Having spent time at the NOC before, I only passed through long enough to purchase my dry bag, print my permit for the Smokies (anyone camping in Great Smoky Mountain National Park is required to have a permit), charge my electronics, and chat with the hikers congregated around the outfitter.  The climb out is steep, and I wanted to get the worst of it over with before the hottest part of the day.  It was a trudge, but much more pleasant with the company of a hiker I had met previously and camped with the night before.  Sometimes through panting breath, we chatted the whole way about our lives before the trail and why we were out there. We made it to the shelter in the early afternoon and found an affable group. That night was a good time, sitting around the fire talking and laughing until well after the sun went down.  Four of the faces around the fire would be part of my tramily.

The next day I set out with plans to hike 15.4 miles, but the long decent into the NOC and the tough climb out had caused my knees to start complaining.  I knew of several hikers who had left trail due to knee injuries and I was fearful of the bubbly feeling I felt behind my kneecaps.  It wasn’t terribly painful, but it certainly felt wrong, a clear warning not to push myself too hard.  On a ridge, I had a single bar of service, and called an inn my Dad had recommended when he passed through the area in a bit of a panic.  The kind woman on the phone assured me they’d have a room ready for me two nights later and that they’d take me into town to find knee braces.   

I was moving slowly, wincing and bracing myself on my trekking poles, during the downhill sections. As it became late afternoon, I realized that I would not make it to the shelter I planned to camp at until after dark.  I was nervous at the prospect of camping by myself for the first time, knowing that the hikers I had camped with the night before were all ahead of me, and heading to that shelter.  Arriving at a campsite near a water source (three miles short of my original goal), I was relieved to find three other hikers already set up (another of whom would be a part of my soon-to-form tramily).

The next morning, I woke before the sun, enticed by the prospect of ice cream in Fontana Village and a shower at the much talked about “Fontana Hilton” (a fancy shelter with a bathhouse nearby, lake views, and a solar charging station that didn’t work).  I made it to Fontana, and near the AT Crossing by the Marina was one of many memorials I would encounter along the AT.  My eyes welled as I read the words.  A poignant reminder of how fortunate I was to be there, and how much this trail means to so many.

Reaching the Fontana Hilton, it did not disappoint.  I took a blissfully warm shower.  No shampoo? No towel? No problem. I washed everything with my Dr. Bronners and used a clean bandana I had been gifted in Franklin as a towel.  After setting up my hammock and seeing familiar faces walk up from the trail, a big group of us took the shuttle to Fontana Village for ice cream and splurging on snacks. 

Much to our amusement, the entirety of Fontana Village was populated by two distinct groups: dirty hikers and mini-cooper enthusiasts.  There were minis of all colors, some with stripes, some with union jacks on the roof, and all were polished and shining.  They were parked at the general store, and in the driveways of the rental houses. They were being lined up in a big field where a ladder and platform was set up to take a group picture.  “MINIs on the Dragon” t-shirts were worn all around, some dating back a decade. (Turns out the Dragon is a stretch of nearby road that has 318 curves over 11-miles).  There were SO MANY MINIs.  Ever since Fontana Dam, every time I see a Mini Cooper, I smile.  I can’t help it.

With bellies full of ice cream and bags of snacks acquired, we took the shuttle back to the shelter.  A fire was built in the large fire pit and everyone sat around talking.  One hiker roasted a two-pound pork loin on a big stick, methodically turning it as he sat by fire.  Another hiker went down a dense slope to the lake to scope out if there was a good spot to swim.  There wasn’t, but he swam anyway.  Everyone was relaxed and enjoying good company.  Among the group, the age range was easily 40+ years, but the conversation flowed until late. I sat with a group around a picnic table and didn’t get into my hammock until after 10pm, way way past my normal hiker bedtime.  

 The next morning I was looking forward to my zero day at the Hike Inn.  I was confident I was making the right decision by resting my knees and getting braces before the climb into the Smokies.  Still, part of me wanted to push on, thinking of the friends who I wanted to keep hiking with, who would be heading on a day ahead of me.  As I packed up camp, I was delighted to learn that most of them were staying another night at the shelter.  Even better, someone had learned of a breakfast buffet for $12 at the lodge in the village.  Eight of us piled into a shuttle up to the lodge.  My hiker hunger was in full force at this point.  For proof, here is a direct quote from my trail journal: “Gorged on eggs, sausage, grits, toaster strudel, fruit, and had coffee and unsweet tea.”  We sat at an 8-person round table, and the piles of plates we left behind were comical in their height.

Almost too full to move, I waddled my way to the visitor’s center to wait for my ride to the Hike Inn.  A small, sweet place, with a friendly cat and terrible wifi, I was glad to be inside when the rain poured later that afternoon.  That evening, the two other guests and I were ferried around Robbinsville.  I was able to get knee braces, resupply, and stuff myself with Mexican food. I went to bed with the sun, a bit nervous about my early morning climb into the Smoky Mountains.

More to come later this week.

—Catch Up