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Wanderlust

Makin’ Biscuits in the woods, Pt. 3

April 22, 2016

Day 2

My highest and lowest moments of the entire hike fell within the same 24 hours. We woke up Monday morning and putzed around our site for a generous amount of time. We brought out the GPS and had a brief powwow about the distance and terrain we had to knock out that day. “It looks like it’s about 5 miles, as a crow flies, and a 6000 foot elevation.” Lesson No. 3: A crow flies a much shorter path than a human walks. In all our time talking about water sources and elevation changes and mileage, I never did figure out why in the name of all that is sanity the term persisted. Those little punks, with their wings and their speed and their cocky attitudes, have a very direct route from Point A to Point B, whereas we had foot bridges and reroutes and natural roadblocks, like two-lane roads, to go around. It honestly made me crazy. The difference could be as much as 4 miles at times. “Yeah, but how far as a girl walks?” I began asking.

We ate oatmeal and sipped instant coffee and talked wilderness bathroom habits in great detail. (We talked about bathroom habits and body odors in great detail often over our 4 days together.) Lesson No. 4: Did you know you’re supposed to take your pants all the way off when you poop in the woods? That way, if a bear or a snake or a pack of girl scouts attacked, you could run, rather than topple over with your pants around your ankles. Not saying I did it, but I was told it was for survival … Anyway, eventually, we packed up our circle site and rolled out. The terrain was gradual at first. The section was beautiful and almost Secret Garden-esque as we maneuvered among rocks in the subtle shade of the towering rhododendrons. I tried to picture what our hike would look like with these sleepy buds in full bloom. How brilliant the border of bright magenta and powder purple blossoms would be along the trail. Maybe someday I’ll go back when the hills are really blushing. After what felt like about an hour and half of tricky scrambling, we came to a break and the view was the first breath-taking overlook of the trip. It was a boost we didn’t know we needed.

We stopped for lunch and injury assessments early in the afternoon. Chicken salad on a tortilla, a Baby Bell and beef jerky, and a nagging blister for the Mr. Athletic tape and Band’Aids adhered, we were ready to rock the rest of the afternoon. Looking back, I think it was a blessing that we went into that second part of the Day 2 section blindly. I mean, maybe some of the people in our party knew the hellish climbs that awaited, but if they did, they weren’t sayin.

First up for the afternoon, a long, gradual climb on a Jack and the Beanstalk of a hill littered with brown crunchy leaves. As our rhythms and pace settled, our group spread out a bit. Soon I found myself walking alone. This was one of the only times I truly walked by myself on the trip. When you do any sort of repetitive activity in silence for a significant period of time, your thoughts start to interrupt each other and get a bit like an 18 year old’s on shrooms, though they feel deep and insightful in the moment. Mine were something like … Holy shit, this hill is endless … Gosh, look at Hank up there … he really is such a good partner … This whole thing is like a microcosm of life in general; with ups and downs and challenges and victories and moments when you feel off balance and teamwork and basic survival … There’s gotta be a blog post in there somewhere … Everyone should do this … My legs are freaking burning … I wonder what Hank’s thinking about … I wonder if he thinks I’m a good partner … If I were a bear, I’d be right over there … Realistically, will we ever do this again … Why does this look easy for Matt … Is it too soon for a snack … I hope they’re waiting on a rock after this corner … Nope, damn.

While your thoughts meander through and crowd your mind like a gang of drunken cats , there’s an orderly cadence that simultaneously takes over your body. Your trekking poles swing and find the ground each time your right foot advances forward. Your breath quickens and stabilizes in response to the rise and fall in demand. The crunch of your boots on the trees’ lost leaves and your inhalations lay down a basic beat to which the rest of your senses sing along. Minutes pass both painfully and quickly. It’s called a walk, but it’s arguably a dance as well. The probing solitude is a meditation with merit, no doubt, but the best part comes when you round a bend on a switchback and see your trailmates waiting, drop your pack and take a 10-minute rest.

After completing the hill of infinity, the boys and I gathered at a boulder to regroup. Hank wanted to keep moving and I felt some momentum lingering in my stems, so we left the crew and soldiered on to tackle the second high elevation of the day. Lesson No. 5: If you don’t like the scenery, just wait an hour. Something that amazed me about the AT was how quickly the backdrop changed. The morning was rhododendrons and rocks, while the first big hill was a sea of bare bronze and tree trunks, and now we were pulling ourselves up over large boulders and jagged mountainside saplings. (We’d see ice before the day was over.)

I don’t know if it was the fact that we were out of the forest and the sun was hitting my skin, or that this particular section of this particular mountainside felt uniquely beautiful and challenging, or the fact that it was just us, Biscuits and Gravy, trekking poles-deep in this glorious climb … whatever it was, reaching the top of that second mountain was a high point for me; likely the highest of the entire trip. This was also how I got confirmation – if there was ever any doubt – that I will do damn-near anything for chocolate.

We’d packed 6 Snickers bars for the 4 days (that’s 1 a piece for 3 days, if you’re doing the math, which I most certainly was). At 2:45 I must have made an ugly sound whilst heaving my huge ass up a testy boulder, to which my husband responded, “If you can make it to 3:30, we’ll stop and have our Snickers.” Even if Jennifer Aniston herself came down that mountain and told me we could meet for margaritas and haircare secrets if I made it to the top, nothing could have motivated me more than that promise of chocolate, roasted peanuts, nougat, and sweet, sexy caramel. And God love that man, he gave me 10-minute updates for the win. “30 minutes till Snickers, Court!” “10 minutes and it’s chocolate time!” We came to the most breath-taking area on, what felt like, the top of the world, kicked off our boots, pulled back the paper and ate the shit out of those candy bars. We called the chicks from that mountaintop, too, and it all just felt so satisfying. Because, you know, Snickers really do that.

I rode my chocolate-coated high down through a flat section of forest and right to the base of, yet another, mountain. Hank spotted a blue blaze (indicating a water source) and, respecting rumors of sparse water sources ahead and recognizing we had only about 4 ounces of H2O between us, he decided to make the trek to fill up. The terrain turned out to be a bit steeper than anticipated. As the grown men crossed my path one by one, they disappeared in Hank’s footsteps in pursuit of the blue blaze. Soon, it was just me and the 13 year old from our group left waiting. And waiting. And waiting. We stood in the shadow of our final summit for what felt like an hour until signs of life came shuffling and huffing through the sparse foliage. The staggering single file line of men emerging from the woods looked beaten, battered and as if whatever devilish descent took them down to that watering hole stole 5 years of their youth. The last to come out was my Gravy. And then it was time to climb just one. more. mother-lovin mountain.

With the exception of Lieutenant Blazer, who was an agile freak of nature, we were all running on fumes. The mountain, which would bring us to our highest elevation of the day, was a nature-made obstacle course constructed of unsettling ledges, rounded stones, tree root steps and puddles frosted in ice from the frigid overnight temps. Around every turn was a fresh ascending viewpoint and we put in a weary, weak performance at best. I will say I found it comforting that everyone in our group, and everyone we came across from that point on, acknowledged just how brutal our Day 2 route really was. It made me feel like my shaking limbs were a symptom of normal fatigue as opposed to fragility and a lack of preparedness.

When we reached the break in our third consecutive climb of the afternoon, we stepped out into the field where the Cloudland Hotel once stood and collapsed into various piles. My sugar buzz had evaporated as quickly as it came on, leaving me too disenchanted by this point to read the plaque that stands on this historical land. I tells the story of The Cloudland, a luxury resort that literally sat on the North Carolina-Tennessee border. Consuming alcohol was legal in Tennessee at the time, but not in North Carolina. Guests could drink in the dining room, which was located on the appropriate side, but if they crossed the line painted on the floor they were in North Carolina territory and subject to the designated punishment. Where socializing and music once filled an entire building, now a handful of tired-ass hikers sat staring at its fluffy, billowy mascots in what was now an open grassland. There really are a lot of clouds up here, I thought to myself. Though had I been on an overlook with any other name, I might not have even noticed them. Once The General made it up the mountain we began talking camp. Our goal was to make it to Roan High Knob, the highest shelter on the Appalachian Trail at 6,285 feet above sea level. But Lieutenant Blazer was giving the hard sell on a patch of pine trees about 10 feet from where we all sat trail wasted on the ground.

The General pushed for us to finish out the day and head just .6 of a mile down the trail to the water source at Roan High Knob. We had covered 7.9 miles at that point, but that last .6 was the longest of the day. And it didn’t get much better once we made the jagged climb up to camp. The wind on Monday night was unforgiving and somewhere along the way, the heavens decided to start spitting giant droplets of pestering water. Lucky for us, the Magician was on the scene. The Magician was a super-focused thru-hiker with a lot of advice and a vegan dog. That’s right, his dog, Pig, was vegan. I remembered seeing them flash past us on that first big hill right after lunch. The dog was built like a tiny brick shithouse; strong and solid. Every morning, The Magician would rub chapstick on the pads of Pig’s paws and give him a full body check. Pig had a special blanket and was just basically killin’ it in all aspects of the game. The Magician walked Hank around and showed him the only other flat spot outside of the shelter to set up our tent. We also peeked into the shelter. “The mice won’t bother you. You’ll just hear them,” the other hikers said. I made the decision right then and there to be a total girl and stick to our tent. It was the wrong decision.

We set our tent up in the dark gray drizzle that comes on a stormy evening just before night falls. The fire was smoky and constantly considering extinguishing completely, making my eyes burn too badly to stay. I ate my freeze-dried lasagna, watched Hank and the Lieutenant tie a bear bag up into a tree and called it for the night. Around 11pm or so, I woke up with that familiar call to pee. I was cold and pissy. I didn’t want to get out of my sleeping bag. But I did. And once you get cold like that you’re pretty much screwed. My teeth chattered and my whole body ached from shivering. Hank gave me his down jacket to put over the one I was already wearing. Nothing helped. This is how I die, I thought. I’m going to pass away from hypothermia on some stupid mountaintop because I read some stupid book and thought, hey, why shouldn’t I go find myself in the freaking woods. My poor girls are going to have to tell this story so many times. It was all messing with my mind in a way that unearthed vulnerabilities and insecurities I’ve only felt a few times before. It put me in a bad, bad headspace and poked at my inner pessimist. I didn’t sleep that night, either. The wind tugged at our tent cover and toyed with the idea of demonstrating its brut power by removing the thing altogether. By the time the sun rose, my spirits and boot soles were completely frozen. I had hit a low point on the trip.

To be continued …

Wanderlust

Makin’ Biscuits in the woods, Pt. 2

April 18, 2016

On the eve of Day 1.
His trail name was “T-Rex”. He was dressed from head to toe in shiny black nylon that was too small, both on the top of his bottoms and the bottom of his top. He often looked straight ahead in a stoner stare rather than make any type of eye contact with anyone in our group. He materialized from the darkness some time between when we left to stuff our excited pieholes at Smoky Mountain Bakers and our return. T-Rex must have mentioned his intent to watch Jurassic Park no less than 15 times, only to get up and put in The Thing instead, much to the delight of no one. The kid was just a few beats off the rhythm if you hear what I’m rappin’.

I’d felt some dull apprehension about who we might encounter on the trail. The timing was perfect for us to intersect a good number of thru-hikers (people hoofing it up the entire 2,000+ miles of the Appalachian Trail, from Georgia to Maine), most of whom started in late February-early March. Right outta the gate I was sharing my leftover cheese sticks with this joker; a guy who was, “Sent away to an island when [he] was young because [he] was very bad.” Great … awesome. I live in the suburbs with 3.5 children and have a secret crush on Sarah Jessica Parker, so … we have a lot of nothing really at all in common. Please don’t cut off my hair while I sleep.

While the accommodations were charming in a way that felt appropriate for this kind of adventure – I especially loved the pictures and thank you messages from past thru-hikers displayed above the deep wash tub sink in the corner – T-Rex was adding a certain type of character that had me feeling unsettled. He was nothing like his calmer comrades, Ace and Calvin, who both ate their instant oatmeal and made polite conversation about “all the millennials who acted like the trail owed them something” and tendinitis.

At 10p.m. hikers who didn’t pay for a bed at the hostel are expected to head out and pitch their tent in the designated area (I mean to camp; get your mind out of the gutter). Ace had forked over the cash, but Calvin and T-Rex adjusted their headlamps and bid us farewell. The aggressive wind had been screaming at the tin roof of the hostel for a few hours at this point, and the gusts only seemed to be growing, both in strength and frequency. The barn was noticeably shifting and bending to nature’s bold breath. I could feel it. And so, when Calvin and his shifty trailmate came running back in about 30 minutes later, it wasn’t entirely shocking. “Nope … not doin’ it,” Calvin said with wide eyes. “Nope!” T-Rex chimed in for confirmation. “A tree literally just snapped and fell 2 feet from my tent! I could have died.” Calvin recounted skittishly. I’ll admit, I thought it was a clever ploy to catch a spot on the couch. I think we all did. (It wasn’t). We offered up some half-hearted sympathy and turned in.*

My thoughts volleyed between the hike and the roof literally flying off of the hostel as I shifted to find a dip in the mattress suitable for my soft form. As I settled, I heard voices from the loft area where the rest of our crew was nestled. “It’s gotta be something that goes together,” My brother’s friend, who went by The General on the trail, said. “Like peanut butter and jelly or, ya know what just feels right … Biscuits and Gravy. Biscuits!” He hollered in a jerky southern accent. “Biscuits! Get yo ass down here, girl! Damnit, Biscuits!” I knew they were working up trail names for me and Hank. And, like gum to a security blanket, it stuck.

Between the squalls, swaying barn structure and unplanned sleepover guest, T-Rex, (who must have gone in and out of the hostel at least 6 times throughout the night to do God only knows what … gather weapons and cut letters out of magazines for the note he would leave by our bodies, I assumed), I didn’t sleep. I can admit with little shame that it went against every instinct in my motherly being to curl up mere inches away from a stranger who may or may not have been a juvenile delinquent in some capacity and who may or may not have been shipped off on a boat by his parents to be treated for some sort of disturbing behavior, with nothing between us but a curtain. But this is actually good, I thought. Between staying up late to pack our packs the night before and this sleepless night, I should have no problems falling asleep on the trail tomorrow.

Day 1
People started maneuvering the vinyl folding door to the bathroom around 7:15 or so Sunday morning. I whispered my zero sleep status and detest for T-Rex to Hank before shuffling out of the area where our king-sized bed was nestled. I sat awkwardly on a chair next to my brother blinking away what little sleep had accumulated in my eyes and acclimating myself to the sausage fest in which I currently found myself. I looked over Matt’s shoulder to see a kind-faced guy, about my age, sitting on the deck. He eventually stepped in, friendly but timid. He was swinging through to pick up a resupply box and didn’t hate the fact that we mentioned there was a shower here. “Hey, man,” he was looking at my brother. “I’m Bro-seph.” “Cool … I’m Matt.” There was a moment of silence as the morning high dropped from Bro-seph’s face and he accepted the fact that this guy wasn’t feelin’ his trail vibe. “I’m actually Matt, too,” he conceded.

See, trail names are a funny thing. Almost everyone we came across had one, and, for someone who is terrible with names, it actually made them easier to remember while also lending a bit of anonymity. I imagine there’s something freeing about being whoever you want to be on the trail. You don’t have to be “Sharon from Accounting” on the AT. You can be “Coffee Mate” or “Monarch” or “Shuffle Butter” or “Quick Cheeks”. It doesn’t matter. Anything goes. It’s a story you tell around the fire and your entry in the registry. The exchange between the Matts was a testament to the fact that my brother was there for the climb and not networking with the intriguing trail folk. He wanted to hike, spend time with his best friend, sister and brother-in-law, and maybe have some laughs. That was it. He had no interest in dissecting the new Lumineers album and he certainly didn’t want to sit around a flame talking trekking poles with strangers named “Nacho”. Ironically, it was also that exchange that earned him his official trail name, “Just Mat”.

Around 10:25 an SUV and a truck pulled around by the General Store to shuttle us to the trailhead. It was frigid outside. It was so cold, you guys, that the hostel owners’ goat wouldn’t come out of a hole it dug for itself in the side of a hill. That’s freaking cold. Nonetheless, I wedged myself into the extended cab between Just Mat and Gravy. The General sat up front. It felt like we drove forever. As people made small talk and the cab filled with the smell of warm coffee breath and heavily applied deodorant, my attention went to how nonchalantly our chauffeur was taking these tight bends around the mountain; the mountain with no guardrails. One little sneeze, one sip of scorching-hot joe, one slip of the steering wheel and the truck would go violently tumbling. My eyes darted. No one else seemed to notice how close we were to plummeting to our deaths. Forget bears … we were never going to make it out of the shuttle alive. The driver mentioned that after they dropped us, they were heading for a rescue. Apparently a couple of girls had gotten sick and couldn’t go on. Apparently a lot of hikers had gotten sick this year. “So we can call if we need rescued?” I inserted casually. He was playing a killer alternative radio station and I began to calm down.

We reached the start of our section at Iron Mountain Gap and piled out of the two vehicles. It was still bitterly cold. There was a stiffness and hesitation in everyone’s gate. Our bodies wanted to hibernate. “Good luck!” our escorts said before heading back down the winding mountainside. We gathered for a group photo, adjusted packs, poles and jackets, and took our first steps onto the Appalachian Trail. “We’re really doing it guys!” I said to Just Mat and Gravy. Just 1 minute later I was so winded I couldn’t utter more than 2 words strung together at a time. “Wow this … is so … pretty, huh?” To which my husband responded, “I think … we might … have … underestimated … the physicality … of this.” The good news was the heat came fast to my core and fingers. The bad news was the next 4 days were guaranteed to hand us our asses on a platinum AT platter.

The landscape on that first day was much like a Midwest forest with a mountainous backdrop thrown in for good measure. Gradual hills, barely budding foliage and the dried, leafy remnants of the past autumn carpeting the path. Honestly, the first section went so fast. It was a manageable 6 miles and I felt invigorated when we arrived at Clyde Smith Shelter – our end point for the day – in time for a stupid-late lunch around 2:30. The weather was beautiful, probably in the high 50s/low 60s and a sad tuna salad tortilla rollup never sounded so good. In the unforgiving light of the mid-afternoon, the shelter gave off more of a lean-to vibe. It had 3 walls, a roof, a few sleeping platforms and mouse mobiles (strings with bottles and cans attached to keep rodents from scurrying down the line to get into your food sacks). For some reason I pictured cute little playhouse-type structures with warm, sturdy perimeters. Not so much.

We opted to set up camp in a circular area behind the shelter. “It’s nice and flat, and it looks like only a few people shit back here,” The General proclaimed. Lesson No. 2: Always look for toilet paper before you pick your camping spot. He and Just Mat had hammocks they attached across from each other, as did the father and son in our group. Lieutenant Blazer (a friend of The General’s) made a last-minute decision to sleep in his bivy sack next to the fire. The fire … ah, the fire. There are spirit makers and spirt breakers on the trail and the fact we were able to have a fire was a huge maker for me. I had heard the only blazes permitted on the trail were the white ones you follow, so I was delighted when I saw a fire ring at our site, and even more geeked when I sat next to that fire with a little hot cocoa. As I savored my hard-earned pouch dinner and listened to the tunes coming from The General’s portable speaker, my husband bustled about putting the finishing touches on our tent and hanging our packs from the trees. “Gawd, look at Gravy just hustlin to get shit done while you sip hot chocolate,” Just Mat remarked, in a way only a big brother could. “Princess Biscuits. That’s your new name. Princess. freaking. Biscuits.” And like a bad first impression to your bunkmates at church camp, it stuck.

I didn’t sleep much that night. I typically catch my Zs on my tummy, and my mummified sleeping bag wasn’t really conducive to remaining in that position without suffocating. I was using my clothing stuff sack as a pillow at the General’s recommendation and it didn’t want to stay put, slippery little sucker that it was. I laid there, Princess Biscuits in the vast wilderness, as my sweet Gravy finally found some rest. Around 10:30 – which felt like 3am because we went to bed as soon as the sun disappeared – my hot cocoa kicked in. I suddenly had to pee. I had to climb over my poor, sleeping husband to frantically fight for release from the zipper and find freedom. He awoke to a knee in the liver from his beloved, but I did escape in time to water the nearest thirsty tree. As I climbed back into my cocoon, empty-bladdered and a bit sugar buzzed, I reflected just long enough to admit to myself that this shit was real. And this shit was tough. And this shit was really tough.

To be continued …

*A note from the author: In hindsight, those poor kids really could have had their water shut off that evening. I felt like the worst kind of jerk the next morning when we saw the tree and can’t stress enough how happy I am that to my knowledge neither they, nor anyone else we came across suffered any serious injuries.