Out of the Park

240 miles in and I missed my own aunt’s trail: Magic; something I discovered when I met up with a large group of happy, well-nourished hikers. Nonetheless, I reached Fontana Dam and checked into the Fontana Hilton.

A luxury hotel you say? Not quite, but when a trail shelter houses 24 hikers, has a spigot for fresh water and a working bathroom, it will acquire the same reputation. That evening, a man with a van pulled up to the shelter and asked us if anyone would be interested in attending the Hiyak Music Festival.

Never heard of this festival? Well, apparently neither had anyone else which became painfully obvious when the only people to show up were Appalachian Trail thru-hikers who had caught rumor of free food in the area, or were picked up in a van. Despite its anonymity, the music was a refreshing change.

That evening, I had the privilege of meeting (the appropriately named) Landfill. If this name evokes a visual image, it’s probably pretty accurate. This is a hiker who has apparently given up the activity of hiking and is simply living out of hiker shelters and hitch-hiking up the trail to retrieve his next food drop box. When I met him, he had been at the shelter three nights, waiting on the post office to receive his next drop box.  He also managed to leave the majority of his belongings out in the rain, including his stove, even though he, himself, had taken refuge in a shelter.

I entered the Smokies with trepidation, assuming the worst about the notoriously difficult park. My fears were topped only by my frustration with park regulations. Thru hikers have only 7 days to clear the park, must stay in the shelters, and have on them at all times a permit for back country hiking which details their intended trip. Failing to meet any of these requirements can result in a hefty fine. For hikers who have spent a month free from any rules or restrictions, these regulations seem ridiculous. My first night I was reprimanded by a ridge runner for peeing on the wrong side of the mountain, truly an egregious offense.

The mountains are beautiful and no words or pictures can do justice to their grandeur. I was also surprised to find the hiking relatively easy including the climb to Clingman’s Dome, the highest peak on the AT towering over 6,600 feet. It’s all downhill from here I guess.

While in the Smokies, I met a hiker named Rhino. One night, as I was all alone preparing for bed, a 6-foot tall German man barged into the shelter. A seasoned hiker, Rhino immediately ran into the woods in search of wood to build a fire. Minutes later he returned with a root 2 feet in diameter and approximately 5 feet long and proclaimed, “ I just pulled this from the ground.” Later, he hauled an entire tree from out of the forest, breaking it apart by beating the limbs against other trees. His fire engineering consisted of shoving an enormous amount of wood into the pit, dousing it with alcohol and lighting a match.  There is something to be said for German efficiency. He kept the fire going all night, and in the morning informed me it was “fine” to leave the fire lit as we left, saying that it would simply burn out.  I would later discover the entire park ranger service was on his tail for leaving fires going at every one of his shelters.

Leaving the park I had the fortune of meeting a trail legend, a man who has hiked the trail 8 times named Baltimore Jack. The tales of Baltimore Jack are of Biblical proportions and it seems that everyone has had some miraculous encounter with this man. I caught up with Jack at a hostel just north of the Smokies. He welcomed me into the open-air kitchen as he was preparing dinner. A meat cleaver in one hand and fifteen pounds of elk meat in the other, I sat nervously across from him watching bloody pieces of elk fly across the sky. Despite his rugged and imposing appearance, he was remarkably warm and took great interest in my hike with an almost paternal concern. He launched into a lecture about 18^th century French poetry, Robert Redford and 1970’s western cinema that somehow seamlessly segued into his adventures along the Appalachian Trail. That night we all sat around eating elk stew playing Tom Waits on guitar and talking about peace abroad. Its good to see that in some places of rural North Carolina hippy communes are alive and well.

On a more serious note, I have been suffering knee pains that last couple weeks and despite wrapping them with ACE bandages every morning, the demand of the trail has taken its toll. I am hoping it is simply fatigue that will pass, rather than any permanent joint damage, but at this point I am continuing to cut my pace and mileage. That being said my new friend Rainbow, whom I met at the Hostel, is hiking on a fractured heel. She limps up the mountains with a full boot, which immobilizes everything below her knee. I just hope I can catch her.