CocamoJoe
04-14-2008, 11:50
A year ago this month, I was busily ironing out last-minute plans to hike the entire Appalachian Trail (thru-hike), from Springer Mountain in north Georgia to Mount Katahdin in central Maine. I had just quit my job as a chauffeur to the Atlanta Airport from Augusta, GA, along with my 3-year job at the Augusta Country Club to work for Chili's Bar and Grille.
As I recall, I had no real firm departure date. At first, I planned on hiking the entire Trail, then thought of splitting it up in half. In March of 2007, I emphatically decided to do the entire Trail, all 2,175-miles. It was in this month that I firmed up with an early May departure, to avoid the early rush of other thru-hikers, allowing for more 'alone time' on the Trail, and to avoid late snowfalls and Spring rains.
On May 8, I left by car, thanks to my good friend Lance Davis, for the beautiful mountains of north Georgia, arriving that evening at Big Stamp Gap, a mere .9-miles from the Southern Terminus of the Appalachian National Scenic Trail atop beautiful Springer Mountain. The sun was setting, I recall, as we pulled in the parking lot where 3-deer were. As daylight was fast disappearing, we made quick goodbyes, Lance driving back to civilization, and me heading off into the wild.
Atop Springer, I remember, the sun was at the peak of its' setting in the West. The overlook atop Springer faces due West, and I had perfect views on this, my first night on the Appalachian Trail. It was there I met my first batch of cool-as-hell people on the Trail, from Many Sleeps (Roger), the caretaker, in his mid-70s; Dave, in his mid-60s, from Missouri; and, John in his 20s, from Alabama.
Within a weeks time, I traversed the 75-miles of the rugged Georgia Blue Ridge Mountains, being rained on, almost being struck by lightening, suffering from Iliotibial Band Snydrome in my right knee, having part of my gear eaten by a mouse, encountering 3-black bears, and facing severely rugged mountain terrain, with all I needed to survive upon my back. And that was only my first week. After that, I was in North Carolina.
Immediately, upon entering the new state, I faced the most odd looking tree I'd seen outside of a Tolkein novel. After pictures, I faced a steep uphill, up Bly Gap, ending my night at Muskrat Shelter, I remember, on a below-freezing night (in the South, in May!). I recall getting to the shelter between 5 and 6pm, tired and hungry, yet quite excited to be in a new state. The next day, I hiked 19-miles, with my last climb being a 500-foot ascent in a mere .3-miles atop Mount Albert. A few days later, and I was at Fontana Dam, being the southern boundary with Great Smoky Mountains National Park. In 3-days time, I was halfway through the first half, meeting my parents at Newfound Gap, where Roosevelt dedicated the land there as a National Park in 1940, taking a day off with them in the abominable Gatlinburg, TN. A day-and-a-half later, I exited the national park, finding myself at a hostel in Tennessee, with a bunch of crazy hikers and a wild party, complete with Bob Dylan music, free barbecued ribs, and cherry moonshine (yes, moonshine).
The next day, I hiked out alone, as the other hikers stayed to go whitewater rafting for free (I figured I had just taken a day off, and wasn't ready to do so again, just yet), mastering the summits of Snowbird and the ever-memorable Max Patch Mountains. Max Patch is a little shy of 5,000-feet in elevation, and has hardly any trees on it, being a huge mass of mountain which is nothing other than a high meadow, providing beautiful 360-degree vistas of the surrounding mountainous region.
I remember Hot Springs, NC, my wonderful hour spent in the hot springs, followed by an amazing hour-long massage (after a near 300-miles, your muscles are in pretty damn good shape, and sore). I remember the legendary Elmer at the Sunnybank Inn, and the great bluegrass music at the Paddler's Pub. I remember the killer climb out of the gorge, atop Lovers Leap, overlooking the majestic French Broad River. I remember arriving at Spring Mountain Shelter just before a nasty rainstorm, and the mid-50s Tyvek coming in, barefoot, hiking to raise awareness about soldiers returning from war-zones with no therapy offered to them. I remember the awesome 'exposed ridgeline trail', as a sign said, the following day, while trekking through a 16-mile dry spot due to summer drought.
I remember when I learned that the most distracting thing for me was my constant hunger, despite my eating plenty of calories, fat and protein (I gained just shy of 12-pounds in muscle on my hike), which spoke all the louder at every road-crossing, tempting me to hitchhike into town for no reason other than to get a hot meal. I remember this very clearly at Sam's Gap, where I attempted to hitchhike for an hour before giving up, and ascending the monstrously massive Big Bald. The climb was a bitch (mainly due to my frustration at the aforementioned failed hitchhiking attempt, I suppose), but the vistas were amazing. The mountain was over a mile high in elevation, with a grassy field at the summit, with a few scattered trees; vistas were wide-open for 360-degrees. The cold wind, I recall, drove me off the exposed summit, rolling in huge clouds.
I remember descending into the Nolichucky Gorge at Erwin, TN, meeting Lonthier, a 19-year old girl out hiking barefoot. I remember staying at Uncle Johnny's Hostel. I remember getting a ride to a pizza place where I devoured an entire large pizza; I remember that every same evening, eating Mexican food and downing a beer or two. I remember how much I ate at breakfast the following morning, so much so where a great couple from Louisiana kept asking, "Where do you put it, skinny boy?" Later that day, they drove to a summit, passing out sodas, beer, and candy bars to any hikers that passed by on the AT, telling them about how much food I had eaten!
I remember climbing Mount Unaka, cursing the steepness of the Trail, and the fact that my guidebook said, "wooded summit", meaning no views. I remember taking back my curses, as the summit was a dense pine-forest wonderland (one hiker quipped that night, "I felt like I was in Hansel and Gretel!"), so dense that it was dark even, in the middle of the day.
I remember climbing atop the massive Roan Mountain, the last mountain above 6,000-feet before the world-famous Mount Washington in New Hampshire (and, get this, Roan is only 3-feet smaller than Washington!). The steepness on that climb was so severe, much of it was such where one could stand upright, stretch their hand in front of them and touch the Trail. I remember climbing down, arriving at Carvers Gap where I was surveyed by a park ranger.
I remember crossing the highway at Carvers Gap, entering the Roan Highlands, a stretch of some 10-or-so-miles almost entirely exposed, covering Round and Jane Balds before I camped out at Overmountain Shelter, and Big and Little Hump Mountains the next day. I remember my night at Overmountain Shelter, looking down the mountainside into the valley, where a herd of deer could be seen. I remember seeing two distinct balds ("balds" are southern equivalents of above treeline summits, where the tops of these mountains are grassy fields, with hardly any trees), the one on the left with visible coyote, and the one on the right with visible wild longhorn cattle.
I remember the day I decided to hike 25-miles (I'd already done 21- and 22-mile days, so what's a few more miles), when my shin-splint started to rear its ugly face, making me cut my hike short at 15-miles, where I stayed 3-nights at Kinkora Hostel until I could hike out. I remember leaving Kinkora, hiking a little over 23-miles, ending in the most bitter pain I've ever experienced in my life, as my shin-splint smiled at me again, rearing its rotten teeth and noxious breath. What a joy that night was, as I got to camp out with a dozen or so high schoolers and their teachers, talking about famous literature, and answer the kids questions about my hike, my gear, and myself (I felt like a celebrity!).
I remember that next day, which happened to be my last day of hiking, although I didn't know it at the time. My shin hurt like hell for the entire day, a day where I limped for 18-miles into Damascus, VA. One of the students, upon catching up with me at my halfway point, quipped as I was leaving, "I thought you injured yourself, and you're hiking on?" I explained to her that getting acclimated to the pain was worse than hiking in the pain, and that I'd rather hike the remaining 9-miles now, as I was acclimated to the pain, rather than go through that ordeal again in the morning.
I remember arriving in town, expecting to leave in a few day's time, hiking North; but, instead, leaving by bus a full 7-days later, still in bitter pain. I remember how hard of a choice it was to stop, as I had planned for a year to take this trip, this trip I'd wanted to make since I was a child.
So, to get back to the title of this essay: Springer Fever. Springer is the name of the first mountain on the Appalachian Trail in Georgia. This is the time of year when hikers hoping to do the entire Trail start, between now and mid- to late-April. As Spring arrives, Appalachian Trail hikers get Springer Fever, a hunger to return to Springer Mountain, and go hiking again in particular; and, a hunger to get the hell out of the noise of life, taking refuge in the beauty of nature, in the forests, in the mountains, soaking in the beauty of life.
This "disease" is plaguing my being right now. I can't go a full-hour without pining away about the outdoors, the mountains, the forests, the waterfalls, the quirky people I met out there, the wildlife, the vistas.... the peace, the serenity, the beauty, the clarity-of-mind....
There's no real direction in this essay, apart from reminiscing about last Spring/Summer, and to let each of you know that I'm planning to return to the Appalachian Trail in the Fall, picking up where I left off in Damascus, VA, hiking North to the halfway point just across the Pennsylvania border at Pine Grove Furnace State Park. Please pray for me, that I bust my ass enough to get the funds together to pay for bills and rent while away, and to pay for the hike. My gear from last year is good as new, for the most part, so I won't have to worry about investing much money in that regards. I absolutely refuse to not finish this hike, and to not devote time to enjoying the outdoors.
In closing, I quote The Gimp, a thru-hiker from last year: "I cannot imagine having the gift of mobility, five senses, and awareness in this amazing universe and simply sitting in a cubicle whiling away the precious hours until the moment when that gift is irrevocably revoked." The Appalachian Trail exists, as its founder Benton MacKaye wrote, "To walk, to see, and to see what you see." Get outside and explore. Life is so much more than meaningless careers, and bar-hopping, seeing how many shots of liquor one can take, and having the perfect styles of clothing. Get outside of your house, of yourself, and explore.
[Editor's note: Upon some recent research on medical website and speaking with other hiker's who have been ailed by shin-splints, I am about 98% sure that I ultimately suffered from a hairline stress-fracture. Time-and-again, when people ask about my leg-injury, the pain specifically---"How did it feel?" is a common question---the closest I can come to describing it is that distinct "broken-bone feeling", which I have experienced in one of my fingers and a few of my toes. Stress-fractures never completely heal, which would help explain why, when I'm on my feet for a considerable amount of time, be it at work or out walking, I feel a tinge of pain in the same exact spot where my debilitating leg-injury on the Appalachian Trail was.]
As I recall, I had no real firm departure date. At first, I planned on hiking the entire Trail, then thought of splitting it up in half. In March of 2007, I emphatically decided to do the entire Trail, all 2,175-miles. It was in this month that I firmed up with an early May departure, to avoid the early rush of other thru-hikers, allowing for more 'alone time' on the Trail, and to avoid late snowfalls and Spring rains.
On May 8, I left by car, thanks to my good friend Lance Davis, for the beautiful mountains of north Georgia, arriving that evening at Big Stamp Gap, a mere .9-miles from the Southern Terminus of the Appalachian National Scenic Trail atop beautiful Springer Mountain. The sun was setting, I recall, as we pulled in the parking lot where 3-deer were. As daylight was fast disappearing, we made quick goodbyes, Lance driving back to civilization, and me heading off into the wild.
Atop Springer, I remember, the sun was at the peak of its' setting in the West. The overlook atop Springer faces due West, and I had perfect views on this, my first night on the Appalachian Trail. It was there I met my first batch of cool-as-hell people on the Trail, from Many Sleeps (Roger), the caretaker, in his mid-70s; Dave, in his mid-60s, from Missouri; and, John in his 20s, from Alabama.
Within a weeks time, I traversed the 75-miles of the rugged Georgia Blue Ridge Mountains, being rained on, almost being struck by lightening, suffering from Iliotibial Band Snydrome in my right knee, having part of my gear eaten by a mouse, encountering 3-black bears, and facing severely rugged mountain terrain, with all I needed to survive upon my back. And that was only my first week. After that, I was in North Carolina.
Immediately, upon entering the new state, I faced the most odd looking tree I'd seen outside of a Tolkein novel. After pictures, I faced a steep uphill, up Bly Gap, ending my night at Muskrat Shelter, I remember, on a below-freezing night (in the South, in May!). I recall getting to the shelter between 5 and 6pm, tired and hungry, yet quite excited to be in a new state. The next day, I hiked 19-miles, with my last climb being a 500-foot ascent in a mere .3-miles atop Mount Albert. A few days later, and I was at Fontana Dam, being the southern boundary with Great Smoky Mountains National Park. In 3-days time, I was halfway through the first half, meeting my parents at Newfound Gap, where Roosevelt dedicated the land there as a National Park in 1940, taking a day off with them in the abominable Gatlinburg, TN. A day-and-a-half later, I exited the national park, finding myself at a hostel in Tennessee, with a bunch of crazy hikers and a wild party, complete with Bob Dylan music, free barbecued ribs, and cherry moonshine (yes, moonshine).
The next day, I hiked out alone, as the other hikers stayed to go whitewater rafting for free (I figured I had just taken a day off, and wasn't ready to do so again, just yet), mastering the summits of Snowbird and the ever-memorable Max Patch Mountains. Max Patch is a little shy of 5,000-feet in elevation, and has hardly any trees on it, being a huge mass of mountain which is nothing other than a high meadow, providing beautiful 360-degree vistas of the surrounding mountainous region.
I remember Hot Springs, NC, my wonderful hour spent in the hot springs, followed by an amazing hour-long massage (after a near 300-miles, your muscles are in pretty damn good shape, and sore). I remember the legendary Elmer at the Sunnybank Inn, and the great bluegrass music at the Paddler's Pub. I remember the killer climb out of the gorge, atop Lovers Leap, overlooking the majestic French Broad River. I remember arriving at Spring Mountain Shelter just before a nasty rainstorm, and the mid-50s Tyvek coming in, barefoot, hiking to raise awareness about soldiers returning from war-zones with no therapy offered to them. I remember the awesome 'exposed ridgeline trail', as a sign said, the following day, while trekking through a 16-mile dry spot due to summer drought.
I remember when I learned that the most distracting thing for me was my constant hunger, despite my eating plenty of calories, fat and protein (I gained just shy of 12-pounds in muscle on my hike), which spoke all the louder at every road-crossing, tempting me to hitchhike into town for no reason other than to get a hot meal. I remember this very clearly at Sam's Gap, where I attempted to hitchhike for an hour before giving up, and ascending the monstrously massive Big Bald. The climb was a bitch (mainly due to my frustration at the aforementioned failed hitchhiking attempt, I suppose), but the vistas were amazing. The mountain was over a mile high in elevation, with a grassy field at the summit, with a few scattered trees; vistas were wide-open for 360-degrees. The cold wind, I recall, drove me off the exposed summit, rolling in huge clouds.
I remember descending into the Nolichucky Gorge at Erwin, TN, meeting Lonthier, a 19-year old girl out hiking barefoot. I remember staying at Uncle Johnny's Hostel. I remember getting a ride to a pizza place where I devoured an entire large pizza; I remember that every same evening, eating Mexican food and downing a beer or two. I remember how much I ate at breakfast the following morning, so much so where a great couple from Louisiana kept asking, "Where do you put it, skinny boy?" Later that day, they drove to a summit, passing out sodas, beer, and candy bars to any hikers that passed by on the AT, telling them about how much food I had eaten!
I remember climbing Mount Unaka, cursing the steepness of the Trail, and the fact that my guidebook said, "wooded summit", meaning no views. I remember taking back my curses, as the summit was a dense pine-forest wonderland (one hiker quipped that night, "I felt like I was in Hansel and Gretel!"), so dense that it was dark even, in the middle of the day.
I remember climbing atop the massive Roan Mountain, the last mountain above 6,000-feet before the world-famous Mount Washington in New Hampshire (and, get this, Roan is only 3-feet smaller than Washington!). The steepness on that climb was so severe, much of it was such where one could stand upright, stretch their hand in front of them and touch the Trail. I remember climbing down, arriving at Carvers Gap where I was surveyed by a park ranger.
I remember crossing the highway at Carvers Gap, entering the Roan Highlands, a stretch of some 10-or-so-miles almost entirely exposed, covering Round and Jane Balds before I camped out at Overmountain Shelter, and Big and Little Hump Mountains the next day. I remember my night at Overmountain Shelter, looking down the mountainside into the valley, where a herd of deer could be seen. I remember seeing two distinct balds ("balds" are southern equivalents of above treeline summits, where the tops of these mountains are grassy fields, with hardly any trees), the one on the left with visible coyote, and the one on the right with visible wild longhorn cattle.
I remember the day I decided to hike 25-miles (I'd already done 21- and 22-mile days, so what's a few more miles), when my shin-splint started to rear its ugly face, making me cut my hike short at 15-miles, where I stayed 3-nights at Kinkora Hostel until I could hike out. I remember leaving Kinkora, hiking a little over 23-miles, ending in the most bitter pain I've ever experienced in my life, as my shin-splint smiled at me again, rearing its rotten teeth and noxious breath. What a joy that night was, as I got to camp out with a dozen or so high schoolers and their teachers, talking about famous literature, and answer the kids questions about my hike, my gear, and myself (I felt like a celebrity!).
I remember that next day, which happened to be my last day of hiking, although I didn't know it at the time. My shin hurt like hell for the entire day, a day where I limped for 18-miles into Damascus, VA. One of the students, upon catching up with me at my halfway point, quipped as I was leaving, "I thought you injured yourself, and you're hiking on?" I explained to her that getting acclimated to the pain was worse than hiking in the pain, and that I'd rather hike the remaining 9-miles now, as I was acclimated to the pain, rather than go through that ordeal again in the morning.
I remember arriving in town, expecting to leave in a few day's time, hiking North; but, instead, leaving by bus a full 7-days later, still in bitter pain. I remember how hard of a choice it was to stop, as I had planned for a year to take this trip, this trip I'd wanted to make since I was a child.
So, to get back to the title of this essay: Springer Fever. Springer is the name of the first mountain on the Appalachian Trail in Georgia. This is the time of year when hikers hoping to do the entire Trail start, between now and mid- to late-April. As Spring arrives, Appalachian Trail hikers get Springer Fever, a hunger to return to Springer Mountain, and go hiking again in particular; and, a hunger to get the hell out of the noise of life, taking refuge in the beauty of nature, in the forests, in the mountains, soaking in the beauty of life.
This "disease" is plaguing my being right now. I can't go a full-hour without pining away about the outdoors, the mountains, the forests, the waterfalls, the quirky people I met out there, the wildlife, the vistas.... the peace, the serenity, the beauty, the clarity-of-mind....
There's no real direction in this essay, apart from reminiscing about last Spring/Summer, and to let each of you know that I'm planning to return to the Appalachian Trail in the Fall, picking up where I left off in Damascus, VA, hiking North to the halfway point just across the Pennsylvania border at Pine Grove Furnace State Park. Please pray for me, that I bust my ass enough to get the funds together to pay for bills and rent while away, and to pay for the hike. My gear from last year is good as new, for the most part, so I won't have to worry about investing much money in that regards. I absolutely refuse to not finish this hike, and to not devote time to enjoying the outdoors.
In closing, I quote The Gimp, a thru-hiker from last year: "I cannot imagine having the gift of mobility, five senses, and awareness in this amazing universe and simply sitting in a cubicle whiling away the precious hours until the moment when that gift is irrevocably revoked." The Appalachian Trail exists, as its founder Benton MacKaye wrote, "To walk, to see, and to see what you see." Get outside and explore. Life is so much more than meaningless careers, and bar-hopping, seeing how many shots of liquor one can take, and having the perfect styles of clothing. Get outside of your house, of yourself, and explore.
[Editor's note: Upon some recent research on medical website and speaking with other hiker's who have been ailed by shin-splints, I am about 98% sure that I ultimately suffered from a hairline stress-fracture. Time-and-again, when people ask about my leg-injury, the pain specifically---"How did it feel?" is a common question---the closest I can come to describing it is that distinct "broken-bone feeling", which I have experienced in one of my fingers and a few of my toes. Stress-fractures never completely heal, which would help explain why, when I'm on my feet for a considerable amount of time, be it at work or out walking, I feel a tinge of pain in the same exact spot where my debilitating leg-injury on the Appalachian Trail was.]