Land of Sharp Edges (Part 8 of 9)

The rock faces that I continued to encounter pushed me further and further away from the cascade and up the slope of the creek valley. I hated to lose contact with the cascade because I had visualized myself following it all the way to its source, but the ridge that I was ascending was too comforting to pass up. Although I had never been on this particular ridge before, it felt very familiar. It was steep but not dangerously so. It was heavily wooded so I knew there was enough soil to support the trees – another sign of manageable terrain. There would be less rock and more dirt than what I had been crawling on for several hours. Although I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, I knew there was an end of the tunnel up ahead.

This ridge was thick with trees, Mountain Laurel, briers, and other obstructions, but it was a pleasant relief from the cliffs and cascade. My sissy gene liked this route better, so I followed the one main rule of hiking up a ridge – when in doubt, go up. My partners and I had become well acquainted with this rule. It’s one that never fails, and it didn’t fail me this day. Later on, after we were all reunited at the top, Greg said that he spent a few minutes sitting among the bushes, wondering what to do next, when he heard me pushing and crashing along the ridge less than 100 yards away. He watched me make my way toward the top. Once again, being a guy of few words, he didn’t say whether this gave him comfort or more frustration at his own plight.

Keith and Charlie had apparently crossed a rocky scar at a different place than Greg did which highlighted how much luck is a part of this process of picking your way around rocky scars and faces and through mountain laurel thickets. In this kind of terrain, you tend to hike in ten or twenty foot segments. You don’t usually have the luxury of looking far ahead and seeing the big picture. You just try to get from point A to point B, and point B is rarely more than a few yards away. Only after you arrive at point B can you begin to look for point C. Sometimes the route you take leads to the end of the tunnel, sometimes it runs you into another wall. It’s a lot like rolling dice. Sometime you get lucky and sometimes you don’t. Keith and Charlie managed to find a path of least resistance that evaded Greg. At one point he was in such tight quarters that he had to take his pack off and tie a rope to it so he could climb over a rocky spot and pull his pack up after him. I think that was one of those spots that he didn’t want to be in. If he has a sissy gene, it was probably causing him to wonder – like I had – if there really was a path to the top and how much a search and rescue mission costs, and who pays for it?.

About an hour after we had split up – yes, it took us about an hour to travel that final 300 feet – Keith and Charlie reached the top, a mere 100 feet from the northernmost overlook at the top of the Jumpoff. At about the same time, I pushed through the bushes at the top of my nameless ridge. As I stood on the trail at the top, it seemed too small to be the AT or the Boulevard. Could it actually be the thin trail that runs along the edge of the Jumpoff? After walking a minute or two, I passed the southernmost overlook of the Jumpoff. Somehow my ridge had topped out not near the AT as I had expected, but about 200 feet from the southern end of the Jumpoff.

I went to the middle of the Jumpoff overlook and yelled for Greg, wondering where he was. [To be continued]

 

Night Moves (2 of 7 on the AT)

Many years ago, I spent a week with three friends hiking the 70 miles of the Appalachian Trail in the Smoky Mountains. The four of us spent our fifth night in our old friend, Icewater Spring shelter. I’ve spent more nights in the Smokies in this shelter than anywhere else in the park. It’s also the park’s most heavily-used shelter because it’s only a three mile hike from Newfound Gap, and it can serve as a gateway to a nice hike up Mt. LeConte or to Charlies Bunion.

We slept well that night. Eventually…

When Allen started screaming, my response was to hunker down deeper in my sleeping bag, hoping that whatever was killing him would not notice me. After a few seconds I heard Joey talking to him, calming him down. At that point, I realized, through the fog of sleep, that we were not being killed and eaten by a bear. It was one of Allen’s nighttime episodes. I had heard that he sometimes would wake up at night screaming, but I hadn’t experienced it until that night at Icewater Spring. Allen had been my most consistent backpacking partner during that period in my life, but it was times like this that I wondered if maybe we should have put each other through an application process. Question 1: Have you ever backpacked before? (Because you don’t want to have to babysit your backpacking partner.) Question 2: How fast can you run? (Because you don’t have to outrun a bear; you only have to outrun your hiking partner.) Question 3: Do you ever wake up screaming in the middle of the night? (Because I don’t like a wet sleeping bag.)

Nevertheless, we made it through the night just fine. Until the mice started their nightly escapades.

These old shelters are rustic, solid, and secure. Well, they were secure several years ago. Today there’s no front on them, but for many years there was a chain link fence and gate across the front to keep out the bears, which was important because we hikers would hang our food in bags from the rafters. The mice loved it.

There were two approaches to dealing with the mice: deterrence and acquiescence. The deterrence approach entailed using a plastic or metal lid with a small hole punched in the middle. You would slide the lid onto the rope holding your food bag from the rafters. Except for the case of unusually acrobatic mice, the critters couldn’t get all the way down the rope to the food bag. This approach usually worked, but when it didn’t, you’d end up with holes chewed in your food bag and in your packets of gorp, milk powder, noodles, and cheese. Acquiescence meant forgoing the lid and just leaving your food bag exposed and open. It was sort of like going through customs in a third world country. You’d leave a little “gift” in your luggage for the inspector, and he’d let you in. The mice in the shelters operated in the same fashion. You cooperate, the mice get their small share, and everyone parts as friends in the morning.

I finally settled on a combination of the two approaches. I’d use the lid on the rope, but I’d keep my food bag open. If the mouse made it past the lid, he’d have easy access to my food bag, and I’d end up with a corner of my gorp bag chewed but no holes in my backpack or food bag. Not a high price to pay, as long as the mouse didn’t get mad about the lid on the rope and exact his revenge while I slept.

Sometime during the night the skunks made their entrance. They’d usually just wander around looking for food scraps, and when they were finished, they’d leave by whatever hole they had entered. Only once did I have to get up out of bed and let a skunk out the front gate. He needed help getting out and seemed genuinely appreciative for the favor. He didn’t spray me.

That night at Icewater Spring, behind the chain link fence, we were visited by mice and skunks, but no bears. But it did rain, which was perfect percussion music for sleeping. Which we finally did, when all the screaming stopped.

 

Don't Do It! (Part 6 of 6)

After spending 4 ½ hours hiking, sliding, and finally crawling up Porters Creek manway, we arrived at the Appalachian Trail on the main ridgecrest with a surprise. For the past hour we thought we had been headed far east of Charlies Bunion and Dry Sluice Gap, farther east than we had hoped. Instead, we came out onto the AT where we had originally intended – just a few yards away from Dry Sluice Gap and about a quarter mile east of Charlies Bunion. Trusting the cairns all day had taken us up the tough, “don’t do it” route, exactly what we had wanted to do. While we had been ascending, I had been thinking: “If this is an easier, safer route then I really won’t be able to come down the old ‘don’t do it’ route. I’m not even sure I can descend this easy route.” But as it turned out, we had ascended the “don’t do it” route, and it hadn’t been too bad. Trust the cairns.

Once we were on the AT we spent a few minutes walking to Charlies Bunion – just a five minute walk to the west. But we soon had to make a decision. It was getting close to 2 pm, so we didn’t have a lot of day light left on this mid-December day. Should we walk about 20 minutes to the east and try to find an easier route down Porters Mountain? What if such a route doesn’t exist? What if it does exist, but its intersection with the AT isn’t obvious? What if there is more than one spot that looks like a Porters Mountain trail? If we walk 20 minutes and haven’t found it, how much longer do we walk looking for it? What if we do find it, but it’s not easier?

We could potentially waste an hour looking for another route that we weren’t certain even existed. So, we decided to go down the way we had come up. This would be exactly what the old Sierra Club trail guide had warned against: “Nobody should attempt to descend this trail from the AT. The latter section is the most difficult and dangerous stretch of trail described in this entire handbook. Don’t do it!”

Until that moment I had assumed that we might not do it. We would ascend that segment, but we wouldn’t try to descend it. But lack of daylight pushed us down the way we had ascended. So we stepped off the AT and back onto the old Porters Creek manway. We were able to stay on two feet most of the time, but occasionally I’d switch to a crab walk using all fives – two hands, two feet, and my butt – to drag and bounce down the slope. The result? Dirty hands and feet and butt, but otherwise fine. There was some slipping and sliding on wet rocks and a lot of holding on to those same trees, rocks, and roots that had helped us on the ascent, but it was enjoyable – as long as I kept my butt or hands on the ground and stepped carefully, often crab style. In fact, descending in this manner enabled me to see more of the surrounding forest, slopes, and valleys than on the ascent. Like before, being cautious and deliberate made it a bit stressful, but interesting – just the right level of adventure for a couple of middle-aged hikers in decent, but not great, shape.

We got past this steep, topmost section in about 15 minutes, reentered the creekbed, and soon encountered a four foot high cairn that we had passed on the way up and had wondered what it meant. Now we knew: “Brave hearts to the front, cowards to the rear. It is a good day to die!” I know, I know, that’s a bit overdramatic, but I love that quote by Crazy Horse, and unless I decide to climb a waterfall and somehow manage to survive and write about it, this may be my best chance to use it.

But, of course, we didn’t die. In fact, the hike back was beautiful, long, and uneventful – as most hikes in the Smokies are. We arrived back at the car just as dusk was settling in. Sometimes when you are warned not to do something, it’s best not to do it. But this wasn’t one of those times. Instead, we had been careful, managed not to get lost, survived without injury, and loved every minute of it. We were glad we did it.

And the next time we’ll be better prepared. I’ve always thought of walking or running as being the best ways to prepare for a hike. Now I can add crab walking to that list. On flat land. Up stairs. Down stairs. Just keep your butt near the ground and scamper around on your hands and feet. When someone asks what in the world you are doing, you can casually say, “Getting in shape for a hike” as if the answer should have been obvious.

Be sure to pay attention to the look on their face.

NOTE: An earlier article in the series of six on Porters Creek manway has detailed directions for this old, old route. Porters Creek manway (aka Dry Sluice manway) is an extension of Porters Creek Trail. The manway begins at the wooden #31 marker at the campsite at the end of Porters Creek Trail.