Date: 2012-03-08
From: At Amicalola Falls State Park

To: Stover Creek Shelter
Miles today: 10.4
Weather: overcast clouds

We were up early and showered and it didn't take long to pack things and put them in the car. My backpack went in last since it would be the first thing unloaded, down at the Visitors Center, when I began my hike in a few hours. For once, I didn't tear down my pack but simply trusted that what was done, was done.We went downstairs for the famous all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet. I wasn't particularly hungry, but I loaded up on fruit (a rare act for me) and biscuits and gravy. We chatted for a bit and enjoyed the mountan view afforded by the floor-to-ceiling windows.Upon checking out, we ran into Vince/Hawkeye and I introduced him. We chatted with him and then hopped in the car to make our way to the Visitors Center, which opened at 8:30. At the Visitors Center, we waited for it to open and walked around back. I had the obligatory picture made of me with backpack under the arch marking the beginning of the Approach Trail. I had to put down my trekking poles and readjust the straps, but it all felt good and I was ready to start. We walked around to the front of the building just as the ranger unlocked the front door.At that point, I realized my trekking poles were nowhere to be seen. After a moment of panic, I rememebered setting them down on a bench by the arch out back as I adjusted the straps on my pack. I ran out the Visitors Center, aound to the back, and was relieved to see my trekking poles still sitting on the bench where I had left them. This mistake did not bode well for the start of my hike and I promised myself to be more careful.Satisfied that I had chastised myself enough and that everyting was in order, I wasted no time in registering at the front desk as a thru-hiker.Vince/Hawkeye came in as I was wrapping up, signed in, and I noticed he was left-handed as well, Another point in his favor.While he was chatting with the ranger, we walked out out the back door and to the arch. We said our goodbyes, not untearfully, and she said she might meet me at the top of the falls. I said, Don't be silly, it could take me awhile to get up there. We said goodbye one more time and turned around, hitched my pack a little higher, and stepped through the arch, turned left, and started walking.I didn't attach any significance to it, like announcing to myself "So it begins!" or "Next stop, Maine!" It was, after all, just walking and through a state park, an activity I had done many times.Common park ornaments like small parking lots, a 15 MPH park road, picnic shelters, and brown trash cans slipped by as I walked. The trail crossed the park road to the base of the falls and the reflecting poing and then veered off to follow a little creek upstream. I stopped and took a picture of a small waterfall. I was abruptly reminded of the unnatural weight of the pack on my back as I fell on my butt while squatting down to get the perfect photo. Luckily, there was no one around and my ego was unbruised. The same could not be said for my backside, which remained a littel sore for a couple of hours.After a few minutes, the trail wandered to the side of the reflection pond and then around back, and then to the base of the stairs.I was a little winded, as the trail had been nearly completely uphill (but, granted, by only a small amount). At the stairs, a sign warned that climbing the steps -- 604 in sall -- were a strenuous activity. I chuckled as I started up because the stairs certainly felt easier than the irregular and rocky slope (again, however slight) of the trail itself.Within a minute, I was huffing and puffing. About thirty seconds later, I was pulling myself up with one hand on the guard rail and the other clutching my trekking poles. Took a breather at the next landing I saw and decided maybe this was a job for two hands on the hand rail. I promptly stabbed myself in the gut by trying to hook my trekking poles into the hoops on my pack, the very same hoops advertised by the pack manufacturer as "convenient and easily accessible." Once again, I start up again.It didn't take long for the "Oh my gawd, what have I gotten myself into" thoughts. I will say, though, I never entertained the thought of not getting to Maine. Never getting to the top of those d___ steps came first and hogged all the brain cells I had allocated for "Thoughts, Dismal and Dark."I literally stopped every 15 to 20 steps and sucked in massive amounts of air. At one point, I noticed a pack of cigarettes on the ground, obviously chunked there by a hiker finally convinced to give up smoking. Or maybe he just died right here and those fell out of his pocket as they lifted his body on gurney. Either way, he had given up smoking, I was sure.I noticed two women, most likely in their sixties, climbing the steps below me. Within moments, they caught up to me as I sagged over the railing and tried to catch some of the cooling mist from the falls. They smiled, asked if I was a thru-hiker, and mentioned they had tried in 2010, getting as far as Pennsylvania before other responsibilities called them back to real life. They encouraged me to enjoy the hike and then they headed on. In only a minute, they were several landings up. While talking to them, I couldn't help but notice that they hadn't even broken a sweat while I had already torn off my jacket and sweater and stuffed them in my pack. I'm pretty sure these women were part of some mutant experiment by military-industrial scientists bent on buidling a super soldier. That's the only way I could explain things to myself.I hauled my carcass from the rail and started up again. About 25 minutes later my foot hit the top step. The two super soldier grandmothers were taking pictures and talking with Tina, who had indeed driven to the top of the falls and patiently waited for me. The super soldiers pointed out again that the stairs were the most difficult part of the day and that in walking in Virginia would actually be pleasant. I thanked them for the encouragement.In my head, though, I was thinking "Are you freaking kidding me?! Virginia is 470 miles away. I have to wait for nearly 500 miles for 'pleasant?' I just about died in the first quarter mile, for crying out loud."Tina and I said goodbye again and I made my weight across the parking lot, up a short flight of steps (ugh) and onto a dirt path, once again on a trail like surface.The trail again wandered and found it was pleasant to be walking along. I lightened up a bit and even laughed a bit at myself and the stairs up the falls. I had the park to myself, it seemed, and while the scenery wasn't spectacular, it was pretty enough.Around 9:30, I came across a sign that state the Hike Inn was 4.8 miles away, about three hours by the average hiker, and that the summit of Springer Mountain was 7.3 miles away, about six hours by the average hiker. My ego, having been checked by the 604 steps up Amicalola Falls, and I agreed that if I could make the top of Springer by 3:30 or four o'clock, then I'd be happy with myself. I continued hiking.Around eleven, I caught up with Smiley, whom I had met the night before."Aw man, how about those stairs?" he asked, laughing. We both agreed they were incredible and nearly the end of each of us. He asked if we were thru-hiking and I said yes. I said I hadn't mentioned it last night because I didn't get a good feeling about Farley. He said Farley was okay, but had kept him up until late at night talking and talking.Smiley said he was taking a breather and would catch up to me later. His pack looked gigantic and every square inch had something strapped to it so that, for the most part, you coudn't see the pack itself. I told him I'd seem later up the trail adn then I moved on.I stopped at a little creek by a gravel park road, filled my one liter Nalgene bottle, and dutifully dropped in two water treatment tablets. I felt satisfactorily self-sufficient and pleased with myself.A little beyond that the trail flattened out. Two tents were set up in a clearing to the right and I waved at a scruffy, skinny, older man breaking down his camp."Howdy, howdy!" he yelled and asked me how I was doing. Not bad, I replied and stopped to talk. Preacher, as he was calling himself, was a self-appointed minister and had been going truckstop-to-truckstop "giving witness and preaching to those that needed it." As some point, the Lord told him he needed to hike the AT, "giving witness and preaching to those that need it."He said the stairs had tested him and that he didn't have adequate equipment or enough food and, as a result, was having second thoughts about the whole endeavor.However, he said, the Lord has spoken to him -- given him a sign -- when last night the camper sharing the clearing with him had decided his knees weren't up to the task, decided to call it quits, and gave Preacher his maps and guidebooks. I bit my tongue and didn't ask what the message or sign was for the poor guy who didn't make the first 3-1/2 miles. I simply smiles and we parted ways. Me, ever upward, and Preacher to revel in his good fortune of new found maps and guidebooks, point the way to Maine.It wasn't long before I enthusiastically picked up a new hobby, namely testing every fallen log, large rock, and tree stump for its suitability as a seat for my butt. I was very thorough in my studies and found it them quite satisfying.A little while before one o'clock, I came by Nimble Wood Gap. At the edge of the clear, a turnaround created by a forest service road, I spied a plaque on a post."In loving memory of Richard Fowler Shoolbred, Sr., Spartanburd, SC. Beloved son, husband, father, brother, and uncle who died in an airplane crash near this site April 10, 1968 at age 33 with three others. By his family June 15, 1996, upon removal of the aircraft.It was a solemn moment, thinking someone had died abruptly here, and little sad that the plane wreckage had sat there for so long.I rested a moment, sipping some water, and moved on.The trail continued upward with occassional dips and many twists and turns.A little before 3:30 PM, as I beginning to despair of making my self-imposed deadline, I heard voices in front of me. A moment later I broke out of the last few short trees and found myself on the summit. It was quite a view, with other mountains in all directions. I wondered which of them I would eventually cross and then gave up on that thought. There was no way to know because there were so many and the trail doesn't take a direct south-to-north route.There were several other people at the summit, taking in the views and making phone calls. A couple or three college guys soon took off, heading for shelters farther down the trail. An uncle and nephew duo were present, with the uncle rubbing his bare feet, boots on the ground next to him, and his nephew standing up and obviously chomping at the bit and ready to go..There was August, a six-foot-plus-some wel-built African-American with close-cropped hair, camoflage pants, a grey shirt, and undeniable energy and enthusiasm. He was ex-Army and was guiding four college-age women: a cheerful blond, a serious brunette, and two others. I would not get their names until later, as they were at the momment all on the phone, or taking pictures, or talking excitedly about the climb up the mountain or what to expect at the shelter. They were polite and nice, though, and I liked the group overall, though August rubbed me the wrong way because he struck me as a know-it-all. (I would learn later, though, that he had nearly every right to be and I grew to like him over the next few days.)Smiley clambered to the summit about 15 minut3es afer I did and immediately shrugged off his pack."Aw, man! Made it!" We both admired the plaque mounted to a stone. The plaque proclaimed this to be the officla southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. Indeed, a few steps away was an officla white 2" by 6" blaze of white paint on the stoney ground. That was the first white blaze I encountered, but I have commited that one to memory.Eventually, nearly every departed the summit, leaving Smiley and I alone. I snapped a few pictures of us, together and separately, and then we shouldered our packs and headed downward.Goind down was as slow as going up had been. Tree roots, rocks, and other natural obstacles made the exercise one of attention-consuming decisions about where to place one's feet or trekking poles. I picked my way down and after about an hour and a half came up Stover Creek Shelter.I pitched my tent, grabbed my cooking gear and food bag, and headed to the communal picnic table. August, the four college women, and the uncle & nephew, and a father and son on a four day hike made room for me. All of them were using Jet-Boil or other canister stoves, they were quite interested in my homemade SuperCat, a simple alcohol stove comprised of nothing more than an empty cat food can with a couple dozen holes punched in it. They became more interested when I pulled out a bottle of Everclear, poured a bit in the stove, and lit it. Everclear, being of such high ethanol content, burns such that you can't see the flame except for under the darkest conditions. As it wasn't dark outside, yet, the other hikers around the table couldn't see the flame, but the fact that I had a couple of cups of water boiling in a few minutes squelched their skepticism. I learned a few days later that though they all knew my trail name was "Hat" they often referred to me as "that Everclear guy." (Indeed, at a shelter a few day slater a hiker whom I just met said, "Hey, you're the Everclear guy!" when I started making my lunch.)I ate my red curry noodles, wondering if everyting I ate after that out of that pot was going to taste like red curry. We sat around the table for awhile and talked. I eventually got tired and walked back to my tent. I realized I hadn't seen Smiley, yet, come into the campsite and wondered if he had stopped somewhere along the trail to call it a night.Within a few moments of changing into a different and heavier pair of long johns and zipping myself into my sleeping bad, I few asleep.