chris
11-19-2003, 08:12
Three weeks is not a very long time, but there I was, standing at the Sugarland Mountain trail three weeks after finishing another weekend hike in the Smokys. In a short three weeks, the land went from a vibrant montage of reds and oranges and purples and yellows, a land revelling in one last riot of joy before the coming winter, to a land brown and grey and asleep. All the leaves were gone and the woods lacked any scent. None of the overpowering vegetal smell that I associate with the warmer months, nor the earthy smell of fall. The land was sleeping and I felt like we were intruding upon its slumber. Joining me for this weekend were Birdie, another PCT hiker from this year, and Adam, a member of a local hiking club in Bloomington. It was cold and it was more than 18 miles to Double Springs Gap, with around 5000 feet in elevation to gain, including the highest point on the Appalachian trail, Clingman's Dome. It was time to start moving forward through this tired land.
Sugarland Mountain is a long spur ridge coming off of the main Appalachian ridgeline and provides long, distant vistas off of it's, now nude, spine. It runs 12 miles from the trailhead to a junction with the AT, passing the Mount Collins shelter along the way. The vibrant valleys from three weeks ago were gone, the trees done for the season. Hiking at this time of year was challenging for me. Finding beauty was difficult. As I climbed higher, more of the land began to reveal itself. The lack of foliage allowed me to see the features of the land I was passing through; the mountains off to the side, the knobs in the distance. Was that Siler's Bald out there? Maybe those humps are Mount LeConte. Why was this suprising? I had hiked in the park during winter and late fall months before and so I should have seen all this plenty of times. It dawned on me that this was the first time I had been here with good weather, with clear weather. This was my fourth crossing of Clingman's Dome and the other three had featured ten feet of visibility. What more was to come?
The temperature fell as we ascended to the Appalachian trail and was hovering in the upper 30s when we reached the Clingman's Dome radio tower. No hikers, two dozen tourists. Two dozen warm, bundled up, fat happy tourists. Adam and I dropped our packs and climbed up the observation tower, not waiting for Birdie who was a few minutes behind. Once on top, I saw all sorts of new things. Like a radio tower right next to the observation tower. It couldn't have been more than 30 feet from where I stood. I had been here three times before and never seen it. I was always in the clouds before. I looked around and could spot many familiar features: Fontana Lake (with a fire burning close), Siler's Bald, Gregory Bald, the road. I had a few minutes of peace before some of the tourists descended upon me with questions. Was I a thruhiker? Where was I going? Where did I come from? Why was I out in the cold? No, Double Spring Gap, from down there, because I have the time. These didn't seem like acceptable answers, so they proded more and I tried to hide on the small observation deck. Couldn't they leave me alone with the view? Didn't they want to look around or something? Apparently not. Birdie joined us and they descended on her. Are you afraid out here? You must be afraid of tonight? How are you going to get back to the hotel? Are you really going to sleep out in the woods tonight? She fended off questions politely; better than I had done. Birdie finished the Triple Crown this summer, in addition to thru hikes of the Long Trail, the Superior Trail, and the Ice Age Trail. She was used to being something of a celebrity.
Leaving the tourists behind, we went back down to the base of the tower. On the way down, we were graced with a shouted conversation between a kid on top and a mother at the base. The mother, bundled up in a thick jacket, sat on the rock wall muttering about how cold she was. The kid wanted her to come up and have a look. The mother was obstinate: No, I'm too cold. Let's go. Now. The kid was incredulous: You've come all this way, just walk up here. No, I'm cold. Let's go. How silly, it seemed. They blasted a road almost to the top of the highest point on the Appalachian trail, you drove it, and you can't walk up the remaining few yards? Disgusted with her but really happy for the kid (future hiker, no doubt), I pushed on, away from the slowly growing hordes.
Double Spring Gap shelter came quickly and the temperature seemed to warm. I fell into my standard routine quickly: Water fetched, soup started, warm clothes on. Birdie really wanted a fire and would spend the next hour picking the woods for bits of wood until she had enough for some warmth at night. Adam and I both had down jackets and were a bit ambivalent. Darkness fell quickly, just as I finished my dinner and started water for tea. The dark would last long. It was only 6:30 and it was already pitch black. We chatted and I read a bit from Edward Abbey's "Desert Solitare" for entertainment. Half a bottle of rum later, I was ready for sleep. Sleep was deep and comfortable, until near 4 am. Two headlamps came down the trail. Voices follwed. A search and rescue party? Thru hikers getting an early start, trying to make the Fontana PO by noon? Four more lights joined the two. People approached the shelter and I cringed when I heard one say, "Is there room for six?" They came in and Birdie asked their story. There only reply was, "We're from Memphis." I really wanted to laugh, but I wanted sleep more and so rolled up deeper in my bag to pretend they were not there. A half an hour later they had gotten into their bags and were asleep.
The three of us awoke at 7 and without regard for our fellow shelter dwellers went about the task of eating breakfast and drinking hot liquids, all to the sound of falling rain. The rain wasn't hard, but it didn't have to be to present a danger. Fortunately, the temperature was up this morning. The gear of the Memphis crew was spread about. A football. A frisbee. Another frisbee. A 2 quart coffee pot. D-cell lamps. CB radios. They didn't stir despite our noise, although I am sure they knew when we left. Walking along the ridgeline without trees and without low clouds, I could see all the terrain that I had missed on my previous three times along this section of trail. How the ridgeline twisted and turned. Where the Miry Ridge really was, where Greenbriar made its climb up. Near Derrick Knob we left the AT, descending gently down the Greenbriar trail to Lynn Prong, a horse trail. It was a Saturday in the most visited national park in the US, it had been raining, and we were about to climb to Miry ridge on a horse trail. Maybe no one had used the trail of late, I hoped. Instead, as I saw, many horses had. Two groups of around 8 horses and mules each came from up above, obliterating the trail; churning it into a slough of mud. Overall, I was happy that they were out enjoying their lands, seeing a bit of what a national park could be. But, a part of me wanted them to wait until the land had dried a bit, and their big animals didn't cause so much destruction.
On top of Miry Ridge, I waited for Adam and Birdie to arrive, they having stopped for water along the way. They arrived at nearly the same time that a group of fifteen people arrived, most in ther 60s. They were walking down from Clingman's Dome, heading for the Elkmont trailhead. They'd never make it before dark and I hoped they had lights of some sort. We passed them resting and they passed us as we were setting up camp at site 27. How did we get here so fast? Did we have wings or something? Did we know a short cut? Come on, tell us how you got down here so quickly? These questions and more droned from the mouth of one of the women in the group. I thought about telling her that we walked down here in an hour, it being around 3 miles from where she last saw us. That three miles in an hour, downhill, on a cush trail wasn't very tough. Mostly, I just wanted them to go away and take their cackling back to Gatlinburg. "No, we did didn't fly or take a short cut. Just young legs." It took a minute or so before the comment sunk in and the women let fly with many dire warnings about young people getting their comeuppance. They left, and it was quiet again.
The rain was back in the morning, this time heavier and more persistant and I was fairly drenched early on. No matter, the car was close and being wet was not an issue. Miles rolled by as we dodged from the Jakes Creek trail over onto Cucumber Gap and back to Sugarland Mountain via the Huskey Gap. At this low elevation little could be see of the land. Only brown and grey trees. The land was telling me to go away for a while. To let it rest up for the coming spring and summer. It had much work to do then and surely I could leave it be for a while. I thought this just and right, and stepped off the trail with the promise to go away for a bit, maybe to return in the winter when a blanket of snow might insulate the land from my presence. Driving back took two hours longer than expected, the result of a traffic jam through Pigeon Forge that stretched from the park entrance to the interstate. We had put on 47 miles in 2.5 days, a good hike. It felt like the end of a season, a fine way to end the hiking year. Now, I just had to concentrate on getting fat and jolly over the winter months and wait for that spring day, when the land awakes and calls me back. Somebody once wrote a book with a title like that. I felt like I really understood it now.
Sugarland Mountain is a long spur ridge coming off of the main Appalachian ridgeline and provides long, distant vistas off of it's, now nude, spine. It runs 12 miles from the trailhead to a junction with the AT, passing the Mount Collins shelter along the way. The vibrant valleys from three weeks ago were gone, the trees done for the season. Hiking at this time of year was challenging for me. Finding beauty was difficult. As I climbed higher, more of the land began to reveal itself. The lack of foliage allowed me to see the features of the land I was passing through; the mountains off to the side, the knobs in the distance. Was that Siler's Bald out there? Maybe those humps are Mount LeConte. Why was this suprising? I had hiked in the park during winter and late fall months before and so I should have seen all this plenty of times. It dawned on me that this was the first time I had been here with good weather, with clear weather. This was my fourth crossing of Clingman's Dome and the other three had featured ten feet of visibility. What more was to come?
The temperature fell as we ascended to the Appalachian trail and was hovering in the upper 30s when we reached the Clingman's Dome radio tower. No hikers, two dozen tourists. Two dozen warm, bundled up, fat happy tourists. Adam and I dropped our packs and climbed up the observation tower, not waiting for Birdie who was a few minutes behind. Once on top, I saw all sorts of new things. Like a radio tower right next to the observation tower. It couldn't have been more than 30 feet from where I stood. I had been here three times before and never seen it. I was always in the clouds before. I looked around and could spot many familiar features: Fontana Lake (with a fire burning close), Siler's Bald, Gregory Bald, the road. I had a few minutes of peace before some of the tourists descended upon me with questions. Was I a thruhiker? Where was I going? Where did I come from? Why was I out in the cold? No, Double Spring Gap, from down there, because I have the time. These didn't seem like acceptable answers, so they proded more and I tried to hide on the small observation deck. Couldn't they leave me alone with the view? Didn't they want to look around or something? Apparently not. Birdie joined us and they descended on her. Are you afraid out here? You must be afraid of tonight? How are you going to get back to the hotel? Are you really going to sleep out in the woods tonight? She fended off questions politely; better than I had done. Birdie finished the Triple Crown this summer, in addition to thru hikes of the Long Trail, the Superior Trail, and the Ice Age Trail. She was used to being something of a celebrity.
Leaving the tourists behind, we went back down to the base of the tower. On the way down, we were graced with a shouted conversation between a kid on top and a mother at the base. The mother, bundled up in a thick jacket, sat on the rock wall muttering about how cold she was. The kid wanted her to come up and have a look. The mother was obstinate: No, I'm too cold. Let's go. Now. The kid was incredulous: You've come all this way, just walk up here. No, I'm cold. Let's go. How silly, it seemed. They blasted a road almost to the top of the highest point on the Appalachian trail, you drove it, and you can't walk up the remaining few yards? Disgusted with her but really happy for the kid (future hiker, no doubt), I pushed on, away from the slowly growing hordes.
Double Spring Gap shelter came quickly and the temperature seemed to warm. I fell into my standard routine quickly: Water fetched, soup started, warm clothes on. Birdie really wanted a fire and would spend the next hour picking the woods for bits of wood until she had enough for some warmth at night. Adam and I both had down jackets and were a bit ambivalent. Darkness fell quickly, just as I finished my dinner and started water for tea. The dark would last long. It was only 6:30 and it was already pitch black. We chatted and I read a bit from Edward Abbey's "Desert Solitare" for entertainment. Half a bottle of rum later, I was ready for sleep. Sleep was deep and comfortable, until near 4 am. Two headlamps came down the trail. Voices follwed. A search and rescue party? Thru hikers getting an early start, trying to make the Fontana PO by noon? Four more lights joined the two. People approached the shelter and I cringed when I heard one say, "Is there room for six?" They came in and Birdie asked their story. There only reply was, "We're from Memphis." I really wanted to laugh, but I wanted sleep more and so rolled up deeper in my bag to pretend they were not there. A half an hour later they had gotten into their bags and were asleep.
The three of us awoke at 7 and without regard for our fellow shelter dwellers went about the task of eating breakfast and drinking hot liquids, all to the sound of falling rain. The rain wasn't hard, but it didn't have to be to present a danger. Fortunately, the temperature was up this morning. The gear of the Memphis crew was spread about. A football. A frisbee. Another frisbee. A 2 quart coffee pot. D-cell lamps. CB radios. They didn't stir despite our noise, although I am sure they knew when we left. Walking along the ridgeline without trees and without low clouds, I could see all the terrain that I had missed on my previous three times along this section of trail. How the ridgeline twisted and turned. Where the Miry Ridge really was, where Greenbriar made its climb up. Near Derrick Knob we left the AT, descending gently down the Greenbriar trail to Lynn Prong, a horse trail. It was a Saturday in the most visited national park in the US, it had been raining, and we were about to climb to Miry ridge on a horse trail. Maybe no one had used the trail of late, I hoped. Instead, as I saw, many horses had. Two groups of around 8 horses and mules each came from up above, obliterating the trail; churning it into a slough of mud. Overall, I was happy that they were out enjoying their lands, seeing a bit of what a national park could be. But, a part of me wanted them to wait until the land had dried a bit, and their big animals didn't cause so much destruction.
On top of Miry Ridge, I waited for Adam and Birdie to arrive, they having stopped for water along the way. They arrived at nearly the same time that a group of fifteen people arrived, most in ther 60s. They were walking down from Clingman's Dome, heading for the Elkmont trailhead. They'd never make it before dark and I hoped they had lights of some sort. We passed them resting and they passed us as we were setting up camp at site 27. How did we get here so fast? Did we have wings or something? Did we know a short cut? Come on, tell us how you got down here so quickly? These questions and more droned from the mouth of one of the women in the group. I thought about telling her that we walked down here in an hour, it being around 3 miles from where she last saw us. That three miles in an hour, downhill, on a cush trail wasn't very tough. Mostly, I just wanted them to go away and take their cackling back to Gatlinburg. "No, we did didn't fly or take a short cut. Just young legs." It took a minute or so before the comment sunk in and the women let fly with many dire warnings about young people getting their comeuppance. They left, and it was quiet again.
The rain was back in the morning, this time heavier and more persistant and I was fairly drenched early on. No matter, the car was close and being wet was not an issue. Miles rolled by as we dodged from the Jakes Creek trail over onto Cucumber Gap and back to Sugarland Mountain via the Huskey Gap. At this low elevation little could be see of the land. Only brown and grey trees. The land was telling me to go away for a while. To let it rest up for the coming spring and summer. It had much work to do then and surely I could leave it be for a while. I thought this just and right, and stepped off the trail with the promise to go away for a bit, maybe to return in the winter when a blanket of snow might insulate the land from my presence. Driving back took two hours longer than expected, the result of a traffic jam through Pigeon Forge that stretched from the park entrance to the interstate. We had put on 47 miles in 2.5 days, a good hike. It felt like the end of a season, a fine way to end the hiking year. Now, I just had to concentrate on getting fat and jolly over the winter months and wait for that spring day, when the land awakes and calls me back. Somebody once wrote a book with a title like that. I felt like I really understood it now.