Morning in Erwin, Tennessee, saw ten of us hikers crowded around a lunch counter in the back of a little grocery store. The trail grapevine had recommended breakfast here. Several elderly ladies took our orders and prepared our food right in front of us. There were only a few stools, so some in the group stood. It was a scene Norman Rockwell might have painted.
We could have been ten stockbrokers or lawyers or any other group of men meeting for breakfast anywhere in America on that Friday morning in April. But we were ten thru-hikers, discussing equipment, shelters, and the upcoming terrain. No deadlines, no big deals to hammer out, just ten hikers, each with his own personal agenda. Motormouth was talking constantly, but no one paid much attention to anything he said. His two hiker buddies were conspicuously absent.
The shuttle took us back to our hostel and we packed up, getting a very late start on our day. I enjoyed these town stops; the amenities and kindnesses rejuvenated both body and spirit.
Several miles down the trail, we met one of Motormouth’s friends taking a break at the Curley Maple Gap Shelter. “Hey, what happened to you guys this morning?” I asked. “I saw Motormouth at breakfast, but you two were missing.”
“Well, it’s like this,” he began in his Southern drawl. “The three of us shared one room last night. Motormouth was talking all night long, and my friend attempted to drown out the noise by drinking. The more Motormouth talked, the more my friend drank. He must have had ten or twelve beers. Didn’t stop the talking, but at least he wasn’t in any shape to listen. Wasn’t in any shape to hike today, either.” He added that Motormouth was taking a bus back home for a family function today.
“So that means we won’t have to listen to him anymore?” I had high hopes.
“Nope. You’re not quite that lucky. He’s estimating where we’ll be in several days, and he’ll yellow-blaze his way back to meet us.”
We did not start hiking until almost noon that day and decided to push on until dark. The afternoon included several big uphill climbs, a rest to enjoy the beautiful vista from a bald called Beauty Spot, and the conquest of Unaka Mountain. These climbs soon drained any strength I had regained during the town stop in Erwin.
At seven thirty, we pitched our tents at Cherry Gap Shelter. I lost no time in filtering my water, cooking a meal, and sliding into my sleeping bag. I wanted as much rest as possible, knowing that the next day would be our biggest climb until we reached Mt. Washington in New Hampshire. Roan Mountain rises over 6,000 feet, and we had heard much about the difficulty of summiting this mountain.
Roan Mountain exceeded its reputation. Two peaks of the mountain rise to the west, and three grassy balds stretch over seven miles on the east. Carvers Gap sits between these two parts of the mountain.
We climbed for several “endless hours,” as I later wrote in my journal. This was a climb, not just a casual uphill walk. I struggled over rocks, grabbing tree roots on the steep trail to pull myself upward, my lungs protesting and aching for a rest. I talked to my body, trying to push it upward. Okay, leg, step onto that mass of roots. Now, other leg, get yourself up over that rock. C’mon body, get up there with the feet. The climb was harder than anything I’d imagined in my daydreams of the AT. And the thirty-five pounds on my back seemed to have doubled its weight, conspiring with the mountain to keep me from making the summit.
At the top, I doubled over in pain and exhaustion. A brief rest, then onward. But a short distance later, the trail abruptly turned upward again.
“What’s this?” I asked Sailor in dismay, looking up the almost vertical path. “I thought we just hiked over Roan Mountain.”
He consulted his hiker handbook and gave us the bad news. We had just crossed Beartown Mountain and still had close to a mile and a half to the summit of Roan. And before the summit, we must cross the two humps of Roan High Bluff and Roan High Knob, until we would finally reach the high point of 6,285 feet.
When at last we crossed Roan High Knob, our hopes for rest were frustrated yet again. We located a shelter, but it was filling up fast; because the dense forest crowded closely, there were very few tent spots outside. We debated. A few more miles would take us through Carvers Gap and on to one of the balds. Jane Bald was not as dramatic as Max Patch, but it would certainly be interesting to camp on one of those open grassy areas. We moved on.
In Carvers Gap, at a road crossing, we stopped for a moment at a parking lot that straddled the state line. Roan Mountain had completely drained our energy and we had drained our water supply. We’d been hiking for eleven hours and still had a mile to go.
A car pulled up. “Are you guys thru-hikers?” We assured the driver that our intent was to become thru-hikers.
“Great. I come out here one day each year to do trail magic. I’ve been here several hours, and you’re the first thru-hikers I’ve met. I was almost ready to give up and head home. I’ve got bananas, tortilla chips, and blueberry turnovers,” he said, starting to unpack the goodies.
Our new friend had hiked half of the trail one year but could not finish. Someday he wanted to complete the hike, but until then, he kept in touch with the trail and its magic by meeting and feeding thru-hikers. We offered to wait for him if he wanted to go home, get his pack, and join us. All three of us knew those “somedays” seldom arrive.
We devoured most of his food, saving only a few bananas for breakfast the next day. Refreshed, we crossed the road, and the mile to Jane Bald melted away quickly. The sun was disappearing over Roan Mountain as we set up camp in the waning light.
The balds created a world different from the steep, forested mountains. Clear of trees, covered mostly with grasses and wildflowers, the rounded knobs gave splendid views in every direction and we rolled over them with delight. The trail-magic bananas at breakfast added to our energy.
We climbed Little Hump Mountain and then Hump Mountain. Hump Junior was only one hundred feet shorter than Hump Senior, so both required some of that extra banana energy. Since leaving Erwin, our climbing skills and endurance had been tested and stretched, and we were ready for a shorter, easier day. According to our hiker handbook, we would cross U.S. Rt. 19 in the afternoon; from there, we could follow the highway just a short distance east to the Mountain Harbour Bed and Breakfast, recommended to us by several hikers. Rumor had it that we might also get a home-cooked meal.
The morning’s hike brought more trail magic. Tacked to the railing of a wooden footbridge, a handwritten note told us, “Trail magic in creek. Please take trash out.” Attached to the note was a bag filled with Hostess Twinkies, and in the clear mountain stream lay a chilled six-pack of Coca-Cola.
With renewed vigor from the sugar buzz, we soon emerged from the woods and headed down the road to Mountain Harbour. The B&B was in a beautiful house with a long porch and rock gardens, set in a clearing crisscrossed by a stream and split-rail fences. The hiker hostel was in the barn.
Lest you make incorrect assumptions about the hospitality here, let me add that the upper level of the barn had been designed as a hiker cabin, complete with a wood burning stove, a kitchen area, modern bathroom fixtures, and a hot shower. It was both comfortable and comforting. Rain had started again, and we were happy to be under a roof. In the evening, we walked to the main house where our hosts served us a huge meal of barbecue ribs and chicken. They treated us like family, and I realized that I had indeed become part of a family that kept growing larger as I traveled north.
Rain on the tin roof lulled me to sleep that night. On the floor below me were three horses and a goat. We were sleeping in the stable. There was no Baby Jesus, but we were certainly three wise men.
———
The rain was still coming down when we awoke, adding to the discomfort of a cold mountain morning. We left our cozy cabin in the barn reluctantly and lingered over a hot, satisfying breakfast at the main house. But finally we could delay no longer, and off we went, into the wind and rain. At least the terrain was easier that day, in the 3,300 to 3,600-foot range, with no dramatic changes in elevation.
Late in the afternoon, we arrived at Moreland Gap Shelter and stopped to debate staying there or pushing on another mile and camping in the woods. We hiked on. However, the rain began again and we could find no suitable campsite. Constant thunder and lightning around us suggested we were not three wise men after all.
Finally, in desperation, we set up our tents in a lane running through a field, a path probably used by a farmer to move farm equipment from one field to another. We hoped the weather was bad enough to keep him and his equipment inside that night.
The temperature fell during the night—and so did the rain. When I tried to open my tent in the morning, I no longer had a tent flap, but a hatch. I pushed open the rigid piece of canvas and realized that Big Agnes had frozen into an igloo, completely coated with a layer of ice. I pounded the igloo with a stick, trying to remove as much ice as possible, then bent the material enough so that I could shove it into my pack. We were almost as frozen as our tents and had only one thing on our minds: find a warm place to thaw out.
Less than four miles away was Dennis Cove Road and the Kincora Hiking Hostel, where we stopped to defrost. An hour passed quickly while we visited with other hikers, deiced our tents, and warmed our bodies.
Another easy mile brought us to Laurel Fork Gorge, where a flight of rock steps took us down the side of the gorge to the base of a waterfall, a lovely spot with a pool perfect for taking a dip—if the temperature had been eighty degrees higher. Then the trail followed the river, squeezing between the water and the tall, rocky wall of the gorge, now and then crossing wooden footbridges to the opposite side.
The climb out of the gorge was much steeper than we expected. A sign told us we were in the Pond Mountain Wilderness, part of the Cherokee National Forest. None of us had heard of this climb, and with no forewarning we were ambushed by its difficulty. Shouldn’t a mountain called “Pond” be an easy climb?
By midafternoon, we had hiked close to fourteen miles and were standing at another road crossing. To our left on U.S. 321 was Hampton, Tennessee, home to the Braemar Castle Hostel. The hostel owner ran a grocery store and old-time hardware across the street, and we knew a restaurant was also nearby. Record cold was in the forecast and we did not wish to repeat the previous night’s misery, so we decided to hitchhike to town, two miles away. No one picked us up, so we walked the entire distance to Hampton.
The Braemar Castle Hostel is a fifty-room office building constructed by the Pittsburgh Lumber Company in the early 1900s. The exterior of the all-wood structure was enhanced by river stone in the 1930s, giving it the appearance of a castle. Now it’s a hiker hostel. We went from a barn to a castle in two days.
Sailor, Marathon Man, and I were the only guests that night, and as we walked up several flights of wooden steps, they groaned and creaked a welcome. No alarm system was needed here; those wooden stairs would announce any intruders long before they reached our room.
During the night, the temperature did drop to record lows, but we were warm and dry in our castle, reassured that we three wise men could still occasionally make good choices.
The next morning, the hostel owner shuttled us back to Shook Branch Picnic Area, where we had left the trail the previous day. The owner of the Kincora Hostel, where we had thawed the day before, was dropping off slackpackers at the same spot. As we hiked away, the two hostel owners were leaning against the back of the pickup, engaged in laughter and friendly banter. Competitors perhaps, but partners in their love of nature and the trail. Two more good people in my ever-growing list of trail friends.
We followed the shoreline of Lake Watauga. The town of Old Butler lay somewhere nearby, a town steeped in history. Many early pioneer families settled and farmed here; Native Americans were peaceful neighbors; Daniel Boone even spent time in Old Butler. I enjoy early American history, and I thought perhaps I should visit this historic town while I was in the neighborhood.
How do you find Old Butler? Jump in a boat, go to the middle of the lake, then go straight down several hundred feet. Yes, another government-created reservoir, this one an earthen dam creating a lake covering 6,430 acres. The victims this time were the Watauga and the Elk rivers and historic Old Butler itself. Over seven hundred homes in Old Butler were flooded to create the lake. I wondered how the displaced families felt flood control was working for them.
The AT crosses over the top of the large earthen embankment, 1,000 feet long. Surrounding mountains still show scars where dirt was gouged from their slopes to create the stopper. As I crossed the dirt wall holding back the huge man-made puddle, I tried to ignore the ten square miles of water pushing at the soil and silt under my feet.
Safely across, we tackled a 2,000-foot climb over Iron Mountain. The day was filled with wildflowers and green fields, a perfect springtime hike. We made camp that night beside a little spring, on a small uphill grade.
Twenty-two miles made a good day, but the evening was bittersweet. This would be our last night with Marathon Man. Tomorrow we would reach Damascus, Virginia, where he planned to end his hike and return home. We would be losing our leader, a singer of songs, who had introduced us to the birds along the trail. His hiking leadership had pushed me quickly into shape, he loved books as much as I did, and his agile intellect had sharpened mine as we bounced ideas back and forth.
———
Relaxing alone in my tent, I thought about the month I had spent on the trail. I’d seen and done so much, everything far removed from my previous life. I had learned to accept the friendship of others quite different from myself, and I was beginning to be happy being me, even with all my shortcomings.
Every day, it seemed that God revealed more of Himself to me. Perhaps it was because I wanted to hear. Several days before, I had been following a young man on the trail. When I was within speaking distance, I attempted a conversation with him, but was ignored. I realized he had earbuds in and was focused on his music. Everywhere these days, people are plugging their ears and depriving themselves of good conversation. That earpiece is like putting up a “Do Not Disturb” sign. This ear-plugged hiker shut out not only all conversation with fellow humans, but also all the sounds of nature. He could not hear the singing birds or the whispering pines.
Apparently he could not even hear approaching thunder. The ear-plugged young man had a hiking partner who was a short distance ahead of him. Thunder had been rumbling around us, and raindrops started to fall as we crossed a road. The unplugged hiker had heard the warning rumbles; catching sight of a country church down the road, he dashed to the refuge of its little porch. But the other hiker marched on, head down, watching the trail and concentrating only on his music. His friend stood on that dry porch, calling, but the hiker never saw his friend leave the trail and certainly did not hear his name called out. He was soaked by the rain and separated from his partner. I wonder how far he walked before he realized he was alone.
Though I watched with amusement as this little scene played out, I felt an inner nudge that said, That’s you, you know. And I got it. I saw myself in church on Sunday mornings, hoping to hear from God but letting so many worries and distractions clog my mind that I never could hear Him, even when He stood there calling my name. I saw the times I had knelt for a quick prayer at night and then immediately tumbled into sleep. How could God talk to a sleeping person?
Now I had finally removed everything plugging my ears and my head, and I felt willing and able to listen to God.
“Words have meanings.” We often heard this maxim from Sailor, and since I had lots of time to think as I hiked, those three words rattled around in my head daily and took on real meaning for me.
Our words hold great power. That pointed little bit of membrane in our mouths that gives voice to our hearts can energize or soothe or destroy.
As I hiked, I had an amazing number of conversations about the loss of a loved one. Still, it should not have surprised me—after all, it was my reason for being on the trail, and every family, nationality, creed, and color shares the experience of death.
One of those conversations was with a hiker who was a young man when his father died. We spoke about grief and regrets and what we wished we could do differently. He told me his story. On the night his father unexpectedly passed away, they had an angry shouting match. The son fired some very harsh words at his dad. Later that evening, the father suffered a massive heart attack and died. His son carried painful regrets for his words, and the argument was still vivid many years later. He sadly told me that he could not erase those angry words from his mind.
We never know which conversation with our spouse or children will be our last. Once spoken, words have the power to linger forever. “I hate you,” screams a wife, or “I never wanted you,” says a husband. Words can be cutting and cruel, rejecting and crushing. Words do have meaning. They can and do determine our destiny.
Our sons and daughters are listening to our words. How they interpret our words, our tone, our intent, will play a large role in shaping their own characters. Our words affect our children’s destinies too.
What if we chose our words more thoughtfully?
I make no claims to being Husband of the Year. I was never even in the running. Realistically, on the husband scale, I was probably average. My school report card sometimes came home with the teacher’s note, “Does not live up to full potential,” and that was probably a fair assessment of my husband skills too. Yes, my grief included regrets, and some of those regrets might have distressed me for a lifetime if I had not listened to a voice inside me.
My conversation with the hiker haunted by his last words to his father put me back in Mary’s hospital room. She had been admitted to the hospital in an extremely weakened state, and I had spent the evening with her. Leaving, I went dashing through the rain to the parking garage. Before I reached my car, a voice inside me spoke up firm and clear. Paul, go back up to her room and say it.
I knew exactly what I needed to do. Back through the rain and up to her room I went, and quietly called her name.
“Paul, what are you doing back here?” Her weak voice was almost a whisper.
I took both frail hands in mine and, with tears spilling, asked my wife’s forgiveness for all the times she needed my help, all the times she needed me, but I wasn’t available. My one goal in life was to be wealthy. And in my pursuit of that goal, I had too often ignored what my wife needed from me.
“Forgive me for all the times I was such a thoughtless husband,” I said.
Her words came like a balm for my pain: “Yes, I will forgive you. And I also need forgiveness for not always being the wife I could have been. You’ll forgive me?”
Any burdens we carried were gone. I left for home, and the last words I heard that night were, “Good night, dear. I love you.”
Forgiveness and love: words that can soothe and heal a troubled soul. You, my reader, might also have some powerful words that need to be spoken. Don’t put it off; you may have less time than you realize. Take it from someone with experience: words do have meaning.