What a pleasure to start the next day with clear skies and trails free of snow and ice.

For a week, we were never quite certain which state we were in, since the trail wove along the North Carolina and Tennessee border. One hour we were hiking in our third state, and the next hour we dropped back to the second state we thought we had finished.

At these lower levels, spring had already arrived. Our attention to the trail was constantly diverted by wildflowers of many species and colors. A solitary dandelion caught my eye, and I was delighted by its beauty. Most homeowners consider the lowly dandelion a nuisance, a plague to be stamped out. But out here, growing alone in the woods, this drop of sunshine was a thing of beauty, perhaps not as delicate as some of the woodland beauties, but almost indestructible. Surely the dandelion knows secrets of stubborn survival that the giant trees we had seen toppled in the Smokies did not.

It was our nineteenth day on the Appalachian Trail. Our bodies were taking on hiker resiliency and stamina, but the difficulties in the Smokies had drained and wearied us. Almost 250 miles had passed under our shoes, and we needed a zero day, a day of rest. The AT led through Hot Springs, thirty-three miles ahead of us, and we planned to take our first zero day in that town nestled in a mountain valley.

The trail again went upward, climbing above 4,000 feet. Snowbird Mountain waited in the distance, and long before we reached its slopes we spotted a white, shimmering UFO that had landed on the mountaintop. It was a five-mile climb to the summit, where we were prepared to meet the little green men, but found only an unusual FAA tower perched atop the mountain.

Nine more miles of climbing took us to the highest elevation of the day, Max Patch Mountain. This bald summit, covered by 350 grassy acres, is part of Pisgah National Forest and is a favorite spot for day-hikers, picnickers, and kite-flyers. The AT traverses the top of the bald, and I felt as though I were on the mountain meadow with Julie Andrews singing in The Sound of Music. The 360-degree view of mountain ranges stretching to every horizon was even more impressive than I had imagined; I understood why Max Patch is called the “crown jewel” of the Appalachian Trail. That night would be the first full moon of my trek, and I imagined the joy of camping on the bald’s meadow with a big moon shining above. Such a plan was impossible, though; the winds would have snatched our tents and transformed them into Max Patch’s own unidentified flying objects.

Roaring Fork Shelter was one mile farther and one thousand feet lower, and we made that our destination. Sailor, Marathon Man, and I reached the shelter at four o’clock and were the only hikers there. It seemed the perfect opportunity to try a plan we had been discussing. I wanted to do a night hike, traveling by the light of the moon. Since we were alone in the shelter, we could retire early, sleep until three in the morning, and then start our moonlit hike. An additional bonus to the plan was that we could knock off the last eighteen miles to Hot Springs and arrive in town even earlier than we had hoped.

But our plans quickly hit a snag.

We unpacked and unrolled our sleeping bags. I was boiling water for my evening meal. Sailor sat in a corner, reading the shelter register and catching up on trail happenings.

“Hey, fellows. There’s a reason no one else is here. This shelter has bear problems!”

The register recounted the stories. A renegade bear had found his new food source in the packs hikers obligingly carried into the woods for him. The bear climbed the trees at night and knocked down food bags, eating everything, including toothpaste. One hiker noted the bear had even eaten his toothbrush, and if anyone should find a blue toothbrush in a pile of bear poop, yes, please return the toothbrush.

The bear had paid a visit just the night before. One hiker awakened in the night, feeling a tug on his sleeping bag, and was jerked to full alertness when he realized a bear had his front paws on the shelter floor and was tugging at his sleeping bag.

I was imagining the exciting story I could take home if we did indeed have a bear visit that night. Marathon Man instantly geared for flight; he had an intense fear of bears. I was not quite as ready to run, but then I remembered a joke about several hunters being chased by a bear. One hunter turned to the other and said, “I don’t have to run faster than the bear, I just need to run faster than you.” Reality convinced me. I was hiking with a marathon runner and a marathon walker. It would be my rump the bear would be chasing.

I had lost my interest in taking home a bear story. “Hey, guys, let’s get going!”

Three more miles brought us to the site of the old Roaring Fork Shelter. No longer in use, the shelter had a new name posted on a sign: “No Camping Permitted.” Unusual name for a campsite, we thought, as we set up our tents.

———

Still committed to a walk by the light of the moon, we rose at four in the morning and were soon on the trail. However, another minor glitch cracked our plan. The moon had vanished and a storm front was moving through, pushing heavy clouds. There was no moonlight for our moonlit walk. Only our headlamps lit our way. The trail passed directly in front of the Walnut Mountain Shelter, where three young hikers were awakened by a noise outside shortly after four. They watched in amazement as three headlamps bobbed up and down through the darkness and disappeared down the trail.

We were beginning to see notes in shelter registers about our group of three. The hiking community had dubbed us The Early Riser Crew.

Our no-moon moonlit hike started a day of descent from 4,260 feet in the mountains to the main street of Hot Springs in the valley at 1,325 feet. We walked into town at noon, hoping to stay at Elmer’s, a famous hostel in town. Again we were disappointed; Elmer had no vacancy.

The day was rainy with a forecast of more rain for the next few days, and many hikers were staying in town. We walked through the town, looking for a good spot to take our zero day, finally discovering a comfortable cottage beside a stream. We shed our gear and relaxed, enjoying the prospect of our rest day.

At Bluff Mountain Outfitters, I weighed myself and found I had lost close to a pound for every day on the trail. At this rate, I would finish my hike weighing about the same as my backpack.

For the next day and a half, we rested and made numerous trips to both the Smoky Mountain Diner and the Paddlers Pub, in a quest to consume as many calories as possible. At both eateries, I sat and watched, enjoying the atmosphere and the interaction between employees and customers. I did miss my old life at the restaurant.

The zero day rejuvenated us, and we were eager to get back to the trail. One last meal at the Smoky Mountain Diner filled us with a huge breakfast and enough caffeine to propel us over any mountain.

White blazes led us through town, over railroad tracks, and along the road for a short stretch. A bridge took us over the French Broad River. Then we lost the trail. Back and forth we went along the road, looking for that elusive white marker. We finally resorted to checking our thru-hiker handbook and found that immediately after the bridge, the trail dove over the guardrail and down an embankment to wind along the river. Even after nearly three weeks of watching our blazes, we had missed the path.

After following the river for a short distance, the trail climbed again. It was a wonderful day to hike. The rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through the fog as we hiked through Pump Gap. Spring was bursting out around us. Trees showed hints of fresh green, and wildflowers bloomed in abundance. Yes, this was indeed better than any day at work.

Several miles into the morning, we stopped and dropped our gear. Sailor and Marathon Man rested against a fallen log, and I stretched out on the ground, head on my pack. Just to my right, a cluster of the little white-fringed phacelias fluttered in the breeze, waving at me. I watched them lazily, and then was suddenly gripped by “the feeling.”

Many years ago, Mary found our youngest daughter, age three, sitting in the foliage of a large potted plant I had been nurturing for years. When her mother asked why she was sitting in the middle of Daddy’s plant, our little girl replied, “I just got the feeling.”

Now I understood what had happened to her that day. Watching those delicate flowers sway in the sunshine, I was seized with curiosity—how would they taste? Checking to make certain my friends were not watching, I reached over, plucked one little bloom, and popped it into my mouth. That day, I started my own trail tradition of munching a sample whenever I discovered any new wildflower.

———

At a road crossing later in the day, we found a notice nailed to a post: any hiker was welcome to a meal at the house half a mile down the road.

We followed the directions to a lovely log home. The husband and wife team had thru-hiked themselves several years before, and the trail had worked its magic on them. They purchased this home and made it their Christian mission to witness to hikers. We were presented with conversation on good old-fashioned Bible-Belt salvation. This was no problem to me; I had heard this all my life. Three weeks into my hike, I would have been willing to walk barefoot through fifteen feet of burning embers for a good home-cooked meal. And the meal was good: homemade waffles and pork stew and all the Coke I could drink, topped off with an ice cream brownie sundae.

I might even have done thirty feet of burning embers for that meal.

Seven hikers dined at the table in the log home, Motormouth among them. We had met him before, hiking with two other men, all in their twenties. Motormouth’s name was well-deserved; he never shut up, except when he coughed, which he seemed to do almost as much as he talked. He claimed his lungs had been damaged by a harrowing trip on bad drugs taken while he was in Mexico.

Among the seven of us, there was quite a diversity of religious opinions. We covered everything from reincarnation to agnosticism. Our host asked thought-provoking questions about the existence of God, and Motormouth seemed to have all the answers; his parents had enrolled him in a Jesuit school for many years. I was content to let him run on unhindered, since it gave me more time to enjoy my ice cream sundae. Our hosts even shared books with us; we were encouraged to take a book along, on the condition that we would read it. I declined; I didn’t want the extra weight, and I had already read many of them. Motormouth, though, did choose one and packed it away.

On the way back to the trail, we crossed the North Carolina-Tennessee line. We had actually hiked out of state to get that free meal. Two more miles brought us to Little Laurel Shelter, where we hung our bear bags and went to bed.

We had not gone far the next morning when we came to a fence running through the woods, and hanging from a nail on the top board was Motormouth’s book in a plastic bag. Was he a speed reader, or had he sat up all night reading with his headlamp? We drew other conclusions, since the book was in perfect condition, looking as if no one had ever opened it.

Our next goal was to reach Erwin, Tennessee, in three days. This would require some serious hiking. We worked our way through several difficult rock climbs; White Rock Cliffs was the most strenuous and unforgettable. The path was a difficult mile of climbing over and through jagged white rocks running along a ridge that gave views into Tennessee on one side and North Carolina on the other. If it hadn’t been such hard work, that mile would have been a spectacularly beautiful stroll.

We had decided to hike several miles past Bald Mountain Shelter before camping for the night, so that our destination at Erwin would be within reach the next day. But late in the afternoon we met a trail maintainer busy with repair work. His backpack was overly large and lay nearby. We stopped to chat about his work and this section of the trail, and he told us that his pack held soft drinks, bananas, bratwurst, and Little Debbies. He was planning a cookout that night for anyone staying at Bald Mountain Shelter, a mile down the path. Our plans immediately changed.

We arrived at the shelter, bearing the good news of the cookout to hikers already settling in for the night. Delicious food and an unexpected party lifted everyone’s spirits, and it was an unusually pleasant shelter stay.

———

Much too early in the morning, I felt a tug on my sleeping bag, and my startled yet sleepy mind could only think, Could that bear have tracked us here? But it was only Marathon Man, with our wake-up call. Go away! Can’t I have just one more hour of rest? But he did not relent, and we rolled out, assembling our gear quickly and quietly by the light of our headlamps.

We were at an elevation over 5,000 feet until we reached Little Bald in early morning light. After that, it was all downhill, a sixteen-mile descent that would take us to Erwin, Tennessee. By midmorning, we were only a few miles away from our destination and caught great views of the town below us and the Nolichucky River winding through the valley.

At noon, the trail abruptly deposited us on River Road, less than one hundred feet from Uncle Johnny’s Nolichucky Hostel. We booked a small cabin for the night and headed for hot showers. Food was the next item on our agenda, and we caught a shuttle from the hostel to an AYCE pizza place with a salad bar. For the second time in a week, I ate my greens.

Later in the afternoon, Sailor and I set out to find the post office and a pharmacy. I had bounced my food supply box here from Hot Springs, and Sailor needed supplies to treat his blisters that were growing to monstrous proportions.

At the hostel, we had noticed a number of bikes left in a rack for hikers to use whenever they wished. I concluded that Erwin must not have any problems with crime, since such a row of unattended, unlocked bicycles could be a tempting target.

After hiking over three hundred miles, we thought a bike ride would be a welcome change from walking. We borrowed small day packs from the hostel and headed for the bike rack. It was soon obvious why these bikes were safe. Any thief stealing one of these bikes would never be able to reach speeds high enough for a getaway; in fact, he might possibly return the bike and lodge a complaint. My bike was stuck in fifth gear, so it took some gusto to get rolling. Sailor’s bike broke down a half-mile from the hostel, and he had to push it back and choose another.

Once I got my bike up to speed, I felt like lightning on two wheels. Still, I arrived at the post office only five minutes before closing time. I tore open my box and grabbed what I thought I would need in the next eight days. “You have one minute left,” said an ominous voice from behind the counter.

“I want to send this box to Damascus, Virginia,” I said, hastily repacking and closing the box, with the precious minute ticking away.

“If you send it first class, I’ll tape it for you,” said the voice. I handed over the box with payment. The “Closed” sign hit the door at the same time I did.

I pedaled down the street, met Sailor at the pharmacy, and we headed back to the hostel. My bike slowly cranked up to speed, and as I was opening up the throttle on the bike path between the railroad tracks and I-26, I was reliving another bike ride on a fateful night long ago.

My friend was fourteen, and I was fifteen. We had pedaled our bikes down the long dirt lane to my uncle’s old farmhouse for a sleepover with my cousin. At eleven that night, we were still wide awake and full of youthful energy. My friend suggested a night bike ride. Agreeing that a ride through the dark countryside might be exciting, we all pedaled back out the driveway to the quiet country road. Overhead, a gibbous moon was shining brightly.

We stopped at the intersection of the lane and the country road, debating which way to turn. To the right, the road lay level and easy. To the left, we’d have a hard climb up a steep hill, but the ride back down would be free and exhilarating. My friend’s words still ring in my ears: “Let’s go left.” Almost a mile later, we stopped at the top of the hill, panting from the climb. We paused to catch our breath, then turned our bicycles, and with a rush of excitement headed back down the hill.

Near the bottom of the hill, something suddenly went wrong. My friend was no longer beside me. We had just crossed a bridge, and he had vanished.

A cry for help came from somewhere in the darkness below the bridge. My friend’s bike had veered off the road and he’d lost control on the gravel berm. While we flew across the bridge, he and his bike had gone down the bank, the momentum carrying him completely across the little stream and smashing him into the wooden retaining wall on the opposite side. He stumbled up toward the road, and we saw blood covering his face, running from a gash above one eye.

His bike was mangled beyond driving, so we positioned him on the front of my cousin’s handlebars and carefully drove up the long driveway back to the farmhouse.

My uncle rushed us to the local hospital, but during the night my friend slipped into a coma and was transferred to a larger facility. I was able to visit him only once, briefly, since he was unconscious and on life support.

For the next two days, I prayed harder than I had ever prayed before. I begged and pleaded with God to let my friend live. I imagine I literally prayed without ceasing, as the Scriptures tell us to do. It was unthinkable that God would not heal him.

I even offered God a deal. If He would let my friend live, I vowed, I would become a missionary. This was the absolute sacrifice for me; I had often heard missionaries speak about their work and had long ago come to the conclusion that mission work was not for me. Leaving friends and family to travel to another country to preach to people who didn’t wear many clothes would be the worst possible life I could imagine. Yet I was willing to do this, if only God would let my friend live.

My father was the one who told me my friend had died. “It’s not possible!” I sobbed. “How could God let that happen?” I had never before known such anguish or felt so betrayed.

One small, seemingly inconsequential decision. Let’s go left.

My friend was far too young to die, and I was too young to grapple with thoughts of life after death and the sovereignty of God. The only certainty I knew was that when I had needed God, He didn’t seem to be available.

———

A blaring car horn jolted me away from the painful ride through my memories. We were almost back to the hostel, and my hands had a death grip on the handlebars. I had once again been racing down that hill under a huge, shining moon.

Choices. We make hundreds of them every day, each decision holding the potential to lead to pain or pleasure, joy or despair. That one left turn taken so early in my life had an effect that still rippled through my whole being many years later.

Is God in control of our lives? That question had taken root in my mind when I was fifteen, the consequence of an innocent moonlit bike ride.

The question still whispered to me now, decades later, in the mountains of North Carolina.