We said goodbye to my name-giving trail runner and headed up the steep trail and into the Smokies. Right away, the trail was more populated than any before it. It was March 9th and spring break was in full swing. I took particular pleasure in easily passing a group of loud college age men, loaded down by their too-full packs. It was tangible confirmation that even though most days I still felt slow and out of shape, I was actually getting stronger.
That night, Erin, Mike, and I, as well as a few other thru-hikers, sat around a fire with four spring breakers. They were full of questions about thru-hiking, and Erin and I lapped up the attention, eager to make what had been a pretty rough few weeks seem more glamorous. I noticed that Mike seemed unusually moody.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
“I fucking hate thoughtless hikers,” he grumbled, pointing to one of the spring breakers who had tossed an orange peel on the ground in front of the shelter. “They’re fucking dangerous.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t realize…”
“Then he shouldn’t fucking be out here!” Mike said as he picked up the peel, tossed it in his garbage bag, and stomped off.
Erin caught my eye and I gave her a little shrug. Mike wasn’t wrong that food left lying around would bring animals, and the Smokies were known for their abundance of black bears. By now, it was second nature to us to make sure no trace of food was left around the shelter, any food prepared had to be eaten, and all wrappers, food scraps, and cooking instruments went into our food bags. In most shelters, we hung the food bags from strings at the front of the structure, meant to prevent mice from chewing through them. However, in areas with a known bear population, we hung our bags from trees or poles designed to keep the food out of the bears’ reach. Because the Smokies attract so many visitors, the park also attracts animals who are conditioned by humans’ tendency to leave food out. And while most backpackers, whether they are thru-hikers or just out for a weekend, understand the importance of keeping a clean campsite, there are always a few who don’t know, or worse, don’t care. So, while Mike’s concern was certainly understandable, his anger seemed uncharacteristic.
Even sunshine and clear skies the next day didn’t do anything to change his outlook. I reached the shelter that night and didn’t see Mike anywhere. I realized that I hadn’t seen him all day, which was unusual.
“Where’s Mike?” I asked Erin, who had arrived before me.
“He took off. He said he wanted to get away from people, so he was going to try to make it to Clingman’s Dome tonight.” Clingman’s Dome was another five miles up the trail.
“What’s his deal?”
“I don’t know,” Erin said, “but his attitude sucks, so it's probably for the best.”
I had to agree with her. I looked around at our shelter-mates, and saw that we’d be spending the night with a group of obnoxious 50-something year old men, and a couple of frat boys, just the type of hikers to send Mike into a rage.
Erin pointed to the shelter, where the men were busy spreading out the contents of their massive packs, bragging about their past adventures, and trying in vain to start a fire, and whispered, “I’ve dubbed it the Tool Shed.”
“Holy shit,” I laughed, “you’re not kidding. Hey! Do you think it scares the frat boys that they are glimpsing their future… here’s you in 30 years?”
“Let’s show them how to make a fire.” Erin and I gathered wood, and quickly started a blazing fire.
Total. Badasses. I wrote in the margins of Erin’s journal. Just like we’d passed notes all through middle school and high school, Erin and I had taken to writing little notes in the margins of each other’s journals when we wanted to have a private conversation in a crowded shelter.
“Thanks…” one of the men said, “I was just about to do that.”
Between the chorus of snores and the howls of coyotes throughout the night, neither Erin nor I slept well that night. The next morning, we woke extra early and quietly gathered our stuff while the Tool Shed continued to snooze.
“What time is your mom supposed to meet us?” I asked. “Seeing your mom and my mom in one week, it’s like Bring Your Mom to the Trail week up in here!”
“Mom-a-polooza?” Erin asked.
“Mom-pocolypse?” I countered.
“No.” Erin shook her head. “She’ll be there at noon.”
“We better get a move on,” I said as I buckled the hip belt to my pack. We were meant to meet Erin’s mom at Newfound Gap, a parking area that crossed the trail about halfway through the Smokies, and we would need to do twelve miles before noon. From the gap, Erin’s mom would drive us to her family’s lake house in Tennessee where we would spend two nights, including our very first zero day—our first full day without hiking.
We hiked along at a fairly fast clip, which proved harder to maintain the closer we got to Clingman’s dome. Clingman’s dome is the highest point on the Appalachian Trail, at 6643 feet, and even in March, the trail at that altitude stays covered in snow and ice. Several times throughout the morning, Erin and I found ourselves flat on our backs, unable to keep our footing on the slick iced trail.
“Do you think Mike will be there?” I asked Erin as we walked gingerly, trying to avoid falling yet again. Mike had been invited to come with us to Erin’s lake house.
“I don’t know; he didn’t say anything about it before he took off yesterday.”
We managed to reach the parking lot at Newfound gap a few minutes before noon, and though it was crowded with tourists who would never make it further into the park than the lookout spot in the parking lot, we had no trouble finding Erin’s mom, Cathy, who has the same flaming red hair as Erin. Next to her stood a sheepish-looking Mike, who had decided to join us after all. After sweaty hugs from Erin and I, Cathy piled the three of us into her Dodge Neon.
“Okay, you three,” she said as she started down the windy road to Gatlinburg, “let’s get you home.”