chris
04-27-2004, 16:45
On the night of Wednesday, April 21, 2004, I received a phone call offering me a job in the Tacoma area, which I accepted without bargaining, haggling, or negotiating. I didn't even bother to ask how much they were going to pay me. I had plans for a full summer and was leaving in two weeks, which meant that if I wanted to see the Smokys one last time, I had to go the next day. What to do? What to see on my final sojourn in one of my favorite places on earth? High Rocks? Rocky Top? Mount Cammerer? LeConte? Gregory Bald? Mount Sterling? That secret place I don't tell anyone about? With too much to chose from, I decided to go back to where everything started, and leave out of Cosby, with a visit to Mount Cammerer. The I picked out looked a little circuitous, long, with lots of elevation gain, but did allow me to hit the firetower for a night.
Early Friday morning saw me awake before it was light out, with tent down, and the high ridges above me on my mind. Walking through the campground in Cosby, I was unsure if my route was really the wisest of moves. I was fat and soft after a long winter of visiting the AYCE Indian buffet in Bloomington and drinking copious amounts of homebrew. Today was going to start with a 3300 foot climb in 5.3 miles up the Snake Den Ridge trail to the Appalachian trail. I had another roughly 3000 feet of gain over the other 20 miles of the days hike, which might prove to much. My belly hanging over the hipbelt of my pack seemed like strong evidence that it was. Regarless, I set off climbing slowly and methodically at 6:45, switchbacking up the old road bed until it became true trail, then sweated my way all the way to the top without incident. It seemed that perhaps appearances might be deceiving. Standing on the AT, fully lathered in sweat, with the cold air blowing, and without much of a view, I thought it might be wise to continue down the trail a little before stopping for a break.
While my intentions were good, and I did actually sit down at a pretty overlook, the break amounted to a five minute body cooling session while I had a smoke. Two, four, twelve, eventually fourty two hikers crossed my path heading north, as I walked south, during the nine mile stretch between Snake Den Ridge and Pecks Corner. I stopped at the Hughes Ridge trail junction where there was an obvious thruhiker named Chillout sitting, eating some lunch. I stopped as well, and soon another thruhiker stopped, carrying a fully loaded 7000 ci pack. Another thru showed up. And another. I decided to take a real break and have a little lunch, which would give me a chance to see how the thruhikers were shaping up. Two more showed. Then another two. Then another named Catepiller. Then another. Everuone seemed out of water, but no one wanted to walk down to the shelter and then even further down to get water. Tins of sardines were broken out and mashed together with oily tuna in real stink fest that turned comical. One thruhiker set the top of the tuna can on a rock in the middle of the trail, leaving a small oil stain on a rock,, which drew the ire of another, since "There is no reason to attract animals to the middle of the trail." A split second before I burst out in laughter, I realized he was serious and wanted to laugh even more. A discussion ensued over the merits of Mountain Momas and Standing Bear. When I volunteered that it was only a day and a half from Davenport to Hot Springs, some of the hikers were incredulous, other nodded sagely. The one who objected to the oil slick on the rock thought the 33 miles from Davenport to Hot Springs was more like two solid, hard days. I decided not to make a second pass at giving advice and let them figure things out on their own.
Dropping down on the Hughes Ridge trail, I again recovered the solitude that I had on the climb up the Snake Den. Silent, except for the wind and the birds, the woods were beginning to greenout, but the lay of the land was still remarkably apparent. Hughes Ridge runs due south off the AT ridgeline and stays up for the most part, giving long views off the east and the west. Finally beginning the descent off the ridge, I popped over onto the Enloe Creek trail to continue the plunge down. Enloe Creek was relatively untouched by both settlers and loggers, and has a distinctly wild feel to its first growth forest, one of the few tracts in the park. Even better, the trail was littered with thousands of perfectly ripe ramps. There is a ban on ramp collecting in the park, but I was on a rarely used trail, with ramps a plenty, and thought that Nature would not miss the seven that I took out of the ground at various locations to spice up my evening meal.
Enloe Creek bottomed out at Camp #47, where I saw two photographers snapping shots of the raging creek, and began the steep climb out of creek bottom and back up onto the next ridge. I was going against the grain of the land, and I was getting tired. I began to count steps, and curse every sale that the grocery store had on half gallons of Edys Icecream. I lost the strength to swear inventively, and so had to resort to talking to the rocks to keep my mind off how tired my body was getting. Getting to Hyatt Ridge didn't end the climb, it simply meant that I had a different trail to walk on, but still up hill. I flopped over in the dust to rest before continuing, unable to roll a smoke because my hands, shorts, and shirt were soaked in sweat and the papers would tear everytime I tried to roll. This was as good of an excuse as any to sit and do nothing.
Refreshed from my longer-than-usual break, I had little difficulty making it up to the top of the climb and along the trail to Camp #44 at McGee springs, a very remote and wild campsite. About a half mile before the campsite was the most perfect stealth site, complete with soft, tall grass, and a view down to the valley below. It also had no water, and I was dry. McGee spring was flowing nicely, its location cleverly marked with a pile of white rocks, and I fetched water before settling in for the night. I pitched my new Tarptent and began boiling up a double Koren noodle feast complete with ramps and rampgreens. Desert consisted of banana bread and Nutella, along with half a bottle of Jim Beam. I was feeling ready for another five or six miles as the sun went down, partially because of the Vitamin I had taken, partially because of the Beam, and partially because it was so pretty out, it seemed like a shame for the day to end.
In the morning I rolled out at the obscenely late hour of 8 am, heading (plunging) down to Straight Fork road, where there was a cold ford of a river, a fisherman, and a park ranger, all doing about the same amount of work. The other side of the ford held a 2000 foot climb up to Beech Gap in a short 2.5 miles, followed by another 700 feet of the most spectacular ridge climbing in the park up Balsam mountain. Up high and wet once again from my body sweating out the built up cheeseburgers of an entire winter, I flopped over in sunny grass at Laurel Gap shelter, very glad that the climbing was over for a little while. No one was around, and so I took off my clothes and laid about, letting them dry and my body rest. I didn't have much to rush for today, as I was only going to Mount Cammerer, perhaps 13 miles away, with a puny 2200 feet of gain. Plus, I was intending to sleep at the tower, another no-no for the park, and wanted to get there well after the day hikers and thruhikers had passed by. So, I dozed in the sun.
Refreshed again, I set out down the almost flat Mount Sterling Ridge trail, passing college kids from Grand Rapids, with machetes on their packs and much duck tape on their feet, before dropping down, steeply, on the Swallow Fork trail, heading to Big Creek and Camp #37, the zoo-iest campsite outside of Cades Cove. Two miles down the trail, around 3 pm, I ran into a large man with a large pack, who was looking frustrated and tired. I stopped to talk with him for a few minutes, and our conversation ran about like this:
"How much further is the next campsite?"
"Um, which campsite?"
"The one in a mile or so."
"The closest one is about seven miles away, all uphill."
"No way!"
"Where are you trying to go?"
"I don't know."
"What trail are you on?"
"Um, I don't know that either."
I suggested that he might want to turn around, as it was all uphill to the gap, and then a bunch more of uphill to make it to Mount Sterling. He confessed that his partners behind him had some maps. They had stayed at a camp near a bridge (it could only be 37) the night before, and got a late, 1 pm start this morning. As we were two miles from 37, and it was now 3 pm, I suggested a little more enthusiastically that they might want to turn around and spend another night at 37. This wasn't acceptable, which made me glad that the trail in front of them was uphill, as I didn't think they would make it to the gap tonight. I left, and quickly passed his dour faced, exhausted companions.
Camp #37 was as zoo like as I remembered, but I got onto the Low Gap trail and quickly headed uphill toward the AT again, taking an hour dinner break at the last stream crossing before the AT. I had plenty of time, even if I was beginning to tire, and it wasn't even 6 when I reached the AT at Low Gap, completely alone. I wasn't worried about running into thruhikers now, as they would be safely enscounced at the Cosby Knob or Davenport Gap shelters. At least the ones that I had talked to so far seemed like they would not relish the idea of hiking past 5 pm. So, I had the sun, the flowers, and the trail all to myself, and started the walk up to Mount Cammerer assured of some solitude.
Mount Cammerer was, perhaps, my favorite place in the entire park. With a lofty view over the entire east end of the park, one can pick out the most amazing ridges, coves, and spur mountains, gaining ideas for future trips while letting the eyes roam. I tried picking off the other places that I had been, but became confused and disoriented at the tower. It was sunny, I was alone, and it was perfect. I stripped down again and pranced about, more than three thousand feet above the cars I could just barely see racing down I-40. I put on some warm clothes, despite it being in the low 60s, and ate some more banana bread and Nutella before tucking into the last of the Beam. At nightfall, three section hikers showed up, one of which was a 2002 SOBO thruhiker, whose name I cannot remember (his dog was Limp Biscuit). They fell asleep quickly inside, while I slept on the rampart outside, with the lights of the outskirts of Knoxville shining far away. A last night in the Smokys, and the stars were out, a warm breeze blew, and I knew that I had made the right choice.
The sunrise woke me up, and I was heading downhill on a mission for some biscuits and gravy down in Cosby. I passed eight thruhikers making the climb up to Mount Cammerer, though I did little other than wave at them and say goodmorning. A short break at Low Gap, then down, down, down to Cosby. Standing at the end of the end of the trail, I couldn't look back at the park, couldn't really admit that I was leaving this special place, perhaps for good. I kept my eyes on the pavement till I reached my car and the parking lot, took off my stinky clothes and got into some cotton. I had hiked almost 52 miles in two days and a morning, with nearly 12,000 feet of elevation gain, and my body was tired. Biscuits and gravy awaited me at a little joint outside of the park, and there was no reason to put off the parting. As I rolled out of the park, I managed one glance through my rear view mirror, regretting it as soon as I did it. I didn't want to say goodbye, and so I simply put my arm out the window and waved back to the park.
Early Friday morning saw me awake before it was light out, with tent down, and the high ridges above me on my mind. Walking through the campground in Cosby, I was unsure if my route was really the wisest of moves. I was fat and soft after a long winter of visiting the AYCE Indian buffet in Bloomington and drinking copious amounts of homebrew. Today was going to start with a 3300 foot climb in 5.3 miles up the Snake Den Ridge trail to the Appalachian trail. I had another roughly 3000 feet of gain over the other 20 miles of the days hike, which might prove to much. My belly hanging over the hipbelt of my pack seemed like strong evidence that it was. Regarless, I set off climbing slowly and methodically at 6:45, switchbacking up the old road bed until it became true trail, then sweated my way all the way to the top without incident. It seemed that perhaps appearances might be deceiving. Standing on the AT, fully lathered in sweat, with the cold air blowing, and without much of a view, I thought it might be wise to continue down the trail a little before stopping for a break.
While my intentions were good, and I did actually sit down at a pretty overlook, the break amounted to a five minute body cooling session while I had a smoke. Two, four, twelve, eventually fourty two hikers crossed my path heading north, as I walked south, during the nine mile stretch between Snake Den Ridge and Pecks Corner. I stopped at the Hughes Ridge trail junction where there was an obvious thruhiker named Chillout sitting, eating some lunch. I stopped as well, and soon another thruhiker stopped, carrying a fully loaded 7000 ci pack. Another thru showed up. And another. I decided to take a real break and have a little lunch, which would give me a chance to see how the thruhikers were shaping up. Two more showed. Then another two. Then another named Catepiller. Then another. Everuone seemed out of water, but no one wanted to walk down to the shelter and then even further down to get water. Tins of sardines were broken out and mashed together with oily tuna in real stink fest that turned comical. One thruhiker set the top of the tuna can on a rock in the middle of the trail, leaving a small oil stain on a rock,, which drew the ire of another, since "There is no reason to attract animals to the middle of the trail." A split second before I burst out in laughter, I realized he was serious and wanted to laugh even more. A discussion ensued over the merits of Mountain Momas and Standing Bear. When I volunteered that it was only a day and a half from Davenport to Hot Springs, some of the hikers were incredulous, other nodded sagely. The one who objected to the oil slick on the rock thought the 33 miles from Davenport to Hot Springs was more like two solid, hard days. I decided not to make a second pass at giving advice and let them figure things out on their own.
Dropping down on the Hughes Ridge trail, I again recovered the solitude that I had on the climb up the Snake Den. Silent, except for the wind and the birds, the woods were beginning to greenout, but the lay of the land was still remarkably apparent. Hughes Ridge runs due south off the AT ridgeline and stays up for the most part, giving long views off the east and the west. Finally beginning the descent off the ridge, I popped over onto the Enloe Creek trail to continue the plunge down. Enloe Creek was relatively untouched by both settlers and loggers, and has a distinctly wild feel to its first growth forest, one of the few tracts in the park. Even better, the trail was littered with thousands of perfectly ripe ramps. There is a ban on ramp collecting in the park, but I was on a rarely used trail, with ramps a plenty, and thought that Nature would not miss the seven that I took out of the ground at various locations to spice up my evening meal.
Enloe Creek bottomed out at Camp #47, where I saw two photographers snapping shots of the raging creek, and began the steep climb out of creek bottom and back up onto the next ridge. I was going against the grain of the land, and I was getting tired. I began to count steps, and curse every sale that the grocery store had on half gallons of Edys Icecream. I lost the strength to swear inventively, and so had to resort to talking to the rocks to keep my mind off how tired my body was getting. Getting to Hyatt Ridge didn't end the climb, it simply meant that I had a different trail to walk on, but still up hill. I flopped over in the dust to rest before continuing, unable to roll a smoke because my hands, shorts, and shirt were soaked in sweat and the papers would tear everytime I tried to roll. This was as good of an excuse as any to sit and do nothing.
Refreshed from my longer-than-usual break, I had little difficulty making it up to the top of the climb and along the trail to Camp #44 at McGee springs, a very remote and wild campsite. About a half mile before the campsite was the most perfect stealth site, complete with soft, tall grass, and a view down to the valley below. It also had no water, and I was dry. McGee spring was flowing nicely, its location cleverly marked with a pile of white rocks, and I fetched water before settling in for the night. I pitched my new Tarptent and began boiling up a double Koren noodle feast complete with ramps and rampgreens. Desert consisted of banana bread and Nutella, along with half a bottle of Jim Beam. I was feeling ready for another five or six miles as the sun went down, partially because of the Vitamin I had taken, partially because of the Beam, and partially because it was so pretty out, it seemed like a shame for the day to end.
In the morning I rolled out at the obscenely late hour of 8 am, heading (plunging) down to Straight Fork road, where there was a cold ford of a river, a fisherman, and a park ranger, all doing about the same amount of work. The other side of the ford held a 2000 foot climb up to Beech Gap in a short 2.5 miles, followed by another 700 feet of the most spectacular ridge climbing in the park up Balsam mountain. Up high and wet once again from my body sweating out the built up cheeseburgers of an entire winter, I flopped over in sunny grass at Laurel Gap shelter, very glad that the climbing was over for a little while. No one was around, and so I took off my clothes and laid about, letting them dry and my body rest. I didn't have much to rush for today, as I was only going to Mount Cammerer, perhaps 13 miles away, with a puny 2200 feet of gain. Plus, I was intending to sleep at the tower, another no-no for the park, and wanted to get there well after the day hikers and thruhikers had passed by. So, I dozed in the sun.
Refreshed again, I set out down the almost flat Mount Sterling Ridge trail, passing college kids from Grand Rapids, with machetes on their packs and much duck tape on their feet, before dropping down, steeply, on the Swallow Fork trail, heading to Big Creek and Camp #37, the zoo-iest campsite outside of Cades Cove. Two miles down the trail, around 3 pm, I ran into a large man with a large pack, who was looking frustrated and tired. I stopped to talk with him for a few minutes, and our conversation ran about like this:
"How much further is the next campsite?"
"Um, which campsite?"
"The one in a mile or so."
"The closest one is about seven miles away, all uphill."
"No way!"
"Where are you trying to go?"
"I don't know."
"What trail are you on?"
"Um, I don't know that either."
I suggested that he might want to turn around, as it was all uphill to the gap, and then a bunch more of uphill to make it to Mount Sterling. He confessed that his partners behind him had some maps. They had stayed at a camp near a bridge (it could only be 37) the night before, and got a late, 1 pm start this morning. As we were two miles from 37, and it was now 3 pm, I suggested a little more enthusiastically that they might want to turn around and spend another night at 37. This wasn't acceptable, which made me glad that the trail in front of them was uphill, as I didn't think they would make it to the gap tonight. I left, and quickly passed his dour faced, exhausted companions.
Camp #37 was as zoo like as I remembered, but I got onto the Low Gap trail and quickly headed uphill toward the AT again, taking an hour dinner break at the last stream crossing before the AT. I had plenty of time, even if I was beginning to tire, and it wasn't even 6 when I reached the AT at Low Gap, completely alone. I wasn't worried about running into thruhikers now, as they would be safely enscounced at the Cosby Knob or Davenport Gap shelters. At least the ones that I had talked to so far seemed like they would not relish the idea of hiking past 5 pm. So, I had the sun, the flowers, and the trail all to myself, and started the walk up to Mount Cammerer assured of some solitude.
Mount Cammerer was, perhaps, my favorite place in the entire park. With a lofty view over the entire east end of the park, one can pick out the most amazing ridges, coves, and spur mountains, gaining ideas for future trips while letting the eyes roam. I tried picking off the other places that I had been, but became confused and disoriented at the tower. It was sunny, I was alone, and it was perfect. I stripped down again and pranced about, more than three thousand feet above the cars I could just barely see racing down I-40. I put on some warm clothes, despite it being in the low 60s, and ate some more banana bread and Nutella before tucking into the last of the Beam. At nightfall, three section hikers showed up, one of which was a 2002 SOBO thruhiker, whose name I cannot remember (his dog was Limp Biscuit). They fell asleep quickly inside, while I slept on the rampart outside, with the lights of the outskirts of Knoxville shining far away. A last night in the Smokys, and the stars were out, a warm breeze blew, and I knew that I had made the right choice.
The sunrise woke me up, and I was heading downhill on a mission for some biscuits and gravy down in Cosby. I passed eight thruhikers making the climb up to Mount Cammerer, though I did little other than wave at them and say goodmorning. A short break at Low Gap, then down, down, down to Cosby. Standing at the end of the end of the trail, I couldn't look back at the park, couldn't really admit that I was leaving this special place, perhaps for good. I kept my eyes on the pavement till I reached my car and the parking lot, took off my stinky clothes and got into some cotton. I had hiked almost 52 miles in two days and a morning, with nearly 12,000 feet of elevation gain, and my body was tired. Biscuits and gravy awaited me at a little joint outside of the park, and there was no reason to put off the parting. As I rolled out of the park, I managed one glance through my rear view mirror, regretting it as soon as I did it. I didn't want to say goodbye, and so I simply put my arm out the window and waved back to the park.