TRAIL DAY 52
Tue, Apr 12, 2016 Dear God, another day on the trail – in words. How I do miss the simplicity of boots through the leaves finding north through the woods.
Was it the night before (a year ago) that I dried out my tent on the table outside the shed at Greasy Creek Hostel? Was it then that I got water down at the stream and heard the dogs at the camp site on the other side barking and was glad they were over there?
I’d had supper around a crowded table that night. I think it was then that I met “Feral” in his 60s, later to pair up with “Pop-Tart” of similar age. We became friends of the Happy vintage and would “cross paths” quite frequently.
Happy was sad – and we for him. His father had taken ill and he was going to abandon his hike to go home and tend to him. Connie would take him into town for sure. I would not see Happy again and I feel that sadness now.
Theo and I began the (0.6W) and made our way up the rutty, stony road back to the trail. On the way down there was a road or path which we barely noticed forking back to our right. On the return trek, we hesitated here not sure which way to go. As I write, I remember short green streamers tied to branches intending to mark our way to the hostel. Undoubtedly, a zesty quirk of Connie was responsible. Since they were not official, standard or described anywhere, where they led was uncertain. It was the nature of the terrain and the rise that beckoned us to the right.
It all comes back in the writing as if words were little shovels mining fertile memory for dormant seeds needing only to be turned to blossom into recall.
I can see the trail in more and more detail as my words dig with assistance from pictures. There was a long stretch just after the fork across terrain of stones turned in rutted rivulets. Then came a turn to the right up a fairly steep bank followed by a short left and then a climbing curve around to the right onto a straight away back to the trail.
At the intersection there was a tent set up. Someone stopped right there for the night – a neat thing to be able to do on the trail. Home was wherever you wanted it to be. I made a mental note of my fellow hiker and turned northward without disturbing anyone’s sleep.
We headed into the wet, foggy woods and began our climb from 4000′ to 6,286′, the summit of Roan Mountain. We had seen the rain-soaked monolith the night before and the trail of mountains leading up to it. We were now in those woods like a prisoner set free.
Something there is about civilization that is not unlike confinement. Social graces and norms take over – they’re just a part of you – they are learned and demanding. In the woods, Mother Nature chastens you with no time whatever for psychology or complex arguments. What she says goes. It’s quite simple, really, and freeing. Her world and our world are entirely different. Being alone with her is so other – away, lonely, hard, challenging, regenerating, good, appreciated in the having done as much as in the doing – in some ways, even more.
Roan Mountain was up ahead, just 3′ lower than Washington. It would be a long day in rain and fog – but a good day.
Somewhere before I had met “Wonder” who hiked with Portugese. I came upon them on the ascent and hiked with them for quite a while. Portugese was always in the lead, as I’d seen earlier, and Wonder, with yellow-orange tabs on the back of his boots, was next. Theo and I took up the rear. I just followed the tabs.
Portuguese was rigid in his hiking methods. Go for one hour without a break and then, pack off, rest for 10 minutes. Wonder obliged. There had been some long climbs weeks before when these two were a good bit ahead of me and then came their 10-minute rest. I’d been feeling strong so I just greeted them at the side of the trail and kept going. The same happened on Roan but then I tuckered out and they passed me by.
Ten-Degrees, Badger and Powder came up behind me on Roan. It was our first reunion since Hiker Hostel in Georgia. We gathered like enemy sailors adrift on a still and mist-shrouded ocean as if hushed whispers were critical to survival. Such was the feel of the mysterious, fogged-in mountain woods.
It was good to see them. I was learning that Ten-Degree was just a regular Joe who knew what he was doing and was sharing his experience with his boys who seemed more than ready to be a part of the adventure.
Unfortunately, Badger was having a rough time of it. He was experiencing some serious pain in one of his feet, like a separation of muscle from bone. Ten-Degree thought he knew what it was including its threat to continuing.
Nonetheless, they took off ahead of me and maintained a pace I couldn’t match. I would see them at the shelter.
Summiting Roan is reminding me of summiting Stratton (3940′) in Vermont – both were steep climbs in the rain, Roan roughly 2,200′ and Stratton 1,800′. Roan had the added mystery of low visibility in fog which persisted to the shelter. Stratton’s summit welcomed us with sunshine enough for me to dry out my tent.
As I made my way through the dense, rain-soaked forest along the rain-soaked trail, I eventually came near the finish of the long climb. I’d photographed the usual foliage and woodland marvels until I came upon another kind of marvel altogether: “Pokieman.”
Pokieman was a “tall drink of water,” as my mother used to say. While Google tells me the focus in this phrase is on good-looking, I have some difficulty imparting that meaning to this fellow – but tall he was – and perhaps handsome as well in a down-home kinda say. He was hiking southbound – he told me he takes it nice and easy hiking in the woods, hence his name.
He clearly was in no hurry nor at all concerned about his appearance, including his runny nose. He was a human monument to the wilderness and the wild. I liked him.
I don’t know where Pokieman came from nor where he was going. He was like a Boo Radley of the mountains – a quiet, gentle giant living at piece in the forests, following a way known only to him. I was fortunate to have stumbled upon him as I followed the hiker-mandate governing my life. A chance meeting and the waters of the well are stirred deep on a forest trail at a mountaintop in the fog.
Pokieman was kind enough to point out to me that there once was a hotel on Roan Mountain and I could see its site and memorial plaque if I’d travel on a bit and took a trail off to my right.
I was happy to have encountered this mysterious man of the mountain who seemed to live with few cares and with little need for possessions or even company, comfortable alone and comfortable with time.
I thanked my soulful benefactor enjoying the good providence that enabled our paths to cross and headed for the trail off to the right.
When I came to what looked like it could be the trail he mentioned, I wondered if my benefactor was a little off and if he was leading me on a wild goose chase. It led into fog with no clue of a former hotel. Besides, how would they ever have built a hotel up here and, if they had, why wouldn’t it still be here? Or if torn down, wouldn’t there be tall ruins rising out of the mist.
Pokieman was my benefactor indeed! He had not led me astray but to fascinating history. A time before air conditioning. A fortress high in the North Carolina and Tennessee mountains on a peak known by some as the most majestic east of the Rockies. Here, in times gone by, allergy sufferers could escape their maladies and thickly clothed gentlepeople could find fresh air and cool, fresh water.
They could also enjoy their favorite alcoholic beverage if they were on the Tennessee side of the line drawn down the center of the dining room. Rumor had it that a sheriff lay in wait for anyone who, drink in hand, crossed over onto the North Carolina side. Rates for a month were the price of lunch today.
I left the misty field where once stood a grand hotel. I almost heard ancient, muffled voices emanating from the darkening woods, wafting across the wet, yellow grasses. The whole experience of Pokieman and the hotel was like a child’s story filled with wild and eerie imaginings sufficient to awaken ghosts of times past hidden in the forest.
Theo and I returned to the trail and turned north into the rocky roadbed which brought many a jostled and desperate city-dweller to the relief of elevation.
Soon we came to the (0.1E) turnoff to the shelter as brilliant shards of fractured light splintered through the trees as if God Himself were saying to us:
Thank you for making the arduous climb, for welcoming my servant, Pokieman, for honoring days gone by at an abandoned grassy field, for allowing yourselves to be the last to arrive at this shelter, for the faith there is in your every step. I what you are doing together, I am well pleased.
Cecil B. DeMille would project the voice that my heart heard on the occasion of our 0.1 mile walk to the shelter.
Once there, it was settle-in time. It was cold and Badger was working to get a fire going. Several had set up tents in the woods. After eating around the struggling fire, I searched out a suitable tree behind the shelter and hung my bear bag. B-Hiker was inside along with many others. Portugese and Wonder were there. “Shooting-Star,” a Mennonite girl was there. Her real name was Stella. I had seen her before climbing with two faith companions but they could not keep up with her.
There was a SOBO named “Me-Dah” and someone called “Slam,” a name I thought rather neat.
Hikers’ midnight soon was in effect as people bedded down all over the floor and up in the loft. The shelter and area was so crowded that some arrivals looked around for a tent site and decided to carry on because of the numbers. I didn’t mind the crowd at all. It wasn’t going to be this way always and it was sort of fun. It was like the weather. It happens. It’s all part of the deal.
Before I shut down for the night, let me tell you a little about Portuguese. He was, in fact from Portugal and he wrote about hiking. He was a very nice and friendly man but he had a thing about Theo, whom he loved. Whenever he saw him he would say in a loud, accented and theatrical voice, “American dog! American dog!” He did it so consistently and vociferously that it became annoying. The time would soon come that I would have to say something.
I had set up my sleeping bag in the far corner straight in from the door. Soon B-Hiker set up there as well but eventually moved in with the line-up of tightly packed hikers perpendicular to me along the side wall to my right. It would be a good night’s sleep.
Day #52 Greasy Creek Hostel > Roan High Knob Shelter 10.4 miles