand total of maybe two miles. I slowed as I came up behind each of them, waiting for the opportunity to pass. They were shocked to see me, to say the least. I had been gone for hours and they were asleep so they were unaware of my wrong turn. I said hello to each of them and quickly explained my mix up. I wished them a good day and moved along. I didn’t have the luxury of time and they were out of sight pretty quickly given my pace. The thought crossed my mind again – no matter how hard today is for me, it’s harder for them. I pressed on.

I allowed myself a couple of photo ops in the eerie fir forest – seriously, you expect to see Little Red Riding Hood around the next corner, it’s such a strange feeling – but for the most part, I hustled. My boyfriend started pinging me with alternative hike plans. “You could make it to Mt Collins Shelter for the night and do an extra five miles over the next two day to make it up.” He knew what I hadn’t yet accepted…making it to Icewater Shelter would be impossible. As I ran up the side of Clingman’s Dome, the storms began to move back in. I sensed the change in the light, though it was hard to tell in the fir forest, it was so dark anyway. I refused to consider another storm. 

I emerged from the forest onto the upper peaks of the mountain, it was hard to deny. The cloud blanketed mountaintops and the temperature dropped suddenly, making my shorts and tank top look like ridiculous choices.

The other fact that I was struggling to ignore at this point was my pace. I was dripping with sweat, panting like I was sprinting…and yet I was crawling. I had failed to really spend time looking at this climb on my map – today had been such a mess and I was rushing. It was so much harder and longer than I had imagined. I kept thinking I must be near the top, and I kept being wrong. This phenomenon is exhausting – being so maxed out and pushing yourself by thinking “this must be almost over, I can go a little further,” only to realize, time and time and time again, it’s not. When do you give in and slow down? I literally felt my mood darken. My breathing turned into bursts of crying. At this altitude and with no breath in my lungs, my cries were ugly and ragged, my face was red and my eyes swollen from the combined pressure of my efforts and my sobs. I wasn’t going to make it, this much was obvious. I came around the corner to see a small boy with his dad, hiking along the trail. I pulled myself together so as not to ruin their nice afternoon with thoughts of “what the fuck was wrong with her?” and said hello. This was a good sign…how far could that small child hike? I must be near the top.

I was not.

It took me another hour of hard hiking to reach the top of Clingman. I had been robbed of the view I had been dreaming of – the storm encompassed the mountain and limited my view to the six feet ahead of me. 

Observation tower at the summit of Clingman's Dome. It's a constant reminder that you aren't at the top. Ever.

Anger, frustration and a bit of panic built inside me. It was late and I was miles from even the nearest shelter (my original hike plan now seemed just comical). I had to make it at least five miles down the side of this mountain in the rain to make it to a shelter. The storm intensified as I made my way down the treacherous slopes, relying completely on my poles (seriously people, poles are amazing). I would have slid right off that mountain if it weren’t for those damn poles. Love them.

I paused just long enough to pull out my map and quickly set my sights on Mt Collins Shelter. This shelter was not one I would ever choose under normal circumstances. It was actually not on the AT, it was on a cross trail, which meant I would have to find this cross trail and then follow it about half a mile (probably 20 minutes of hiking) to the shelter. It also meant that it would draw a crowd…AT hikers combined with anyone hiking the cross trail. I didn’t have choices. It was raining so hard that pitching my tent at a campsite sounded miserable and there wasn’t even a campsite nearby. I set my sights on making it there as quickly as possible.

Realized I hadn't taken any selfies in awhile. Mostly because I look like this.

I found the cross trail and then found the shelter easily enough. I was soaked to the bone…again. I made my way into the shelter and quickly surveyed the scene. It was packed. The sleeping platforms were full, packs were hanging everywhere, people were uncomfortably close as they tried to go about the process of drying out, making dinner, getting some rest…which were our common goals. My eyes locked in on a familiar face…Ayub! A flash of recognition crossed over his face and then, a big smile. “You made it!! I can’t believe it!” He scooted his stuff over making room for me. I noted the daggar at his side and felt strangly comforted in just the familiarity of someone I had only known for a day. That is how it was out here when you are alone, the smallest connection feels comforting in the face of so much struggle and sometimes meant the difference between a dry shelter spot or a wet, muddy night in the tent.

Tough to get a pic because it was so wet, but here is what the shelter looked like. Stuff everywhere.

I always avoided sleeping in shelters because I hated the thought of being so close to other people, now I was carving a space for myself that literally left my bag slightly overlapping with Ayub on one side and some kid on the other. It was like taking yoga in Manhattan on a rainy day. Arms and legs touching…GROSS. I swallowed hard and looked out at my alternative, pouring rain and SO MUCH MUD, then climbed up onto the platform and rolled out my bag. Miserable – that is the only word I can think of when I reflect on how I felt in the moment. Miserable in a way that made me regret the use of the word at any previous point in my life because until now, I truly hadn’t known misery.

After claiming my spot I went about the business of making dinner and getting my stuff sorted. Everything was wet and mud-covered. There would be no fire tonight. The forest was saturated and could hold no more rain. Nothing would dry out here, so I pulled my shoes and socks off and hung them on one of the 700 ropes strung about the shelter. It looked like the scene from Entrapment where Catherine Zeta Jones tries to maneuver her way through the laser beams. As typically happens, “shelter personalities” begin to emerge. This shelter had lots of them…most notably was “the kid.”

Most people at the shelter were keeping to themselves or their groups. There were a few “couples” and then your usual groups of 3-4 guys out on a hiking trip, your “old dudes” who are section hiking the AT and then your young guys who are out on break from school or are looking for ways to not have a job and are hiking the AT seemingly because it doesn’t cost anything…oh, and then there is me and who knows what the other hikers make of me. I have seen a small uptick in solo females since the whole “Wild” thing, but oddly I haven’t seen many on this trip. The Kid stood out because he was injecting himself into various groups…jumping in on their conversations, trying to be funny…trying REALLY hard. One group of men sat discussing hitching into town. “Don’t bother,” The Kid says, “there is an outlet mall on the trail two miles from here.” The men, older and not really catching the sarcasm, looked at him sideways. “Yeah, Premium Outlets, think there is a GAP outlet and maybe a William-Sonoma.” The men laughed awkwardly and then lowered their voices to continue their conversation. The Kid then loudly announced to the entire shelter, “Hey! Anyone want to stop at the McDonald’s with me tomorrow? The trail crosses a road and there is a McDonald’s right there.” One guy bites, “really?” “Yeah,” The Kid continues, “think there is a Holiday Inn too.” He tried to keep this going a bit longer but people lost interest in him. After a few other attempts to engage were completely ignored, he quieted.

Ayub, it turns out, did see me leave the shelter that morning and knew I was heading the wrong direction. “Why didn’t you stop me?” I asked him, slightly annoyed even though I knew I was not his responsibility. Apparently he tried…everyone did. They shouted at me and tried to follow me a bit once they could get their shoes on, but I was “in the zone” and gone before they could reach me. “So, today was a 28 mile day for you,” he said and that was all The Kid needed to hear.

“So, you can go over 25 miles in a day?” The Kid asked me. “Sometimes,” I responded, being careful to not elaborate in any way, knowing he was all too eager to chat. “I’m a thru hiker,” he said, “so I have to do that kind of mileage all the time.” Really? Hmmm, well let’s review our calendar, shall we? Through hikers came through this area in March or April…the northern end of the trail closes to hikers in October. It’s June and you have covered 200 miles of a 2,200 trail. Yeah, you are NOT a thru-hiker. “What time are you leaving in the morning?” he asked as I was looking at my map and recalculating my plan. “Early,” I replied, “like at 4am.” “Good,” he said, “wake me up, would ya?” I told him I would – I knew I would not. We all settled into our bags to read or write or sleep and the shelter quieted for the night. It was about 9:30pm.

At about 9:31pm, all hell broke lose.

Two guys burst into the shelter from the rain. They tossed their wet packs down and looked around at the crowded sleeping platforms. “Some of you fuckers are going to have to get out. We have five people and we have a reservation.” No one spoke. I had never seen any sort of aggressive behavior out on the trail. Quite the opposite, I had maybe seen too much passive behavior – as the trail is popular among the “stoner” crowd. I was shocked, and based on the lack of reaction, I was not alone. He said it again, “I said, some of you fuckers need to get the fuck out.” Silence. The rest of his group arrived and they quickly huddled to discuss their options. The five of them discarded their gear around the shelter with total disregard for anyone else’s gear. This was such odd behavior. Hikers, from my experience, are pretty respectful and pretty good at keeping their mess to a minimum and not impacting anyone else with it. I sat quietly on the platform. In my normal life, I would probably have had a lot to say, but out here – I was the only female by herself and I actually didn’t have a reservation (note: in the Smokies, you are supposed to get a permit [which I did do] and register a hike plan and reserve a spot at each shelter you plan to stay in [which I did not do, because a) I didn’t plan to stay IN shelters and b) I wasn’t sure how far I would make it each day. I find that process truly ridiculous]).

The third reason I kept my mouth shut was because I knew I had a tent in my pack. Many hikers travel without one now to save weight…so they have to stay in shelters. These guys definitely didn’t have tents. So, if push came to shove (literally), I was probably a likely candidate to lose my spot. Now, I had no problem lying about having a reservation – or more bluffing – but I really wasn’t sure what they had that showed they reserved a spot. Did they get some confirmation number? I looked around at the crowd in the shelter and I really doubted many of them had reserved this spot.

Snuck a pic of a couple of The Rowdies

The Rowdies started to make themselves at home – pulling out their food (sandwiches and beer WTF??) and talking about their day. So, here is the scoop on The Rowdies…they were camping, not hiking. They had simply set out for this shelter to use it for camping. They were not expecting a rainstorm. They were kids, young and full of immature aggression. They had no idea what the AT was or why anyone would spend day after day trying to hike it. So, as they finished dinner and started looking around the shelter again, one said “looks like we about to hafta do what we do best,” and I instantly thought of Ayub and his daggar and the shit he had probably seen.

I spoke up.

“Look, do you guys have a tarp?” “Yeah,” one of them replied. “Ok, put the tarp on the ground and just put your bags on top of it. You’ll be dry.” They looked at me, considering the suggestion, and I added, “we aren’t supposed to let you do it – but we will tonight. We don’t want anyone out in this.” And just like that, they did exactly as I suggested. I don’t want to say I am the Henry Kissinger of the AT…but I kind of was in that moment. No knife fights, no more yelling or posturing, no hippies fleeing into the rainy night. The shelter returned to its peaceful state and the snoring began.

I can’t say I was enjoying this hike much. I kept asking myself what I was getting out of this. I hadn’t anticipated this much rain or my feet being constantly wet. I am not kidding, my socks and shoes smelled like rot. I hadn’t been able to rinse off in a stream or dry out at all. Everything I had, even what I had managed to keep dry, was damp. I spent most of the days with my hands and feet pruned, teetering between sweating profusely and freezing. It had been days since I put dry sock and shoes on in the morning. My knees, from the day’s efforts, were swollen and looked like grapefruits. And then there was the mental side of it all. I was bored. I felt I had explored every relationship, every habit, every fear or weakness and I had reached a point where reflection wasn’t doing much for me. I needed to live and engage and be with the people who mattered. Why was I out here all alone? Why did I feel I needed to suffer? What was my goal? Again, miserable is about all I can say. I hate being so negative and I am sure I was gaining some strength through all of this, but when I hunkered down into my bag that night – I was only miserable.

northbound?

I left the shelter with gusto – my Aleve kicked in after about 15 minutes of hiking. My joints and muscles loosened and I began what was to be a 25-mile day for me. My tracker connected as I walked and messages from home began rolling in. It was clear that a certain man in my life was frustrated by my lack of communication. His protective nature wasn’t jiving with this lack of connectivity or his girlfriend’s crazy whims. I turned on my phone and checked – I had 2 bars! This was unheard of…I quickly dialed his number. Voicmail. I left a message (which he saved and plays for me every time I consider another solo hike) that started with a simple “hi, I miss you...” and quickly deteriorated into unintelligible sobs. It actually pains ME to listen to this message, so I can only imagine what it did to him. I cried for missing home, missing him, missing my girls. I cried for the dampness of my feet. I cried for being so cold, for being so lonely and so bored. I hung up and took a deep breath, and then for the next three hours I put one foot in front of the other. Nothing more.

Misty and foggy morning on the trail

Storm looming, and I smell pretty bad too.

As I walked, I couldn’t shake this strange feeling – was I going the right way? I replayed the morning in my mind…leaving the shelter, what I had passed. I think it’s right. I mean, someone at the shelter would have noticed that I was heading out the wrong way…rigtht?

I eyeballed every tree, every bush and rock – had I seen that one before? It all looked new and different, and it all looked exactly the fucking same. I would pass a rock and think, “oh, I would remember that rock if I had seen it before. This must be the right way,” but the feeling wouldn’t go away. It started to rain. Of course it did. As I stepped across the summit of a mountain, I looked down and noticed the marker embedded in the ground right at the summit’s peak. I had passed over dozens of these markers, never stopping to look at one. This one caught my eye and I stopped to take a photo of it. As I did, I noticed the elevation was listed on the marker…5,527 feet. I took out my map – soggy and damp - and delicately opened it. Oh, the elevations were listed here too. Cool, I hadn’t really thought to look at that before. I scanned my day’s course for a peak that matched the 5,527 on the marker. Nothing. Hmmm, I unfolded the map further to review the previous day’s course…my stomach already tightening in preparation. And there it was, Thunderhead Mountain at exactly 5,527 feet above sea level.

bitches!

I came to a dead stop. I was: Stunned? Defeated? Weirdly still hopeful? This was denial at it’s best and brings to light one of the “dangers” or at least irritations of solo hiking. There is NO ONE to bounce an idea off of. “Hey, do you think we might be going the wrong way? Do you think it’s possible that we have spent the last 3 hours hiking through the rain in the wrong direction? Could it be? Because I am looking here at these elevations and they match up. And if we are…will you kindly prevent me from throwing myself off this mountain?”

No. There is none of that. And so, what happens is that you have this debate inside your lonely, sad, cold, wet, foggy, isolated brain and you ultimately argue with yourself until yourself wins the debate. If you are me, then that means YOU ACTUALLY KEEP GOING THE WRONG DIRECTION IN THE FACE OF ABSOLUTE INDISPUTABLE FACTS. That’s “hope” people…some powerful shit.

I pulled out my tracker and sent a desperate message to my boyfriend – “Am I, by chance, going the wrong direction?” I walked on and saw a bandana in the trail, dropped by some passing hiker. My mind flashed instantly to Bluebird’s water bottle, wrapped in a similar bandana. CLUE! And yet, I hiked on…I mean, I slowed down…but I kept going. I just kept replaying leaving the shelter that morning. I replayed arriving the night before. Which way had I turned?? There is a saying among hikers who have faced this exact dilemma, “Right in, right out,” meaning if you turn right to enter the shelter, you turn right when you exit it the next morning. I had done that, hadn’t I? This was maddening! And then, as I rounded the next corner, I saw the sign. I didn’t have to read it to know what it said, because I had, in fact, passed it the day before. “Derrick Knob Shelter…6 miles” and an arrow pointing in the direction I had just come. I had just hiked 3 hours going the wrong way (I realize you were already there, but this was news to me).

What happened next was a surprise even to me – I didn’t fall apart. I didn’t even hesitate. I simply stopped, did a 180, and walked on. I don’t know if I was just numb to the curse of the Smokies by now or if this was one of those moments where you just pull your shit together and do what you have to do. I didn’t even allow myself a moment of resentment for the hours and miles lost on a day that was already to be a long day. I simply kept walking because what else could I do? I smiled as the rainstorm I had walked through began to shower my face again. My spirits lifted as I accepted the situation and just marched onward. My tracker pinged with a message from my boyfriend. It read, “ Yes!!! Turn around!!!” followed by, “So sorry! I know this will kill u but be strong and push through honey!”

Remember I said this might be a love story? I might just learn something about love while alone in the woods? So, this was one of those lessons. To have someone cheer you on while they are hundreds of miles away, dry, warm, and presumably well-fed is a pretty special thing. Having that person be an enthusiastic partner while you prepare, helping you make this all happen (I will write later about the logistical madness behind doing a hike like this – the spreadsheets, oh the spreadsheets!) and supporting you in this idiotic idea is a pretty special thing. But knowing they are doing all this while at the same time wishing you wouldn’t, to me, that is selfless. There is a magic little spot between “you sound miserable, quit now” and “this was your idea, so deal with it” – and when I read the messages exchanged while I was out on the trail, I see how this man’s love sits right in that spot. “I know you can do it. Thinking of you. I know you’re struggling. You’ve got this – but if you don’t, call me.”

It seems simple now, but I can never explain the internal struggle you can experience out there. Not wanting to let anyone down, not wanting to let yourself down. If you give up and leave the trail, it will haunt you. I know this from experience and from others who have done it. One minutes I am weeping and calling home, begging someone to support my decision to quit…the next I am on top of the world and feel like I can do anything. Surfing that wave remotely when the only communication you have comes from intermittent messages from a GPS tracking device is trying even if you are dealing with an emotionally stable hiker – which I am not.

(To understand how these messages come across, get out your flip phone from 2002 and have a go at a meaningful text conversation, preferably somewhere that has only occasional coverage. It’s even better when the timing of the messages gets out of whack and they get out of order. I mean, can you even imagine being on the receiving end of these?!)

Having someone who understood that I wanted and needed to push myself, even when it was really, truly awful – but who would literally drive through the night to pick me up if I needed it – well, it was honestly the thought that I went to sleep with at night.

And so, I headed back to where I started my day. In the end, I spent 6 hours of hiking to gain zero miles. As I passed the shelter where I started my day, now vacant, my spirits lifted. It was noon and I began my day’s hike (with a good warm-up) toward Clingman’s Dome. If I made it to my goal shelter for the night, it would be a 32-mile day through the mountains. I picked up my pace and hiked on.

I had gone in left, then out right. Classic.

it's all about timing...

I woke up the next morning groggy and grumpy. My phone and tracker weren’t connecting and I had been out of contact with home for too long. I was stiff and sore and I was about to put my still soaked socks and shoes back on. The morning was dry but the skies threatened (promised?) rain and I knew from other hikers that the forecast called for rain for the next 4 days. Muddy water seeped from my shoelaces as I tied them. I tried to feel hopeful but it was clear that, soon enough, it wouldn’t even matter. It was going to be another soggy day on the trail. I thought about Bluebird and her family, still sound asleep in their blankets (yes, blankets) and some sick part of me was momentarily comforted by knowing that no matter how bad it got for me…it was worse for them.

The Smoky Mountains are a lesson in timing. Most people probably think they will learn all about perseverance…but that isn’t what I learned. In the Smokies, you can give up all day long. I quit a dozen times a day – once an hour. It didn’t matter, because there is only one way out and for someone like Bluebird and her family, that ‘way’ could take four days to reach. Even for someone who is moving pretty quickly, it’s at least a day or two – so you can quit all you like as long as the timing is right. As long as things look brighter as you pass over Interstate 441…the single road you cross in the eighty miles of this mountain range.

And whether strategic or coincidence…the place where 441 cuts through the mountains is the kindest and gentlest and most beautiful of all the trail. Along this section, the birds sing, the sun shines and the clouds settle into the creases between the peaks in a way that resembles the ocean surf hugging the rocks. Along this section, the sun is always rising…or setting…and tranquility washes over you. The sounds of the cars and trucks, the people and their hectic, rushing lives, seems harsh and aggressive set against this backdrop.

So, this is how the Smokies really mind fuck you (sorry Grandma)…mark my words. You will stroll across 441 thinking all is well in the world, your luck is looking up, your legs, back and shoulders are acclimating, you’re more attractive, thinner and more financially stable. Seriously, I need to research whether opiates grow in the area. But I promise you, you will cruise right on through despite having just been weeping openly and praying that a bear would just come along and eat you and end your misery. You will CHOOSE to continue…of your own free will…and once 441 is in the distance and you can no longer hear the tractor trailers huffing and puffing their way through the pass, the Smokies will pull off their mask and reveal their true power. They will unleash their furry and you will have to suffer every single step knowing it’s your own damn fault.

I realize this was a dark post...it's not all doom and gloom, I promise. Here are some scenes from the Smoky Mountains. Hope you don't mind a zillion selfies…