Date: 2017-11-03
To: View Entry
Miles today: 0.0
Weather: broken clouds

People usually start by asking simple questions, like where does the Appalachian Trail go, are you a thru-hiker, or how long will it take?  If the hiker shows a willingness to continue the conversation, perhaps in the hopes of a ride into town or even an invitation to dinner, the questions quickly become more personal and start to address fears. Will you be hiking alone? Aren¢t you afraid of bears, hillbillies and other hairy creatures? Will you be carrying protection?It doesn¢t take too many of these questions from very many people before the hiker starts to realize that the fears being raised are primarily fears of the inquisitors, and the questions translate into statements, and very honest ones at that. I would be terrified to be in the woods alone, especially at night. I would be terrified of bears, hillbillies and other things that go bump in the night. At the very least, I would want an armed bodyguard, porters to carry my gear, to make my camp, and to cook gourmet meals. How do I respond?I start by acknowledging the fear as one I¢ve had or more probably continue to have. Sometimes I¢ll tell a story to illustrate the fear or even to magnify it, a story that ends with the hero (me) conquering the fear. I¢m short, old and gray, and pretty harmless. If someone like me can handle it, think how much better you can!Yes, I will be hiking alone for the most part. Anticipating my first solo hike in 1994, I was scared, but I kept reminding myself of Grandma Gatewood. She was the age I am now, an Ohio farm woman and a great grandmother, when she set out in 1957 to hike the Appalachian Trail, after reading an article about it in National Geographic Magazine. I imagine her saying, ¢Hell, I can do that, and it certainly can¢t be as hard as the life I¢ve had,¢ a life that included a wife-beating husband, 11 children, and threats of commitment. She carried a denim gunnysack slung over one shoulder. Her only shelter and protection from the rain was a plastic shower curtain, and she wore Keds sneakers. A pair of her sneakers is enshrined in Damascus, Virginia like a relic of the true hiker. She ended up hiking the AT three times. Whenever I managed to scare myself about hiking alone, I would say to myself, ¢If Granny could do it, I can do it,¢ and that became one of my hiking mantras.   In June 1994, I flew up to Atlanta and my brother Ron and his five-year old son Brian drove me to Amicalola Falls State Park in Georgia. The official beginning of the Appalachian Trail is 8.8 trail miles and 2,082 vertical feet to the northeast of the park. The approach trail starts at a stone archway outside the park visitors¢ center.  Back then the trail ascended steeply 850 vertical feet on muddy switchbacks to the park road at the top of Amicalola Falls, the highest waterfall in Georgia. It¢s been replaced by a beautifully constructed wooden staircase with 604 steps, but it remains a rude awakening. Brian walked with me while Ron wisely drove to the top of the falls. At the time I weighed 153 pounds and my pack weighed 58 pounds. Brian deftly skipped up the trail while I tried mightily not to huff and puff and fall flat on my face. I was ecstatic when we made it to the top of the falls and Ron and Brian drove away leaving me alone in the woods. I hiked another ten feet so as to be hidden from the road that leads to the park lodge. Then I collapsed and struggled out of my massive Gregory Robson pack that weighed nearly eight pounds empty. I tried eating one of the two dozen pemmican bars I had brought. According to the Canadian Encyclopedia. the word pemmican derives from the Cree pimikan meaning manufactured grease. It¢s a native American energy bar made from powdered dried meat, an equal amount of melted fat, and dried berries or fruit. I would rather starve than eat another one. From this I learned a valuable lesson: only bring foods that you actually want to eat, not foods that you think you ought to eat. I should have loaded up on Little Debbie Oatmeal Cakes. For me, pemmican meant pack ballast and I couldn¢t wait to get rid of it at the first trashcan.  As I started to climb the first mountain, Frosty Mountain, a summer thunderstorm moved in and settled over the summit. I could see lightning striking the ridge above, so I again sat down on the muddy trail and covered myself and my pack with my rain jacket. And I cried, not out of fear but out of frustration. Four hours later, the storm moved on, and I tented on the summit, near where there used to be a fire tower. I never found the spring mentioned in the guidebook, but it started raining again, easily filling my cook pot.Two nights later, still alone, I slept in the nearly new Hawk Mountain Shelter, and was awakened by U.S. Army Rangers training for the imminent invasion of Haiti. Blackhawk helicopters buzzed the shelter at treetop level, dropping things that flashed and made a lot of noise. I wasn¢t scared, just angry.  Three days later I reached Neels Gap where there is an outfitter conveniently located right on the trail, the only place where the trail actually passes through a building. After a night at Blood Mountain Cabins with an endless shower, and after shipping home 15 pounds of useless stuff including binoculars and a chair kit, things got much better. My pack then weighed only 43 pounds, which was about typical for the period.  I was surprised by another violent thunderstorm as I climbed Tray Mountain, and the temperature plummeted about 15 degrees. Did I stop and put on a warm layer and a rain jacket? Of course not; I only had to complete the climb and the shelter would be right there. As I neared the summit, a ray of sunshine broke through and hit a mica-laden rock. I stopped and stared, mystified. In my near hypothermic stupor, I thought I had already submitted and was going down to the shelter. I had gotten turned around and hiked all the way back down the mountain, discovering my error only when I reached the campsite at the base. Did I just pitch my tent there or put my rain gear on? Of course not; I only had to climb the mountain again and the shelter would be right there. Up and up, switchback by miserable switchback, I climbed, getting colder and colder. This time I reached the summit, but in the gloaming, a lovely Scottish word meaning twilight, I missed the sharp left turn and started climbing down a rock face, reaching a small cave facing due east. Perhaps it was a Cherokee spirit cave, and if I had fasted for three days, I would have received my spirit name and been invited into the mountain to dance with the Nunnehi. Instead, in a rare moment of lucidity, I said to myself, ¢Granny didn¢t do this; Granny didn¢t do this,¢ and somehow climbed back up with that miserable pack, shortly reaching the shelter. A couple, Skinny Badger and Hikes with Hooves, who were the two teachers at a Seventh Day Adventist School in rural Wisconsin, and one of their students, Volcano, were there and gave me something warm to drink. I quickly recovered.  I also had a tornado skip over me at Plumorchard Gap Shelter, entertained by a father trying to gather his sons around him as he prayed to Jesus for deliverance from the storm, while his father-in-law howled with laughter at his panic and his piety. It was a lovely first solo hike, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. With everything that happened, I never had time to fear being alone, and it¢s never bother me since. I ended the hike as planned at Wallace Gap in North Carolina, on Old Highway 64 between Franklin and Murphy. Rainbow Springs Campground (it no longer exists) was a short walk to the west. Bill Bryson in A Walk in the Woods was less than spellbound by the accommodations and food, but my experience was nothing like his. Jensine and Buddy Crossman were gracious hosts who offered to do my laundry for me without charge, warned me off the bottomless pot of chili, and sold me bacon, eggs and bread as a safer alternative. They made sure I had a clean towel and even provided toilet paper, expressing confidence that I wouldn¢t steal it as so many others had. After almost two weeks in the woods, most of it spent alone, I was grateful for every hospitality they offered, and perhaps that is the difference.I¢ll be starting this hike with my cousin Debbie but I expect to hike alone most of the time. With the explosion in the number of hikers, I don¢t expect to be alone at night very often. I often meet people with a similar hiking pace doing similar daily distances, and if compatible, I¢ve hiked with people for as long as five weeks. I¢ve had more trouble getting away from people I didn¢t like. You may recall the character of Mary Ellen from A Walk in the Woods. She talked incessantly about horoscopes, how your gear was all wrong, and made hideous noises clearing her eustachian tubes. I met the real Mary Ellen (not her real name) in New Hampshire in 2000, and Bill Bryson was actually kind in his description of her. I had settled into Hexacuba Shelter thinking I would have it to myself, when Mary Ellen arrived. She first suggested that I move to the other side of the shelter since she preferred to be on the right hand side and then began her nonstop monologue of serial malapropisms punctuated by her signature snorts. Bill Bryson and Katz put up with her for several days before ditching her. I hiked prodigious miles the very next day after meeting her to accomplish the same feat, sneaking out before dawn to get a head start. Hiking alone and spending nights alone in the woods are the least of my worries on the Appalachian Trail.