Date: 2003-04-10
From: Indian Grave Gap

To: Erwin
Miles today: 8.9
Weather: moderate rain

Note: SOBO back to Erwin! Morning started with a quick trip to Dr. Walters' cheery office to get my back cracked. Yes, my instinct was on target, I WAS sensing a case of Springer fever. The good doctor talked about trout streams in Montana, grouse in the mountains, wild turkeys along Unaka Creek. There was something essential in the wilds he was craving. "I'm really jealous of you guys," he said wistfully. Walked back through the cold, driving rain to another huge Miss Janet breakfast, which they saved for me on a plate. Hmmm, did I really want to walk in that cold rain today? Janet asked the same thing upon learning that it was snowing at Sams Gap and the schools were closing at noon. But there were eight of us willing to hike the nearly-nine miles south, back to Erwin and dry bunks: Sonic, 'Guana, LoadRunner and his sister Apricot, Scamp and Greylock, a tall fellow named Don, and me. How bad could nine miles be? Ha! The raindrops on the grey van's windshield grew fatter as we climbed to Indian Grave Gap. There was some faintness of heart creeping in as the weather drama increased, until finally the fat, slushy drops turned into beautiful, goose-down snowflakes. Suddenly, we all wanted to be out in it!Janet posed us all for a picture in those broad flakes, and then off we went. I broke trail for the group, and for the first hour snow grew deeper, kissing the boot tops.The heavy load of snow created an obstacle course, as the hemlock boughs accumulated a thick frosting and dragged across the trail. These took a quick whack with a Leki pole to set right. WHAP! Big snow dump, then the bough would rise up far enough to pass under. If I got the timing wrong and pushed through too fast, I got a load of snow dumped between my pack and my back. Brrr! I had rain gear on, but that only wards off the wet, not the cold.The rhododendron branches were worse. They practically lay down in the middle of the Trail, creating a wiry, icy obstacle course. So went the first hour - clacking hemlocks and rhodos, ducking under or scrambling over, sometimes hit in head with snow-bombs from above. These snow-bombs had some heft to them, like thrown snowballs, and I would snatch my head around to see who was the prankster, but everyone was struggling with their own snow fun-house tunnels.As I grew wiser, and approached a snowy overhang at a certain angle, I discovered I could do a little roll and spin, do-si-do-ing my pack vis-a-vis the hanging limb, my tender nose tip mere centimeters from the icy payload. Ha-CHA! Just call me Dances With Boughs. Near the shelter, Zapman and Sparky appeared and passed us. They had decided to give slacking a try. They were soaked thru, their Goretex jackets 12 years old, so they didn't linger. The air was very cold. A slacking hiker must keep walking when wet, to generate heat. There is no tent and insulating sleeping bag to crawl into."Hey, stand a little taller and bust that snow off the boughs for us, willya?" I teased as they blew by. "And take shorter steps too, my feet aren't fitting in your bootprints." I was lucky not to get snow-bombed. At one point I had gotten a little ahead of the group and paused on a ledge. The snow was plastering the nearby flank of a mountain we were traversing. There was a deep silence, except for the hissing flakes. Then I looked up. I beheld a surreal sight, fat snowflake upon fat snowflake upon fat snowflake piling down. They stung my eyeballs with their cold ice. It was like looking at moving water, dizzying, perspective-bending, seemingly infinite. There was Something of what I was looking for out here today, and I knew it. What it was, I couldn't exactly say. But there It was - and it fed me, lifted me up.When I finally looked around, there were Don, LoadRunner and Apricot too, all looking up. We just grinned at each other, eyes sparkling and alive. We all felt It."All my life I never knew I was a bell," wrote Annie Dillard, upon seeing this mysterious Thing in the simple slant of sunrise on her backyard cedar, "until I was lifted and struck." Maybe I need to give her "Tinker Creek" another whack.At one point the snow was coming down so thick that if you stood upright like a natural woman instead of looking down at your feet like a unsteady hiker, you would choke on the flakes, inhaling them like summer gnats. A short stop at Curley Maple Shelter, four miles from Erwin, turned dire. I took off my soaked wool gloves to do a little business, and when I put them back on (wringing out copious amounts of water in the process), my hands froze. I knew I had to get walking again, fast.Zapman and Sparky has paused here too, becuause they lost the Trail. The reason the lost the Trail was because at this point, the Trail became a creek. Yes, the snow was starting to melt from this elevation downward, and the trail became first a brook, then a creek, then a white water river. I kid you not, there was so much rushing water an hour from the shelter that it formed whitecaps, baby standing waves, moving current. Thru-fording the AT river.We endeavored to step on rocks, banks, rhodie trunks, anything to keep our feet dry. This was rather important as the air temp was hovering at about 33 or 34, and we still had an hour of walking. Dry feet are a useful thing.One one point we forded what you knew was a little trickle in more temperate times. Now it was a raging, knock-you-down torrent, narrowing into a chute that dumped into the now-plunging Unaka Creek. That merry branch was now a brown river, churning with limbs.This "quick nine" was turning into a different sort of a hike. Things were taking an ugly turn, and there was genuine physical risk.The four of us made it over without swamping, though it had frightening moments and then suddenly, mingled with our relief, there It was again. You could about taste it. Everyone felt It, saw in each others' eyes.Wow, COLD! It penetrated our elation and added a sense of urgency. We turned and walk swiftly away, not knowing how many more of these simple water crossings ahead had turned ugly. Suddenly, we stopped as a group. Realization dawned: four of our party were still back there, yet to cross. We turned around to wait.We scoured the Trail for logs, rocks, whatever, to throw into the torrent to make stepping stones to help the others across. But the powerful current just slung these heavy things away. After a time, a few accumulated, and when the others arrived, there were a few places to step.With all accounted for, we decided to hang together for the rest of the hike. Little did we know there was a flood watch issued for the mountains.Somewhere along the way, my Leki pole came apart in two pieces. Don also broke BOTH his poles in the extreme wet. It felt funny, uneven, with just one pole.Our next challenge was crossing the normally-friendly Unaka Creek via an icy log. This did not sit well with us, (I can't wait to read Scamp or Sonic's journal), but there was no other choice. These were things one didn't do by choice.What a day! Out on the slick log, mid-stream with the rushing water making me dizzy, tippy, I paused and - wham! - got another Hit. Whooo-eee! By now, I felt as if I could walk on water, tho I must report I did not give it a try.Again, all managed to cross. So far, so good.'Guana is a canoe marathoner, and we teased her about taking the opportunity to study the currents, sharpen her eye for her upcoming race in May. These currents were in the Trail, mind you.And then, the Trail turned to cross Unaka Creek. There was no bridge.This was serious water.We looked at each other. No stepping or pole-vaulting across this one. It was over 25 feet wide, and the current in the middle was charging. It would have to be forded.We hesitated, testing various routes by eye. "That way, I think," said 'Guana. I trusted her river instincts and crossed at an angle she indicated. She waded in beside me. The icy water was like a slap as it filled up our boots and shoes. I may have gasped.But temperature was the least of my concerns as I felt my way along the uneven bottom. It was hard to hold my footing on the unstable, slick rocks as the current tried to knock me down, and water rose to my calves, then knees, then up the thigh. I wished mightily for my other pole. At the deepest point, I knew I was stuck, thigh-deep in freezing snow melt. Every time I moved a foot to exit, the torrent undercut me on the rolling rocks underfoot, and I started to go down. I was immobilized.Without my other pole, I lacked three points of contact.LoadRunner had crossed beside me and his long legs carried him to safety. "Lean into the current," he shouted over the roar of the water. This helped, as I bent my knees and pushed forward. Still, I couldn't move a foot.LoadRunner reached out a long arm to me. It was too far away.You know that Michaelangelo fresco on the ceiling if the Sistine Chapel? I could feel the helpful energy reaching out to me. I took a leap of faith and lifted my lone pole from the water and stretched it out to him. Immediately, I teetered. I was going down! Swept downstream! But there it was - contact! He grasped my pole and changed the whole energy dynamic. I was able to lunge forward to more stable footing, and wade out on my own steam. Upright.Woohoo! I didn't expect to ford any creeks until Maine. Bring on the Kennebec River! To hell with the canoe!'Guana had made it too, and tall Don, totally poleless, purely RAN across the ford. "Slow down and feel your way across," we shouted to him as he teetered and flailed his arms wildly. Though it looked certain to end in a dunking, he too made it across without swimming, as did Apricot.By now it was clear where the better spots to cross were, so we directed the others and all ended up on the other side, safe. It was only later that we would learn that poor Sparky had gone down on this ford, and they arrived in Erwin so cold they stood in a hot shower for 45 minutes to warm up.Well, after this thigh-deep crossing there was no longer any attempt to avoid the AT river. Dry socks and boots were a thing of the past. With a mile left to walk, we just splashed down the middle of the "Trail." Our feet became pruned and numb from the ice water. And it was still raining, in the thirties. Look on the bright side, we joked. We won't have to ice our feet tonight. What inflammation will survive this?Our hero Valley Girl met us carrying an umbrella the last half-mile, and piled soaked, dripping hikers into his warm car.Back at the hostel, it was impossible to move, there were so many thru-hikers there waiting out the snow. There was no room to spread out wet gear, or even turn around sometimes. The phone was in constant use as hikers called home to reassure loved ones.Sonic and 'Guana managed to ge a room at the Super 8 and asked if I wanted to share it. Did I ever! A hostel is a great experience, but after three nights I was ready for some SPACE.Janet laughed and told us Roan Mountain had over two feet of snow - our destination next week. Yikes! I think I am taking the next two days off.Somewhere in there Pog, or Karen, from one of my hiking lists showed up - with a car! She shuttled me, Hotdog, Sonic and 'Guana to the motel, then to the Outback Steakhouse in Johnson City, where we hooked up with Ma and Pa Wench, and their little Wenchlet. It was a jolly supper and spirits ran high.I ordered the lambchops, and they were exceedingly good. Nothing like cheating the river to put the juice in a lambchop.