It’s unbelievable to me that 75 miles is a five-day hike now. Three weeks ago, five days of hiking got us thirty miles to Mountains Crossing. Now it gets us through the full length of the Smokies. Oh how the miles fly.
We had a good zero in Fontana Dam on Sunday before we headed in. We dried everything out, played mini golf in 30° temperatures with Blues Clues and Stealth, and that night, when temperatures in the Smokies dropped below 9 degrees (lower than what my or Church Mouse’s sleeping bag is rated for), we sat next to a fireplace and learned how to play a German card game.
But Monday morning, when the shuttle pulled around to take us back to the trail, my feet were itching with excitement.
It’s time to hike.
Day One: The Climb
The Smokies are an icon for the eastern United States. This beautiful mountain range has an influx of visitors every year, so much so that thru-hikers are informed in the guidebook that the (singular) road crossing will most likely be the busiest crossing on the entire trail. Almost everyone I know has some special memory of visiting the Smokies, whether that’s seeing a bear, watching the elk, taking the scenic paths in the area.
There’s a permit system in place. Section hikers have to reserve shelters ahead of time. Camping is strictly regulated to specific spots.
With all of this in mind, I expected the Smokies to be busy. Very busy.
It was strange then, when the shuttle dropped us off in the empty parking lot and sped off. There was only four of us there: Church Mouse, Blues Clues, Stealth, and myself. The Fontana Dam was also under construction, cutting off all road traffic. It felt apocalyptic, just us four, walking quietly along an empty dam road.
I love fire towers. I love stepping above the tree line, looking out over the valleys and curves. I love the way the wind whips through the structure, and how it catches at the edge of your jacket, teasing how far it could carry you. I love standing at the top and looking down, the almost dizzy giddiness that comes from being up high.
The Shuckstack was an incredible fire tower. The rickety structure took you high over the trees and was my first real taste of the scenery that was to come.
Blues Clues and Stealth were below as I stood on the landing just under the observation room. “It’s going to be a good week, y’all!” I yelled down to them, adrenaline and heights spiking my excitement.
The Shuckstack also marked the end to our steep ascent. It was mostly a rolling ridgeline hike from there, 10 miles further into the Smokies before we stopped for the night at Russell Field Shelter.
The AT through the Smokies follows the border between Tennessee and North Carolina so closely they don’t even mark what state you’re in. However, Russell Field was listed on atweather.org as a Tennessee shelter, so I’m going to count this as our third state.
Day Two: Ridges
When you make the climb up and get to the ridgeline, it’s often an easier hike. Sure, there are some ups and downs as the mountain rises and falls, but comparatively, it’s usually a pretty decent hike.
The Smokies… Her ridgelines are not gentle or kind. They’re wild and rugged, full of seasons between each turn, wild tufts of grassy balds scattered between patches of evergreen mountain laurel, scrambling climbs to the tops of knobs and plunging descents back down to a gap. It was a harder day than yesterday’s climb as we scrambled through downed trees, over frozen patches of ice, down loose gravel descents, and up jumbles of rock.
Her ridgelines don’t care about your knees, your aching muscles, the fact that you’re late for lunch and yet still a mile away. They move with the millennium, each human life lasting no more than a breath from their rocky lungs. The Ents cling to their spines, each of them living a depth of life we cannot fathom or imagine.
Her ridgelines feel alive.
Despite it’s ruggedness, the views were incredible. Each turn brought about what felt like new scenery, like you stepped between worlds with every twist.
“I still can’t believe we get to be out here, every day, and walk in a world that looks like this,” I told Jared (yes, Jared who gave trail magic at the NOC) as we scrambled up a grassy bald together.
“It’s a privilege for sure,” he replied.
There are so many things that could have stopped us from being out here, so many things that could easily have gone wrong. And yet, here we are.
Even three weeks in, we personally know several people who’ve quit or been forced to the quit the trail, who no longer get to wake up and look out the tent or shelter door to the sight of mountains.
Lord, let me not forget what a privilege and a blessing it is to experience Your creation in this way.
All of this gloriousness was hard work though, and I’ll admit that by the end of our 16-mile hike, I was wondering why it couldn’t be a bit less majestic and a little more here’s a flat space to sleep. We made it, barely it felt like, to Double Springs Shelter, just in time to snag a spot in the shelter.
Day Three: An icy Clingsman Dome
I had a glorious plan. We could wake up early and hike to Clingsman Dome to watch the sunrise. I even had Blues Clues on board, and was slowly convincing Stealth and Church Mouse it would be worth giving up their sleep for.
But when we checked the weather Tuesday night, the small chance of rain had turned into a definite chance of rain, beginning at 5 am.
So much for a sunrise.
When we awoke on Wednesday morning, we learned that not only had it been raining, but that everything the rain touched had frozen. Our bear bag, the step to the privy, but most importantly, the trail.
Everything was iced over. And it was still raining and would continue raining well into the evening.
Delightful.
When we slid our way to the top of the dome, the wind swirled over the ridge and hit you straight in the face, bitterly cold enough to take away your breath. The temperature itself was not that cold, but the wind and the ice made a wicked mix.
However, this weather made for a peaceful scene there at the Dome. No other tourists were there. The path leading up to the dome felt like a road after the tiny footpath we’d been hiking, and yet, it was just us, euphoric in the wind and cold.
Oh, and also. Clingsman Dome marks 200 miles.
Lord, I thank you for sunshine, thank you for rain, thank you for joy, thank you for pain. It’s a beautiful day-ay-ay-ay. It’s a beautiful day.
The chorus of an unknown song I get stuck in my head on rainy days
It’s been a lesson I’ve been learning slowly but surely. Things are what you make of them. You get to choose what you see. You get to choose what you remember. You get to make or break your own day.
There is admitting that things are cold and wet, that your gloves are not as waterproof as you thought they were, that the trail is not a walking path but a river of ice, that Microspikes are a handy tool but make your feet hurt after a day of wearing them. It’s okay to admit you didn’t get to see the sunrise and you feel like a miserable wet sewer rat.
But there’s also admiring the fact that you’re walking through an enchanted forest, covered in moss and ice, the first evergreen forest you’ve walked through, hidden sublimely in the shades of fog.
As a fellow hiker said, “You can be wet and miserable or you can just be wet.”
The entire day felt like I was walking through a magical land, far away from the dreary, sleeping forest of Georgia and North Carolina. It was green here, alive and vivid. Even the ice was vivid, waterfalls and streams of water stopped still in time, a silent land except for the steady crunch crunch crunch of my Microspikes as I passed through.
The forest is enchanting when it rains, when the fog clings to the trees, when the water spins and sparkles, changing from liquid to ice, leading you forward along a path of solid waterfalls. A faery could have stepped out and asked for my name and I wouldn’t have been surprised. A Rivendell elf could be silently following his own path a few feet away. The forest held her secrets, and allowed me a path through to the other side.
Very few things bring as much excitement to thru-hikers as the promise of trash cans and actual restrooms (especially when it’s too frozen to dig cat holes). Newfound Gap had both. Perhaps it’s another sign of being a thru-hiker: it was so good to be in a warm, dry spot that I simply stopped there in the bathroom (which had actual running water!), took off my dripping rain coat, and simply ate my lunch there.
Well that was weird, I thought for a moment as I donned my rain coat again and headed back out into the cold, steady dripping. Then I shrugged it off. It was three miles left to Icewater Spring Shelter, our stop for the night, and that bathroom was the only spot guaranteed to be dry.
Day Four: The sun to chase away the rain
One would think from the symphony of snores echoing from the Icewater Springs Shelter that Church Mouse and I had decided to lay down our mats in a wilderness cave and were sleeping with several wild animals. There is a snarling cougar in the top bunk, and a rumbling bear to the left. We add our own sounds to the mix, our shifting and rumbling, the unconscious noises humans make when they’re asleep. I’m rather used to it by now… All through the Smokies and even before we’ve been falling asleep to the sounds of other people snoring. I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep without this soundtrack when we’re able to start sleeping in our tent again.
Today felt like a present for surviving yesterday’s wet scramble. It was ever-so-slightly chilly that morning but the sunrise was glorious. We were up high enough that we were between layers of clouds. A sea of white floated below us, and another layer drifted above us. The sun hovered between these layers, welcoming us to a glorious new day.
It was an easy 13-mile hike to our next shelter, which meant we had plenty of time to explore. The clouds from yesterday’s rain rolled away, unveiling a brilliant blue sky and the iconic Smoky ridgelines.
To anyone hiking behind me, hoping for a peaceful morning of listening to the breeze, your thoughts, and the migrating birds’ songs: I’m sorry.
I hopped, I shouted, I whooped. I scrambled on rocks, and touched moss, and skipped down the trail.
The landscape fed into my soul, the warmth of the sun thawed off yesterday’s ice, and it was a beautiful reminder of why we’re out here, hiking day after day.
We got to Tri-corner Knob Shelter early, and had time to make hot chocolate, build a fire, and chat as we made dinner. I even had enough cell service to talk with a couple friends from home (aside from here, cell service was basically non-existent through the entire park).
It was, I do believe, the perfect day.
Day Five: The hike out of the Smokies
I’m not sure if there’s a better way to sum up the Smokies than this painting from Paint Splash, displayed prominently at Standing Bear Hostel where we stayed that night. It was an 18 mile hike to get there, with half of the hike being a more than 4,000 foot drop out of the Smokies.
There’s a good reason the Smokies is such an important park on the East Coast. I can’t believe I got to experience such a beautiful place with so few of the crowds and busyness that usually accompanies this park.
It was rugged, wild, unpredictable and extreme. It was knee-sore days. I believe everyone in our group shouted in anger and frustration at this section of the trail on one day or another (yes, including me). I also shouted with joy, hiked further than I ever have before, and experienced some of the most incredible beauty I’ve seen since we started.
There are some people who hated the Smokies. One hiker said he was ready to quit if the entire trail was like what we’d just hiked through.
It was hard hiking, yes. It got a little sketchy at some places, yes. We had to wait out some wicked weather down at Fontana Dam, yes.
But it was incredible. Even on the days when we were walking across ice in the rain. Even on the days when the grassy balds wouldn’t end. Even when my feet hurt and my knee ached. Even when we had to descend more than 4000 painful feet in one day.
I raise my Root Beer to her. Cheers to the Smokies, cheers to the ones brave enough to hike her, cheers to those continuing on after her.
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