Several storms rolled over us during the night, but by six o’clock the next morning the rain had stopped and we were on the trail, headed for Fontana Dam. I had called ahead to the Hike Inn, a hostel near the dam, to check on available space. They were full; many hikers were out on the trail for the weekend.
Plan B was to stay at Fontana Lodge in the Fontana Village Resort. Just when we had become stinking, honest-to-goodness woodsmen, a resort was tossed our way to soften us up again. The village, a few miles off the trail, also offered a small grocery, an outfitter, and a post office. Fontana Dam was built during World War II, when the war effort demanded more electricity; the cottages in the village housed up to five thousand workers during construction of the dam. Now those cottages are vacation rentals and time-shares.
The rain brought fresh signs of new growth. Everywhere, vegetation was changing. One small sentinel of spring met me, a morel mushroom, standing alone in the middle of my path. Climbing hills and scouring woods in search of those tasty morsels is one of my favorite springtime rituals. I had to force myself to keep hiking.
The morning’s hike would be an easy one, just two and a half miles downhill to the dam, then another two miles off the trail and into the village. Our path soon brought us to a parking area close to the dam. Fontana Dam marks the southern boundary of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, so we were required to fill out a park permit at the visitor center. It was a simple form, requiring only basic information and no fee.
A car pulled into the parking area and unloaded a hiker. We discovered the driver was the owner of the Hike Inn, returning one of her guests to the trail. She apologized for not having a room for us, but offered to drive us the remaining two miles to the village, dropping us off in front of the Fontana Lodge. We checked in and found a beautiful lodge, a comfortable room, an exceptional restaurant, and a Coke machine. Oh, yes, life was good.
At the post office, Sailor picked up a food box from his wife, and I resupplied from my bounce box, taking things I judged necessary for the next hundred miles and sending the remainder ahead to Hot Springs, North Carolina. After a stop at a laundromat, we went back to our room for what would become the food box ritual. Sailor’s wife always sent far more food than he could possibly carry, so he dumped out the box, took his choice first, and then granted Marathon Man and me the extra fruit and candy.
At the Mountview Bistro in the lodge, we met another group of hikers, and in the usual exchange of information we learned that our path across the dam was closed. The Appalachian Trail follows a roadway that crosses over the top of the dam, but a defect had been discovered, construction crews were set up to repair it, and the dam was closed to all traffic. A defect in this concrete monstrosity? At 480 feet, this was the highest dam east of the Rockies, and backed up thirty miles of water to create the lake. A defect could not be reassuring to folks living downstream.
I was intrigued, though, by another option. If we were brave enough, we could try to sneak across the dam. A three-hundred-dollar fine was meant to discourage anyone from ignoring the “Closed” signs, but several hikers who had crossed and were subsequently caught assured us their fines had been only one hundred dollars.
I wanted to attempt the crossing. If caught, I would just consider the penalty a fee for my travel, like a toll booth on an interstate. But Marathon Man stubbornly refused to go across that dam. Maybe it was because the fine also came with a night in jail.
The next morning, we took a shuttle to the trailhead at the northern end of the dam. It was decision time.
If the Appalachian Trail is closed for any reason, the marked alternate route is considered the official AT. Since the trail across Fontana Dam was now inaccessible, a two-mile, blue-blazed trail circled the concrete wall, connecting to the AT once again on the northern side. That blue-blazed detour trail left the AT back at the parking area on the southern end of the dam, where we had hitched a ride to the lodge yesterday. Many of the other hikers who had stayed in the village just took the shuttle to the northern end, picked up the AT there, and avoided the two-mile detour. If I started hiking at this northern point, I could no longer claim to be a purist hiker.
I could not cheat. I asked the van driver to take me back to the parking area by the marina, where we had left the trail yesterday, and I would pick up the blue-blazed detour there. My Appalachian hike would be two miles longer than the official miles listed in the handbook.
Sailor and Marathon Man detoured with me. Sailor was also still a purist hiker, and Marathon Man knew that his plans would take him off the trail in a few days, so his choice was to keep our company a bit longer. We left the parking lot, and a few steps down the trail we came to the Fontana Dam Shelter. The hiking community knows this place as the Fontana Hilton; it’s one of the more modern shelters on the trail, with two levels that sleep twenty-four, a smooth wooden floor, running water, and nearby restrooms. We stopped to read the register and catch up on trail happenings.
Two miles later, we rejoined the AT at the northern end of the dam, where a welcome sign ushered us into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. My outfitter back in Ohio had predicted cold nights and possible snow in the Smokies; but even with his warnings, I had no idea what we were heading into.
Our Great Smoky sojourn began with Shuckstack Mountain, a four-mile climb. For the next seventy miles, we would be hiking high in the mountains, at elevations between four and six thousand feet. Three miles beyond Shuckstack, we walked into a spring scene that etched itself into my memory.
At Doe Knob, large patches of white wildflowers covered the forest floor. The white, fringed phacelias were small and delicate, but so plentiful that the pools of blossoms looked almost like a covering of snow. The air was getting colder, and as we approached the area of the flower-snow, small round ice pellets began to fall, bouncing like hail. Little white balls bounced up and down in the field of fringed blossoms, everywhere a movement of white. The entire expanse of tiny flowers seemed to dance in excitement, waving and welcoming us to the Smokies.
By four o’clock, we had put thirteen uphill miles behind us and were tired and cold and ready to end the day. In the Smoky Mountains, the risk of bear encounters is considerably higher, and all hikers are required to overnight in shelters. Most reserve spots in advance, but thru-hikers cannot know exactly when they will reach any given point, so each shelter holds four spots for the first thru-hikers who arrive. If the shelter is full, park regulations do permit hikers to set up camp outside, as long as tents are within protection of the building.
We were only a short distance from Mollie’s Ridge Shelter, and we met a ridge runner who advised us to spend the night there. We learned from him that a large number of hikers were out, weather conditions were deteriorating, and shelters would fill up early in the afternoon.
Someone had put a canvas covering on the front of this building, offering some protection from the cold wind. We three quickly claimed our spots inside, and I ventured out into the cold one more time to filter water at a nearby spring, one liter for my meal that night and one for my pack the next day. Hikers trickled in throughout the evening. Those arriving later had to pitch their tents outside in the cold.
That night, I silently thanked my salesman at the outfitter for selling me a five-degree sleeping bag. Even wrapped in the warm sleeping bag, I again wore every article of clothing I had with me, trying to keep the cold at bay.
Extreme cold the next morning prompted a quick start. It was snowing hard, and we needed to keep moving just to stay warm. I had gloves, but they were little protection against the cold. I warmed one hand under my coat, against my body, while holding both hiking poles in the other. Then I’d switch hands, trying to keep my fingers thawed. I grabbed the water hose coming from my pack for a drink of water, but there was nothing. My drinking water had frozen. Finally, I resorted to eating the shining ice crystals covering the trees and foliage all around me.
The first cold climb of the day was a short bump over Devils Tater Patch. Stones resembling potatoes protrude from the ground everywhere, giving this area its name.
Thunderhead Mountain straddles the state line between North Carolina and Tennessee, and we crossed one of its peaks, Rocky Top. The view from the 5,441-foot summit was spectacular. Mountain slopes glittered with new snow, and we could see Fontana Lake lying behind us.
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At two in the afternoon, Derrick Knob Shelter was in sight. We’d only hiked twelve miles, but the heavy snow had soaked and chilled us. Our socks and shoes were wet from trudging in six inches of accumulated snow. We decided to stop for the day and were among the first hikers to arrive.
Happily, this shelter had not only a canvas cover protecting the front, but also a stone fireplace. We took turns warming by the fire, drying our socks and shoes.
The shelter filled with frozen, weary hikers. Derrick Knob is listed as a twelve-person building, but on that cold, miserable night, close to thirty hikers crammed into it. We lay body-to-body on the bunks and the dirt floor, unaware that even more hikers—at least a dozen tents—had camped outside in the snow.
At five in the evening, I climbed into my sleeping bag fully dressed, wearing even my now-dry shoes. That began a miserable twelve-hour sleeping bag marathon, with no escape and very little sleep. I had elbows in my ribs on both sides, and found it almost impossible to turn over or to wiggle into a comfortable position without bumping into other arms, legs, and heads. There was nothing to do but wait for morning. I pulled the bag over the top of my head, drawing the string until only my nose stuck out. I couldn’t sleep, but at least I was no longer cold.
And of course there was a snoring champion who showcased his talent that night. He was probably the only one who slept. By four in the morning, hikers were packing up and leaving, complaining that it was impossible to sleep with the noise. Sailor, Marathon Man, and I left at five. There was no reason to punish ourselves when we could be on the trail making miles.
We trudged over Cold Spring Knob as the morning sky started to lighten. Just as the sun made its appearance, we topped Silers Bald and stopped, dazzled by the view. Clean, glittering snow covered endless miles of mountain ranges, and sunlight sparkled from ice crystals on every tree and bush around us. What a gift. Weather conditions had conspired to hinder our hiking, but this morning we were treated to a glittering show of wonder.
Clingman’s Dome, the highest elevation on the entire Appalachian Trail, reaches 6,654 feet heavenward, and every branch and bush on its heights was covered with a thick coat of hoarfrost and snow. We were climbing a huge ice castle, everything frozen and dazzling, framed against a brilliant blue sky. The sun gradually warmed us, but also created a messy trail. Snow became icy slush that once again soaked our shoes and socks. Only the spectacular views could take our minds off our cold, wet feet. We climbed the observation tower at the top of Clingman’s Dome and contemplated the ranges of mountains ahead of us, as far as the eye could see. At least we knew we were on the trail’s highest point, and there was nowhere to go but down.
Our reward for the early morning departure was just ahead. The incredible snoring machine had forced us onto the trail earlier than planned, so by midafternoon we were already at the trail leading to Mt. Collins Shelter. The shelter was a half-mile off the trail, and none of us was excited about another night’s stay in a cold, crowded shelter. Four more miles on the trail would bring us to Newfound Gap, where the Tennessee-North Carolina line runs through a parking lot beside U.S. Rt. 441. Sixteen miles west on 441 was Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Should we go a few more shivering miles and hope to hitch a ride to Gatlinburg? I took the lead, and we hustled toward Newfound Gap.
The trail led through a stand of mature hardwood trees, a grand, majestic growth of towering elder statesmen of the forest. A storm had felled many along our path, uprooting and toppling the giants. They lay in sad defeat, with large root systems exposed, still clutching the ground and the large rocks to which they had entrusted their lives.
Going downhill all the way, sometimes crossing narrow boardwalks that protected fragile plant life, we arrived at Newfound Gap in less than two hours. Our day had been eighteen miles soaked with cold and slush and brilliant sunshine.
At the state line, we took a celebratory picture and then set about finding a ride to Gatlinburg. There were several cars in the parking lot, but no one was interested in picking up three bedraggled hikers. Sailor suggested we walk out to the highway and try our luck at hitchhiking.
The first vehicle in our sights was a pickup truck occupied by a middle-aged couple. They slowed down. “You fellows are welcome to jump on the back if you want a ride to Gatlinburg,” the man said. “Where do you want to be dropped off?” he called back through the open window.
Our ride dropped us across the street from a hiker-friendly motel on Ski Mountain Road. Hiking eighteen miles of slushy mountain trails creates extreme appreciation for a hot shower. What luxury!
Once we were clean and warm, the urgent need was food. After my limited menu of dried dinners, it was incredible to walk busy sidewalks and have so many choices of eateries. We settled on a steakhouse.
In less than an hour, we were transported from a remote snowy mountain forest to one of the gaudiest tourist meccas in the United States.
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After many cups of coffee, eggs, and pancakes the next morning at The Flapjack House restaurant, we were back on the trail.
Several miles brought us to a protruding rock formation called Charlie’s Bunion. Atop this high perch, we had views of both Mt. Le Conte and Mt. Kephart and a panoramic view of gorges and valleys stretching out in every direction. We were hiking on top of the world.
At four o’clock, we reached the intersection of the Hughes Ridge Trail and the AT. Half a mile down Hughes Ridge was Pecks Corner Shelter. We did not like the thought of hiking that far off the AT, but the next shelter was over five miles away. The sunshine was fading, the falling temperature turning the slushy trail to ice. Every step that afternoon had required great care, and we had made only ten miles.
We opted for Pecks, located in a grove of beech trees. One large tree had fallen close to the shelter, and we positioned our wet shoes and socks on its large trunk, hoping to dry them in the last rays of sunlight.
Our hike began the next morning with only one goal. Weary of the treacherous conditions, we were determined to get as close as possible to the northern boundary of the Smoky Mountains. This day was just as difficult as the previous two.
Hiking over the slopes of Mt. Sequoyah, we plowed through snowdrifts several feet deep. Guyot Spur was 6,320 feet high, and after that climb we slid downhill for fourteen miles. Snowdrifts and icy trails made every step precarious.
As the day warmed, melting ice sent little streams running down the trail. We gradually descended from six thousand feet to five thousand, then to four thousand, where the snow and ice turned to mud. As the snow disappeared, more drifts of spring wildflowers decorated the forest, their color and freshness lifting our spirits.
We all agreed that views in the Smokies were unsurpassed, but we had seen enough. We wanted to get these mountains behind us, so we doggedly kept hiking until we reached Davenport Gap, Tennessee. Finally, at the modest elevation of 1,980 feet, we bid good-bye to the Great Smoky Mountains.
We had survived a seventy-mile test of endurance. To celebrate our status as seasoned hikers, we added three additional miles over the Pigeon River, under I-40, to Green Corner Road where the Standing Bear Hostel congratulated us on our escape from the mountains. Standing Bear is an old homestead that was converted to a hostel, with several cabins and a rustic bunkhouse. A hot shower, a whole pizza, several candy bars, two cans of pop, and one liter of water later, I was a contented hiker.
That night, around the community fire ring, I spotted a young hiker I had first met at the Blueberry Patch.
“Muskrat, how did you get here ahead of us?” I asked in surprise.
“Oh, I’ve been here several days already. I’m doing a work-for-stay.” Many hostels along the trail give hikers a free stay in exchange for work. This makes it possible for hikers to stay on the trail, even on a tight budget. He explained, “After leaving the Blueberry Patch, I wanted to catch up with some hiker friends ahead of me, so I skipped the entire Smoky Mountains and hitchhiked up here.”
He was a yellow-blazer. The phrase refers to the yellow blazes down the center of a highway. And although purists would never say it aloud, we also think it represents a yellow blaze down the back of a hiker who refuses to tackle difficult sections of the AT, like the Smokies. But I bit my lip, as any purist would do when meeting a yellow-blazer. I knew what Muskrat’s reply would be if I took the bait and commented on his hiking style. The reply, “Hike your own hike” is heard time and again on the trail, and it’s just a polite way of saying, “Shut up and mind your own business.”
To many hikers, the journey is more about memories than miles. As I blazed a path to my bunk that night, I thought about what I would have missed if I had skipped the Smokies. Yes, a lot of pain, but also infinite pleasures. Fields of flowers with tiny snowballs bouncing among them had welcomed us to the Smokies, and beautiful expanses of wildflowers had bid us good-bye as we departed.
Most enjoyable of all was the excitement of meeting new people who were like flowers scattered along the path of my life.