We tried to sleep in after our night hike, but my body clock was set with a 6:30am wake up.  I lounged in my hammock, willing myself to go back to sleep for an hour or so before I gave up.  I felt like a zombie as I hiked that morning. The sky was overcast, but there were still lovely views.  Around half the day was spent above 6000 feet, on trail that seemed out of a fairy tale. In my sleepy state, it was dreamlike.  I slept hard again that night.

On our final day in the smokies, I made it to the last major landmark around noon.  The Mt. Cammerer lookout tower is on the summit of the last peak in the smokies.  The trail descends several thousand feet over five miles to the northern boundary of the park.  I was the first of my group to get to the tower (some also opted out of the side trail) and found another hiker enjoying lunch on the tower when I arrived.  I took a few minutes exploring around the tower and taking photos of the views from the wrap around deck. 

As I completed my loop, the other hiker was packing up.  She rolled down the top of large yellow food bag, secured it with its clip and propped it against the railing at the topmost step to the tower.  Something must have shifted because it fell over and began to roll.  It dropped off the deck and kept rolling, bouncing down the nearly sheer mountainside.  Neither she nor I were close enough to have stopped it, so we both just watched, jaws agape, as all her food rolled down the mountain.

I was impressed with how calm she stayed.  She did curse, but only once, saying it softly to herself.  When I think about it honestly, I must admit my reaction would have been much louder, whinier, and less mature.  At first, neither of us could spot the runaway bag.  Eventually we discovered it. If you held on to the post at the top of the stairs and leaned way, way out, you could spot a patch of yellow on a tiny ledge far below.  It was immediately evident that there was no getting it back.  I offered her food from my bag, but she politely declined.  She was heading to a hostel just past the park boundary and would figure it out from there. She said the bright side was that her pack was a lot lighter.  I am forever impressed with that hiker.

Shortly after, a friend showed up and we enjoyed lunch on the deck of the tower, making sure none of our belongings were at risk of falling down the mountain.  Cloud started rolling in and the views were swallowed by white in mere minutes.

Our group split up that evening, some pressing on further to stop in at a hostel, then make camp further up the trail.  I stayed back with a friend who was briefly getting off trail the next day to visit with a non-hiking friend back in Gatlinburg. We camped in a lovely spot along a gurgling stream and I got into my hammock just as the rain began to fall. There was cell service and I learned that my Dad was in Hot Springs, and would rest there until I arrived. I would catch up in three days. 

The next morning I headed off on my own to catch up to the rest of the group.  The rain was heavy and I was soaked through by the time I reached the campsite where my tramily was still hiding out from the rain. It was that morning that we learned about the tragedy that happened further up the trail. Hikers who had walked where we had, who were fulfilling a dream we shared, were senselessly attacked by a deranged man.  One hiker was seriously injured and another was killed.  Nearly a year later, my dad realized that he had met and talked with the hiker who survived. 

 A month later, I would walk through the area where the attack happened and see the memorial made by other hikers passing through. 

When there was finally a break in the rain, my tramily and I hiked on to the next shelter, water-logged and in agreement that a short day was all we had in us.

The next day was grey and clouds hung low, but I was eager to see another AT landmark, Max Patch. Max Patch is a large bald with sweeping views of layered ridge lines. From my guidebook, I learned that ‘Max Patch’ is a homophone.  Originally, the bald was known as “Mack’s Patch” and was cleared for cattle.  Now the bald is maintained and the trail crosses it, a dark ribbon running through bright green.  A friend and I planned to stop and snack but the wind was whipping the summit, and rain began to drizzle down.  We took photos and hustled to the shelter of the trees.

That night at camp, my tramily reunited with another tramily of women we had seen off and on since the NOC.  One of them hiked with her dog, a rescue who was very wary of other people.  Whenever I would walk up near where that hiker was, her dog would growl or bark. This time was no different.  She had explained her dog was protective but not aggressive, and I wasn’t afraid. I was just sad that I was unsuccessful in my many attempts to win her over.  At some point in the early evening, that hiker went to get water, leaving her dog at the shelter where a group of us were cooking and chatting.  I was standing there, absorbed by whatever conversation was happening, when I felt something cool and wet on my palm.  The dog had come to stand my me and pressed her snout to my hand.  My eyes welled and I bent down to pet my new friend.  I still smile when I think of that dog and that moment.   

My phone alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning. My goal was to make the last 13 miles to Hot Springs, NC (and my Dad) by 3 pm. At that point, I had accepted that I was a slow-mover in the mornings (on trail or off) and needed to wake up at least an hour and a half before my desired start time to have a leisurely and pleasant morning at camp. 

At 5:45 am I was still in my sleeping bag, with the bag pulled up to my nose and my knit hat pulled down to my eyes.  We were camped at over 4200 feet and it was frigid.  Eventually, I got moving and on my way.  I didn’t take a single picture that day, intent on making good time to Hot Springs.

Hot Springs is a true trail town and the AT runs right through it.  Right off the trail when you first get to Hot Springs (traveling North) is the Hostel at Laughing Heart Lodge. I texted my Dad that I arrived at the hostel (he had stayed there, but moved to a motel) and dropped my stuff in a bunk room, hanging gear to dry and pulling out all my laundry that desperately needed washing after nine days.. 

I walked out of the bunk room and almost didn’t recognize the skinny guy with the red beard grinning at me.  After a month, I had finally caught up to my Dad (known on trail as Tiger).  He gave me a big hug—truly a showing of love with me being as grimey as I was. After following along in his footsteps, and only hearing sporadic updates along the way, it felt incredible to know we would be walking together on the next part of our AT adventure.

We talked about plans for the rest of the day and then I went about my most pressing chores—picking out loaner clothes (clothes the hostel keeps on hand for hikers to wear while they do laundry), a shower, and laundry.  I ended up using a piece of paracord as a belt, to hold up the men’s cargo shorts I wore. Paired with a way too big t-shirt and my pink crocs, I was outfitted in prime hiker fashion. Then Dad and I did some planning for the next leg of our hike and called Mom, who was happy to hear our voices together on one line.

Once the rest of my tramily made it to Hot Springs, Dad, my tramily, and more hiker friends all went to dinner at the Smoky Mountain Diner. I remember our waitress was funny, the food was delicious, and I ate until I couldn’t eat anymore. But, shockingly, I don’t remember what exactly I ate.  I do remember looking down the long table full of smiling, laughing hikers telling stories and wearing ridiculous loaner outfits, and thinking: This is what the trail is truly about.  This is a gift. 

As I remember, and as I write, gratitude is what I feel the most.

More to come next week.

--Catch Up