We were headed to the Nealon family lake house, about an hour North of Gatlinburg on Norris Lake, and to Erin and I it really was like going home. In eighth grade, Erin’s family took the two of us on a spring break trip to Norris, which Erin and I had prepared for by using puffy paint to decorate matching boxer shorts with phrases like “Spring Break Tennessee” and “Homies 4EVA” and “Anti Sweat Leaf” (in eighth grade we had very firmly bought into the no drinking, no drugs, no sex mantra being drilled into us by teachers and parents). It was on that first trip that Erin’s parents found the land where they would eventually build their house, and through the years we spent countless weekends and holidays roaming the nearby hills and splashing in the lake. The lake house had become one of my favorite places to be, because, at over thirty minutes to even the nearest convenience store, there was nothing to do there but relax.
After spending almost two and a half weeks in the woods, it was a bit of an odd choice to take our first day off at a house surrounded by the woods, but the lake house suited us perfectly. The three of us wanted nothing more than to lay around, eat home-cooked food, watch TV, check our email, use the phone, and maybe drink a beer or two. I spent a good deal of my time talking to friends and family, and of course, Kevin. I talked to my two closest friends, Bethany and Hadley, who were both recently engaged and in the throes of wedding planning, full of news about dresses and venues and engagement parties. It was my first realization that while I had withdrawn from society, life was continuing on for those I loved, and I felt a twinge of sadness for what I was going to miss over the coming months. The rest of my time, I alternately laid on the couch in front of the TV and sat on the deck playing board games, always with something edible within inches of my mouth. By the time we headed back to Gatlinburg I was, for the first time since beginning the hike, fully rested.
We had resupplied our food the day before, but decided to stop in Gatlinburg at an outfitter called the Happy Hiker before driving up the mountain back to Newfound Gap. After picking up a few odds and ends, a fuel canister for Mike, a new water bottle for Erin, we stood outside while the store owner took our picture. Like several outfitters and hostels along the trail, the Happy Hiker took photos of thru-hikers who had made it to that point and hung them along the rafters. We looked at past years’ photos and found one of Cara, whose trail name had been Supergirl, taken during her thru-hike in 1999, and imagined finding ourselves there in several years.
As we were heading out the door, Erin started giggling uncontrollably.
“Wha…” I started, but then looked to my right and instantly realized the source of her laughter was a giant sign for a restaurant called the Burning Bush.
“Oh my god, you guys have to get a picture,” I told Erin and her mom.
“You girls are so bad,” Cathy chided, but still posed for a picture of the two redheaded women in front of a Burning Bush sign.
Still laughing, the four of us packed back into the little Dodge Neon and headed up the winding road. On the left we passed four hikers we recognized from the Happy Hiker, thumbs out, looking for a hitch back up the mountain. Erin and I gave them a wave and a look saying “sorry, we totally would but we can’t,” a look we had seen and resented many times ourselves from passing motorists. It was nearly 11am when we finally reached Newfound Gap, and the parking area was already crowded with cars. We were finishing up our goodbyes and taking a few final pictures when a van pulled up behind us and the four hikers from the road filed out.
“Dude, you guys totally gave us the shrug off,” laughed one of the hikers from the van, a good looking guy around our age with a scruff of brown hair and the customary hikers’ beard.
“We were in a Neon! There was no room!” Erin protested, laughing along with him. He introduced himself as Pilgrim, a shorter guy with a big grin and even bigger calf muscles as Sugar High, Pilgrim’s best friend from home, and a stocky, bearded man and beautiful, willowy woman with two-brown braids as Lucky and Sparrow, a couple from Tennessee. We all stood around chatting before we started up the trail. Pilgrim charmed us with his story of his mission to collect “flair” from every state, showing us the battery powered NASCAR radio that was his Tennessee memorabilia, and Lucky laughing about all the trail names he considered and then rejected, like “Notgonnamakeit.”
We came across the four of them several times throughout the day, and fell into a comfortable rhythm of teasing and joking. They felt like instant kindred spirits, serious about hiking, but ultimately wanting to have fun. I was disappointed that night when I headed down the side trail to the shelter and ran into them walking the other way.
“Are you guys heading on?” I asked. It was almost dark, and the next shelter was at least another five miles.
“Yeah…” Sparrow told me, wistfully, “Lucky and I have to get off the trail for a couple of days for a wedding and we need to get through the Smokies the day after tomorrow to meet my parents.”
“Ahh… well, be careful, it's pretty icy out there. I hope to see you guys again. Happy hiking.”
“Yeah, we’ll see you up the trail,” she said, a common refrain among hikers.
“Just make sure to give us a ride next time,” Sugar High teased.
I watched as they headed up the trail, sad to see them go, and then turned and made my way down to the shelter.
The day had been long, but good, not filled with the angst and dread that usually accompanies returning to the trail. And it wasn’t just the thrill of meeting new people, but also the extraordinary beauty of the Smokies. Much of the trail that day followed a very narrow ridge, allowing sweeping views of lush green mountains on either side. I had spent all day alternatively scared I would fall down the mountain and amazed by where I found myself. And now, I sat on the shelter steps cooking my noodles and watching the sun go down and the sky turn a pinky orange, thinking how content I was. Cold, but content.
Eventually, one of the men staying at the shelter–there were a group of Michigan alum out for their annual get together–came and asked me about the little stove I was using. Instead of buying expensive propane backpacking stoves, Erin and I had made stoves out of soda cans (a trick we learned from Cara, the source of all our backpacking knowledge). We would prop our little hiker’s pots up on tent stakes over the stove, which we fueled with denatured alcohol readily available at hardware and grocery stores. The technique was fairly common among backpackers, who were always looking for ways to shave weight and save money, but was a source of interest for hikers out for a day or weekend, who seemed fascinated by our homemade gear. By the time I had finished my demonstration, which included some smack talk about Michigan football on my part (I went to Big Ten rival Purdue), and I had eaten my noodles, the sun had completely set.
The next day we were reminded why the Smokies were so named, as a thick fog covered the mountains most of the day, making it impossible to see more than a hundred feet ahead. Much of the trail was covered in patches of ice and snow and as I struggled to stay upright, I thought about Pilgrim, Sugar High, Lucky, and Sparrow, trying to make their way in the dark the evening before. By the time I reached the shelter that night, the fog had lifted, but I was exhausted from my many falls and near wipeouts. I was relieved to see only Mike and Erin waiting for me, rather than the crowds we had come to expect in the Smokies. Soon, we were joined by a ridge runner, who told us he was responsible for maintaining the section of the trail and its shelters from Newfound Gap to the northern end of the Smokies, which we would cross the next day. The four of us played cards, deciding that the losers had to collect firewood for the evening. Throughout the game, as the ridge runner talked, I couldn’t help but stare at his abnormally large teeth. I wasn’t the only one who noticed, because in the morning, Erin elbowed me and pointed to a toilet bowl brush poking out of the ridge runner’s pack, and whispered, “Do you think that’s his toothbrush?”
After hiking a couple of miles that morning, Erin and I came upon Mike sitting on a rock, reading his trail guide, waiting for us. All of us carried “The Thru-Hiker's Handbook” an AT guide created by a former thru-hiker named Wingfoot. The Handbook contained mileage logs for the entire trail, as well as descriptions of amenities, lodging, and even hand drawn maps of the towns along the trail. Although it wasn’t always 100% accurate, it was an invaluable resource, and one we pored over every night, trying to figure out where we wanted to go the next day, and where our next resupply stop would be.
“Wingfoot says there is a store called Mountain Mamas about a mile off the trail at Davenport Gap where we can get burgers,” Mike told us. “We should go. It says the owner will give us a ride back up to the trail.”
We flew the five miles down to the gap, propelled by visions of hot food, and had hiked over seven miles by 10:30 in the morning. About a quarter mile after leaving the trail, we saw a handwritten sign reading “Mountain Moma’s Store” with an arrow pointing down the winding asphalt road.
“Do you think her name is actually Moma?” I asked, pronouncing it like the MOMA. “Or did they misspell mama?”
“That Moma, she can’t spell for shit, but she sure can cook!” Erin twanged.
“I hope she can cook… I’ll be pissed if we walk a mile out our way for nothing,” added Mike, voicing what we all felt. Like many thru-hikers, we hated to walk anything that wasn’t a “trail mile,” and usually only the promise of food or shelter would lure us off the trail, and even then, we would try to hitch a ride for even short distances, often waiting much longer for a ride than it would have taken us to walk. It was very rare for us to take any of the many side trails that led to spectacular overlooks or waterfalls along the trail (VERY rare). It was an awful feeling to realize you had veered off the trail somehow and needed to backtrack. We were happy to hike, but only if it meant forward progress.
After twenty minutes on the road, we spotted a small wooden cabin, and out front on picnic benches, sat Pilgrim, Sugar High, and Sparrow. Lucky was loading his pack into the back of a car driven by an older couple.
“Are you guys taking off?” I asked as we approached, remembering that he and Sparrow were headed home for a wedding.
“Yeah, dude, we’ll be back on the trail in a couple of days. It sucks, I don’t know if we’ll be able to catch back up with these guys,” Lucky said, nodding to Pilgrim and Sugar High.
After a round of hellos and goodbyes, we watched the four of them climb into the car. Pilgrim and Sugar High were being dropped off at the trailhead, and I was excited to learn that they planned on hiking to the same shelter where we hoped to hike to that evening.
“Hey, this is kinda like payback. Later!” laughed Pilgrim as they took off back up the winding road, leaving us standing in front of the store. We left our packs outside and opened the door to Mountain Momas (the sign above the door also had an O), instantly overwhelmed by a combination of cigarette smoke and home perm. The building was divided into two sections, a small convenience store on one side, and a deli counter with several booths on the other. On the deli counter side were two older ladies, one sitting on a folding chair while the other rolled her hair in tight rows of curlers. Both had long skinny cigarettes dangling from their mouths.
“Let us know when y’all are ready and we’ll fix ya whatever you want!” shouted the woman in the chair, who I assumed was Moma, with a raspy country drawl. We quickly looked over the menu–every single item was fried–put in our orders and rushed outside for some fresh air.
“Dude, do you think the burgers are seasoned with perm solution?” Erin whispered to me.
Our food was delivered by the beautician, who told us, “If y’all want a ride back up the mountain, you’re going to have to wait for Mama’s perm to set.” Even though we had no idea how long that would take, and we had eleven miles still to hike, we told her we’d wait. I quickly ate my french fries and chicken sandwich that was so drowned in mayonnaise I doubt I could have tasted home perm if it had been there. We stood around literally kicking rocks until an hour later when Moma/Mama came out in a housecoat and slippers, tight gray curls covering her head.
“Come on and get in my van and I’ll take y’all back up the hill. Yous might need to move some things around to all fit,” Moma told us, cigarette still dangling from her lip.
We shifted around a mound of junk and Erin and I situated ourselves in the back, while Mike slid into the front seat. Erin and I were always more than happy to volunteer to squeeze in the backseat of a car, or sit in the open bed of a pickup truck, because the person in the front had the job of talking to the driver, and often, it was a struggle. Erin and I smiled to ourselves as we listened to Moma’s constant stream of chatter and Mike’s polite murmurs back. With one last waft of home perm and smoke, Moma dropped us off at the trailhead and sped back down the mountain.
We started back up the trail, now officially out of Smoky Mountain National Park, and I instantly fell behind the other two. My stomach felt like it had a brick in it and my muscles were tight from sitting around. The trail changed, too. Where in the Smokies the trail was well maintained and always scenic, this portion of the trail was rocky and if it’s possible, ugly. The trail was a series of switchbacks that looked as if it was recently dug, with exposed roots, loose rocks and dirt strewn all down the mountainside. We’d crossed under I-40 and the unwelcome sounds of trucks and cars accompanied the climb. I shuffled along, my mood darkened. I felt queasy and was upset when I realized that because I had forgotten to refill my water at the store, I was now completely out of water. Behind me, I heard voices, and turned to see a long line of teenagers gaining on me. I stepped to the side of the trail to let them pass, annoyed with myself that I was moving so slow. My stomach lurched. I waited until the group was out of sight, put my hands on my knees, and vomited, tears streaming down my face as I muttered to no one, “fucking Mountain Moma.”