TRAIL DAY 53
Wed, Apr 13, 2016 Everyone rose about the same time at Roan High Knob Shelter. We were one general mass of thru-hikers. Our tensile strength was fragile but we’d hung in together through the night and would for breakfast. But even here, it was each to his own. We took care of our individual needs and chatted as our state of wakefulness and attention to the details of packing permitted. Breakfast aside, consumed and gone. Theo and I would be alone again in the embrace of the glorious day last night’s broken beams promised.
We returned to the rocky roadbed which had to be much more pleasant on foot than in a carriage and, as we would so many promising times to come, began again to head north.
I remember heading down a heavily wooded embankment while alone on the trail, to tend to a call of nature. I mention this only because it was one year ago today and the minor ordeal, as it always is, surfaced out of the forest of memories, another “whole-life” experience.
In short order we emerged from the forest into open hillside fields at Carvers Gap (5512′), the first dip among many on the roller coaster hike to come. We had to be on balds although they weren’t so named.
The famed Overmountain Shelter was 5.9 miles on. It was a big barn that could house countless hikers and it was rumored that there was Trail Magic there today and the views would be breathless and eternal. I debated on my way to the (0.3E) turnoff whether to take the time. It was only midday and, before the day was out, I would be leaving North Carolina for the last time. We had been winding back and forth across the NC/TN border for over 300 miles not knowing which state we were in.
The trail rose and fell with the mountain waves rising into the sky and plunging into troughs or gaps then rising again. The distant views were exhilarating. When I came to Yellow Mountain Gap and the turnoff to Overmountain Shelter, I opted to stay on track. A couple of hikers preceded me on the up-is-up climb. It had been cold in the morning leaving Roan Mountain. I’d worn my Merino wool, long-sleeved shirt, my fleece vest, green down jacket and gloves. But now the sun was out and the day was warming up so I packed the gloves and jacket.
Soon B-Hiker came by. She’d been to the famous shelter and I inquired about the Trail Magic. I heard they had a good supply of cold beer. She said she managed to get hold of a few before they were all gone and turned her pack to me and invited me to dig for one insulated in her gear. I dug and found the treasure. I thanked her and she continued on her way as I walked off the trail to my right, removed my pack and took in the scene and the “Smoky” haze that prompted the name. I could see the Overmountain Shelter on a rise across the gap. In the warm sun, after cold suds, I closed my eyes and nodded off.
I awoke in a stupor and groggy but I collected myself, loaded up and moved on. Little Hump Mountain was just ahead followed by Hump Mountain, 9.4 miles from Carvers Gap. AWOL noted that there were many false summits on the way. The warning was appreciated.
A “false summit” is self-explanatory – easy to grasp – hard to experience. “Aaaaaah, there it is. We’ve made it. The ease of arrival is at hand. Job done. Labors over.”
Well. . .maybe not.
As AWOL was pointing out, this could happen several times on a given ascent and would happen many times on the AT.
As I review my pictures of this climb, I am noticing something for the first time. I always wondered why the trail on the balds was so narrow and deep when you rarely saw this anywhere else. It has just occurred to me that without a canopy to disperse the rain, it falls in torrents on ground that is not held together by a vast network of tree roots so the trail becomes a natural river bed for water to run off and over time erode the trail. The result was a deep, narrow path forcing hikers to walk like a runway model with precarious balance over uneven ground. As a result, many hikers walked the balds in the grasses beside the trail. There were times when this was necessary.
There can be erosion in the woods as well or on mountainsides but maintainers gathered stones or sometimes logs to create water runoffs at frequent intervals to reduce water build-up.
More mountain waves of grass, climb after climb in a universe of peaks all around. Neither pictures nor words can capture the soul connection with creation. Though they look like scattered grains of sugar on black velvet, one cannot scoop up the stars like water from a stream or grass seed to spread on rich soil. Nor can the mountains be tucked away in one’s pocket to remember, to cherish, to rub smooth on the journey. They sink into the ocean of consciousness and breach the night sky in our dreams. They are precious beyond speaking, life folded on life like ripples in a pond, more still than a whisper, as deep as space, harmonic etchings on tender flesh, to bear the mark forever.
I paused at the summit of Hump Mountain along with others who had done the same. A hiker in his 60s came along in the brisk wind that swept over the bald, grassy dome. He paused, too, but not for long. His name was “Glider” and, much to my amazement, he had started before Roan Mountain that morning. I was flabbergasted. Clearly he hiked in go mode.
After the balds, we’d enter scrub forest on the high mountain sides and then descend into larger trees below. After a long, long angled descent through woods alternately dense and sparse, Doll Flats came into view to be remembered always for the wooden sign on entering holding two carved white AT symbols and carved yellow lettering: LEAVING NC.
Portuguese and Wonder were here on one side. Shooting Star was here far on the other. There were countless spots to set up a tent and everyone had a wide birth of privacy. I set up in the open in between them. Off in the distance to the right of the entrance hikers had built a fire and were indulging in quiet chatter.
I set up for supper against a log. Sometime in camp Portuguese did his “American Dog” greeting. It always seemed very loud to me and not really loving of the dog. Theo was his plaything – a vehicle for his taking the stage and being noticed.
He had done this so many times before that I was going to have to say something because it had become his way of relating to Theo – to us! It was a wall between us and an annoying one. We’d never had conversation of any kind – just quips of exchange on meeting. When we first met, it was at a shelter in the rain in midmorning. It was off the trail to the west a little and he had shared the shelter with Ten-Degree and his two boys, one of whom was still in the rack. I asked his trail name and he said, “Portuguese.” I responded in an exaggerated, foreign accent, “Por-tu-geeeesss-ee,” and for the next several encounters did the same – just having fun.
But. . .he never – never seemed to get that we were just having fun. It wasn’t intended to be the way we related all the way to Maine, every time we “connected.” The truth is, we never connected. We just acted. At least that seemed to be his way. I had long stopped acting and wanted to meet the real hiker from Portugal. I needed to tell him.
At Doll Flats, I asked Portuguese if he would mind calling Theo by his name, “Theo.” He hesitated with an unmoved expression and tried to mouth the word, “Teeee-o,” or some such sound that was close but not on the mark. I repeated the name thinking he was serious about using it.
I said something like, “Theo is a dog; he’s not a toy.” I spoke softly, kindly, seriously. I added, “It seems that you are always acting. I wish I could get to know you – not the actor.” He went quietly to his tent, not too far north of mine and never spoke to me again except to acknowledge on the few times we would meet that I said, “Hi.”
Many miles into Virginia, I would meet Wonder who had taken some time off the trail while Portuguese continued on. I asked him about Portuguese and he said he could be a little difficult and added after Dolly Flats, he had decided he would not talk with me again except to acknowledge a greeting. And so it was.
A sad personal rift but life carries and so does the trail.
Day #53 Roan High Knob Shelter > Doll Flats 13.3 miles