Now begins the tale of my time in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  The first day hiking into the smokies also (unfortunately) marks one of the last days where my trail journal is more than just a few jotted notes.  It was an eventful day.

Walking across the Fontana Dam that morning, it was misty and grey.  I met another hiker just on the other side of the dam, who was carrying the smallest pack I had seen.  His pack was the size of a school backpack with some extra stuff strapped on the bottom and top with chord.  He told me he had started out with almost fifty pounds and after struggling for the first few weeks on trail, had trimmed back his gear to the tiny pack. My thirty-five-ish pound pack felt extra massive on my back as I walked along with him.  Our chat didn’t last long.  Once we located the permit box, he was off, and out of my sight within a few minutes. 

Several more minutes passed, and I was huffing my way up a section of switchbacks in the rain. I heard a strange thundering sound from above me, getting louder until I felt the vibrations.  I stood frozen, looking around for what could be making the noise, half-expecting to see a horse and rider coming down the trial.  A large, dark shape was barreling down the hillside just ahead of me.  BEAR is the first thing I thought, but it looked too low to the ground. The way it was moving didn’t seem right either. In the few seconds it took for it to cross the trail just ahead of me and continue its mad run down the hillside, I realized that it was a large boar.

Once it was out of sight, I started booking it up the trail.  I was somewhat comforted by the fact that it had run downhill, while I was heading uphill.  Even so, I started hearing every branch ruffle around me, and my imagination conjured an enormous bear that had caused the boar to flee.  I checked the whereabouts of my tiny swiss army knife and my whistle, and very much hoped to encounter other humans before other large animals.   

Later on, I came to my second trial of the day.  A large tree had fallen across the trail.  This was a section of trail where there was a steep upward slope on one side and a downward slope on the other.  Going over the tree would have required me to take off my pack and climb over large trunk and navigate other large limbs and dense branches.  The alternative was climbing up and around the trunk on the uphill slope to the right of the trail.  It had been raining on and off all morning, and there were footprints in the mud showing the way others had climbed up the slope and around the tree. 

I started climbing, using the footprints to guide me.  Once I got around the trunk, there were two paths.  Some prints continued several yards before gradually rejoining the trail.  Another set rejoined sooner, going down a steeper section of the slope.  I chose the latter—big mistake.  After a few steps, my feet went out from under me and I slid.  Down the slope.  Across the trail. Down several feet on the other side. I felt like a muddy turtle, belly up.

After lying there a moment, I took stock.  I was unharmed but very, very muddy.  I was wearing my rain pants and jacket, but the jacket slid up my back as I slid down. Mud got everywhere.  The back of my rain pants was caked with it, along with the waistband of my leggings, my shirt, and my pack.  Even alone in the woods, I looked around to see if anyone had seen my tumble.  Luckily, the fallen tree was big enough that anyone walking up on the other side would have missed my fall.

A short while later I stopped at a water source, and a friend from the group at Fontana caught up to me.  I shared my boar story as we filtered water, and then sheepishly explained the mud on my pack and half my body. We hiked on together, and the conversation made the uphill trudge in the rain much more pleasant. 

The rain continued on and off (but mostly on) all day, and the temperature dropped as we steadily climbed. From the Fontana Dam Visitors Center to the shelter is a lot of “up,” nearly 2,900 feet over 11.4 miles. When we made it to the first shelter, we took off our packs and soggy shoes.  Immediately we were pointing at each other, noticing the steam rising from our shoes and bodies. We steamed for several minutes. 

Once I stopped moving, I began to cool off fast.  I quickly changed into the only dry clothes I had--my leggings and long sleeve shirt that were my designated sleeping clothes.  Friends from Fontana soon arrived and we had fun joking and talking about the additional rules in the smokies, the high concentration of bears, and how we were planning our time in the park.  It felt like I had finally found a group, and I was excited to keep having fun and getting to know everyone.

As afternoon turned to evening, the shelter filled up and people set up in the area around it. I did not mind the crowd at all, after spending much of the morning thinking about boars and bears.  It was a lively scene. The bear cables were fully loaded with many different colored food bags, and a fire was lit in the fireplace in the shelter (one of many smokies novelties). The group of us that had been in Fontana congregated under the awning on the side of the shelter, talking and cooking dinner together.

Anyone camping in the smokies must stay at a shelter or designated camp site, and you must stay in the shelter if there is space.  Section hikers are required to have shelter reservations.  Thru-hikers do not need shelter reservations, (you do need a park permit) but must give up their spot in a full shelter (and set up close by) if a section hiker with a reservation shows up to claim their space. The shelter was nearly full when we arrived, so several other fellow hammock-ing friends and I held off on claiming shelter spots. This way, more tenting folks who wanted a space in the shelter could have one. The hammock campers (myself included) and several tenting friends who preferred their tents to a shelter were happy to set up nearby once the shelter was full.

WARNING: I am about to discuss poop…human poop.  I will also be detailing a (then- traumatic/now-comical) story that involves poop.  If you do not wish to read about poop, then I thank you for reading this far, and advise you to read no further in this post.

Sooo…let me set the scene with some additional context. Great Smoky Mountains NP is America’s most-visited national park.  In the park, there are a limited number of shelters/camping locations that are often at or beyond capacity. Most of these shelters/campsites do not have privies.  Combine these factors and you have a whole lot of people who have to do their business, and not much space for them to do it.  And by “business” and “it,” I mean poop.

A sign at the shelter pointed to the designated zone, labeling the unfortunate patch of trees down a gentle slope as a “toilet area.”  On that first night in the smokies, I began to hear that area where people were occasionally venturing (some carrying with them the large shovel that was found at the shelter) referred to as the “poop forest” or more ominously, the “poop minefield.”  Little did I know…

I was not looking forward to venturing in, but the time came.  Remember that it had been raining all day.  The ground was wet and muddy.  Remember that I am in my only clean and dry clothes. I am not wearing my trail shoes, but my camp shoes (pink crocs). I had put off doing my business, but the sun started to set, and nothing seemed worse than going in the dark. 

Are you nervous yet?

I made my way into the trees, which were not as dense as you would think, considering the privacy level needed for the business conducted there.  I found what seemed to be a good spot, but no. NO. It was immediately apparent that someone else had been there much too recently, and certainly did not dig to the 6-inch depth required by Leave No Trace principles. Minefield indeed.  I moved on, further away, looking for somewhere that seemed undisturbed.  I walked further, carefully, vigilantly stepping in my pink crocs.  The further I went, the steeper the slope of the ground. Finally, I spotted an area with good privacy that seemed far enough away. 

Then, I started to slip. My crocs had no traction on the wet, sloped earth.  It started slowly, then everything happened very fast.  I went down.  There was nothing I could do, no nearby branches to grab.  I fell, landing on my right hip, and slid several feet.  Annoyance. Anger. Embarrassment. Horror. HORROR.  WAS IT ONLY MUD I HAD FALLEN IN?

I got up as quickly as I could, grimacing as I had to use my hands to push myself up, and closely inspected the area where I fell. I was nearly in tears, afraid of seeing toilet paper or detecting an odor that was not mud. I was already calculating how long it would be until I could shower and do laundry.  After careful inspection and several terrifying sniffs, I determined I was once again covered in mud, and THANK GOODNESS, only mud. 

I have no plans to talk about my own business on the internet, so I’ll just say that the story ends there. I returned to the shelter without further incident, but still horrified.  I started to realize upon my angry declaration to my friends that “I fell down in the poop forest!” (a statement which elicited hysterical laughter) that it would eventually be a funny story. But not until I had clean clothes again.  Thankfully, the fire was still burning in the shelter fireplace, and I stood in front of it until I was dry and in a better mood.  I have never been so happy to go to bed smelling like a campfire (and only a campfire).

More to come next week.

—Catch Up