From Streaker to Stripper

(It ain’t what you think it is)

First off, I’m okay; I’m sitting by a fire at Laughing Heart Hostel, listening to a lot of great people laughing wonderfully healthy laughs, as so often happens on trail.

Thanks to those who texted their concern, noting that I was several days overdue for posting. Thanks also to those who figured out that I must be okay, for the tracking dots from my Garmin continued to move. As for the rest of you, … I’m just gonna assume you put your confidence in my ability to survive. In actual fact, I had to skip the hostel after the Smokies, due to widespread concern about there being norovirus there, and then I lost my phone in a rainstorm days ago, only to find it this afternoon in the tiny snack pocket of the arm of my pack (usually placed right above the pocket of my Fanny pack where my phone lives). Anyway, days ago, I walked four hours in the rain, mostly uphill, looking for that phone, until Nick came to check on me! Thanks to Nick and Cassandra for looking for it with me and later checking to see if I were okay when I was missing for too long. Here they are enjoying chocolate churros in Hot Springs, NC:

(Chipmunk is also pictured, although his four-foot dreadlocks didn’t make the pic.)

Okay, onto the story of the Smokies. This Vandy grad now has yet another reason to hate the song Rocky Top. Two tenths of a mile from the top of that mountain, my left quad sent many shocks of pain up my nervous system. The problem was that I had been overcompensating for a weak right knee by overusing my left leg on the big steps up during the twelve-mile ascent into the Smokies and then on this follow-up ascent the next day. As I sat there, considering how I would limp six more miles up and down mountains to the next shelter, thunder rang out somewhere far below. I channeled the effects of my adrenaline to get past the two bald peaks ahead of me, but I must have looked like someone sprinting in slow motion — with signs of full exertion amid little progress. I panted with great relief when I made it back down to the tree line on the other side of the balds. After I made it to the next peak amid pouring rain, it was time for a cathartic laugh: I had decided that I needed some music to get me through the remaining miles and I allowed iTunes to choose randomly from Trampled by Turtles for it; it chose “Central Hillside Blues” with its theme of being left in the rain:

When I finally made it into the shelter just before dark, Streaker (who has a streak of 33 consecutive NY marathons) noted he was about to come looking for me. That was also not the first time he had had such concern for my well-being late in the day over the several days we been hiking together, and it was great to have such a tramily (trail family) member. Streaker next wanted to look for Cactus Jack, who had yet to make it through the storm to us, but I assured him that the retired Army Corporal with Ranger training in Georgia had an abundance of knowledge about how to handle the situation — in part because I was in no condition to look for someone in a dark storm. So, our group ended the night separated, somber, wet, and very tired. I thought of Cactus Jack being out there between shelters that night. He had asked me if I were looking for a religious experience on mountain peaks; I told him no, but I could at that point add that one can be found amid a thunder storm on them. I hoped and prayed that Providence was taking care of him in a similar way.

Unfortunately, Streaker had previously developed vertigo from looking down too much while on the trail, and so he needs to go into town every few days. He and I were parted by the next storm, when I stopped short at an earlier shelter and he marched ahead of me through the storm towards a shuttle into town. I was happy later to read a text that Streaker saw Cactus Jack down in Gatlinburg during his zero day there. For the record, Streaker was faster on the downhills and I was faster (“cash money”, according to him) on the uphills, and so the name Cash Money has arisen once again, independent of the time the students gave it to me. It’s a better trail name than “Pouch” (for losing my phone in my tiny snack pouch while putting the rain cover over my pack.)

Right before I had paused to take a phone call, Streaker and I passed a southbound guy who refused to respond to our greetings. When I was waiting for the call, the guy returned northbound, refusing to acknowledge my greeting. When I saw him at the shelter (just before the storm) and introduced myself to him, he laughed at me. I started to get concerned. More people arrived, and the guy never introduced himself or said his name. He later revealed that he was wandering through the park, contrary to the permit that requires section hikers to have a preset itinerary from shelter to shelter. The next day, when I was going to be the last out of camp, I stopped “Moment” at the water source to ask him to hike with me for a bit. When we had hiked north for a quarter of a mile, the guy (who had originally been southbound) was waiting for us there! He said to the two of us, “Well, there’s no stopping you now.” I hiked very quickly up the mountain and Moment agreed to stick with me for a couple of miles.

(Moment at the “view” from Clingman’s Dome)

On the other side of Newfound Gap, where many people dropped into Gatlinburg, I found myself alone on the trail for six hours. Newcomers Rattler and Deano saw me into camp when my quad bothered me again after 13+ strong miles. Since there was yet another shelter closed due to aggressive bear activity (a bite this time), I took an easy day to rest my quad and prep for a longer day to follow. I passed the time talking Fundamental Theology with Blake while his home-schooled daughter “Zip” ran up the hills ahead of us. (Since homeschool moms were one of the test demographics for my book, I need to note here that I do not endorse the trail as a place for kids to be for an extended time.)

The storms had thrown off my planning, and I was running into my emergency foods. I actually ate the … Sizzle Pork And Mmm in my bag! Everyone took pity on my plight. Blake produced a tortilla; Rattler, some jerky and cheese; Nick and Cassandra some pickle bits given them earlier that day by trail angel Shooting Star, and so the Spam sandwich looked like this:

Truly, of the food you saw last post, I ate everything but some PB2, 2 spams, and a pack of elbow pasta. I got kinda anxious, guys.

The official Ridge Runner, Chris, stayed the night at our shelter, and he added to the voices of caution about the hostel outside the park. It was time to replan —quickly, due to my food situation—, but there was an 18-mile downhill ahead of me before that could happen. The next day, I coincided with Nick and Cassandra for a time, then Blake and Zip for a time, then all of us together. Nick and Cassandra, who had food, opted to pass the night on a level spot on an island in a stream. Blake and I, trying to avoid norovirus, researched another option, namely the emerging new hostel-like house by “Stripper” with a pick up at Pigeon River Bridge. Stripper, by the way, is a grandmother and recent thru-hiker who earned her name while volunteering time to maintain the trail, for she is good at stripping the bark from fallen trees in order to make steps and water buffers out of them on the trail. She (Julie) and John are great hosts, taking us to Super Walmart (where I was the smelliest person there — don’t judge me), lending us their grill, doing our laundry!, and putting Blake and Zip in their extra RV and me in their expansive lawn facing the hills we would be climbing:

Early the next day, we were back on trail, just as Nick and Cassandra passed the same bridge. When hanging with Nick and Cassandra, I tried to introduce them to jamgrass, in order to raise our spirits during the rain, but it backfired into losing my phone…. Sunshine (the happy American “Sunshine”, the one with fun stories, pictured below, not the other one) admired that I went uphill looking for my phone after a long day of hiking:

Well, it’s late, and tomorrow brings another long hike around closed campsites in aggressive bear country. We bid farewell to Blake and Zip (who hopes to learn Gabriel’s Oboe for flute), as they get off trail. Nick, Cassandra, Chipmunk, newcomer Sarah, and I will race Sunshine to the peak. He will ascend 4000 ft and take the long 20-mile northbound trip past bear country; Blake will shuttle the rest of us up trail to slack pack 3600 ft up and then the 4000 ft back down to Hot Springs over 15 miles — to return to the same point past bear country by shuttle the next day.

(It was great seeing Bob again, the perpetual scout one day ahead of me, as he slack packed back to here today. I hear Atlas and Trish have returned from Trail Days and that we may cross paths. It was great seeing T-Bone again on his trip back from Trail Days. Zipper, Streaker, now that I have a phone again, I can find y’all.

I miss y’all back home, and I think of y’all during the long days — when we are not singing, or talking of food, or talking of music, or talking of movies, or laughing about … camp-related issues, or calling attention to our sorrow about the weather with a loud cry of Sheryl Crow’s refrain “if it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?” The days have been long and difficult, the rains numerous and intense, prompting me to put on the same wet clothes for days on end, but the camaraderie has been helpful and fun, the views sometimes amazing, and the work so much better than desk work. I have some pics to share:

Goodbye, thrice-glued, ripped trail runners.