[at-l] Trip Report: Long. Unicoi onward, Part 1

[janl2@mindspring.com (Jan Leitschuh)]

I'll do more as I transcribe my soggy scribbles.

Wrote this largely for my non-hiking friends, so excuse the obvious
explanations.  

Day One: Tray Mountain Shelter, North Georgia

3:30 pm. 
The cutting March wind finally eased as I started downslope towards the
spring to collect water for my supper. The woods quieted at ground level,
though the tree tops still tossed. 

A large owl flew across the path, silently, not far above my head. It's
spooky how they do that - something so large, soundless. 
I was too surprised to catch an ID. I let out a breath, and then knew
Something Important: "I am here, now."

The transition from town dweller to woods dweller doesn't happen in an
instant, at least for me. There is a transition period, like a snake
shedding its skin. This Norwegian solo Arctic and Antarctic trekker I read
about in National Geographic said: "It takes me weeks to rediscover my
animal self."

First comes the "frantic" period, the assembling of gear and food, the
patching together of competent, responsible help to oversee the farm and
stock. Then more gear assembling. Gear is hard to keep up with. I have to
run by the outfitters yet to replace the expensive Thermorest sleeping pad I
lost in Damascus, Va. last year. 

Then, the checklists: Are all bills paid? Have I changed the phone message? 
Turned down the heat? Left enough dog food? And, my god, did I remember to
pack the toilet paper?

Then comes the traveling or "before" period, where one is not at home, yet
not in the woods.

For me, this meant a trip to hug my father. He lives in the foothills of NC.
We watched old reruns of "Northern Exposure". My 84-year-old dad owns the
whole durn set. Why my beloved but ultra-conservative, rigid, judgmental
father has latched onto this oddball series about a quirky, nonjudgmental
community in Alaska is beyond me. My dad has watched it so many times he can
repeat the lines in critical places: "Don't, Mike. Don't go."

Saturday,  it's off to Amicalola to see Sunny and Sunset off on their '02
thru-hike of the entire 2,166-mile Appalachian Trail. There is a party in
their suite, and everyone there talks at once. I feel jangled, breathless.
It's too much talk. I spend Saturday night in the loft of the suite. Sunny
and Sunset stay up until 2 a.m., bless their hearts, packing and unpacking,
then repacking. 

"We are taking two stoves, for instance" says Sunny, honestly,
matter-of-factly, "Fear. It's because of fear. We just don't know yet." The
wind screams all night and the loft shakes with the bigger gusts.

Then there is the "there but not really there yet" period.

Sunday morning, I drive to Unicoi Gap and leave my car with the shuttler.
Unicoi is fifty miles up from the start of The Trail, and the place I left
off last fall. I thought I had seven days to hike, but driving, looking at
maps and hashing out food drops takes a long time. I get a late start,
around lunch. 

As the shuttler drives off and I begin the first hard climb out of the gap,
the load settles on my shoulders, the wind cuts in cold gusts, my heart
pounds, and my feet hurt already. Did my shoes always rub like that? My
brain kicks in. "Stop!!! What are you doing? This is NOT FUN!" I let that
little tingle of fear play through my body a little while, because there is
energy there I can use, and I'm already winded - I need all the energy I can
muster. 

Then I tell my brain to cool it, that I  have busted my butt overtime
meeting my commitments in order to hike this hike.  Not to mention the fact
it costs me a fortune in  barn help - and in a year I am saving every penny
for next year's thru-hike.  My body sighs and gives in, slogging up the hill
resignedly - still whining but getting the job done.

It's sunny, but quite cold and the wind is strengthening. I have to add a
wind shirt. As I crest the first rise, the gale hits me full force and I
stagger, slightly. (What am I doing? I could die out here. Do I have enough
clothes...) I add a vest, and pull out what will become my most valued piece
of gear after my shelter, pack and down bag: my Hefty cinch sack "rain/wind
skirt."

The plastic trash bag cuts the wind to my legs immediately. This bag is to
undergo the trials of hell during the week, and survive with only one small
puncture. It doubles as a ground cloth, a log sit-upon, water bag and
kneeling pad. I slit the bottom, inserted my legs and tied the top "cinch"
around my waist. 

Though it gets high marks for utility, function and value (15 cents worth
per "skirt"), sadly I must add, for the sake of truth,  it gets a
scandalously low fashion score. 

Though a chi-chi black, it does rather billow at the hips. At one rainy
juncture later in the week, a handsome burly, full-bearded hiker named Stump
Knocker stopped to chat, peering deeply into my eyes as he spoke. All I
could think was "I am wearing a Hefty sack. I look like a bag lady."

What an odd little hike this day. One moment I am freezing, the next I turn
a corner to a sunswept, rocky Italian-esque slope, where I must peel off the
clothes. Then, wham! Into the wind again. My face and lips chap within the
hour. My sunscreen is buried in the pack. Too cold to stop!

About 3:00 pm, Tray Shelter swings into view. Shelters are small,
three-sided sheds with wooden floors spaced at irregular intervals. Someone
has stapled plastic over half the open area on this one, and it blocks the
wind. I have only traveled six miles, and it's really too early to stop. But
this is my first day in the woods, and I yet am feeling a bit tentative.
Still, there is three hours daylight left. On the other hand, my calves
hurt. 

I stand there, debating, when the sharpest, cold gust yet knocks into me.
Decision! I cling to Tray Shelter like a life raft. The woods still feel
foreign, hostile.

As I am setting up, the thru-hikers begin to straggle in. There is
Christina, a Florida woman somewhat older than me, very thin, with a Dutch
accent. She lugs a very heavy pack. She eyeballs the shelter's plastic
shield and decides to call it a day here. I am glad to meet another solo
woman hiker right off the bat.

Then comes Adon, a dark-bearded, long-locked young man. He is pleasant and
intelligent, and helps the next couple in arrange their tarp over the rest
of the shelter's opening. He is taking a year off college to hike. 

We all talk about how the world will look after a thru-hike, and whether
others can understand. Adon's two best friends are doing similar things. One
is off on another Big Adventure in foreign lands, and the other is entering
a Buddhist monastery for retreat. "Though we're doing different things,
we'll be able to relate to the others' experience because it will be
intense," he says.

Another solo woman drifts in, Sara from Alaska, dubbed "Midnight Sun." She
is quiet, but I take to her right away. It is heartening to see so many
single women out here. It is so cold now, we can see our breath. The tarps
snap wildly, and threaten to tear.

In casual conversation, the group begins discussing other hikers. There is a
fellow out here, One-Cylinder, with 17 pairs of socks! Another guy, Matt,
carries a 2-pound glass pyrex cookpot. 

Also, they discuss a young woman, Sass, who got off the Trail today and
hitched into town to tend to her blisters. She had hiked two 14-mile days in
a row. "She's very young," says the woman of the couple. "Talkative. Naive."

"It's hard to believe she led her brother and sister four hundred miles last
year," said Adon. "She's only 17. But she's very determined."

My ears perk up. Last year I had met some amazing children on the Trail.
Glory was just 16 then, and led her 14-year-old sister "Torch" and
12-year-old brother "Boo" safely through the Smokies. 

I met these children my first backpacking night ever, above Mountain Moma's,
where someone had called the rangers, thinking they were runaways. They
weren't, they were home schoolers out on a project with their parent'
knowledge and consent, and while some thought it was weird or wrong, folks
rallied round to keep an eye out on the young "Tennessee Outlaws" as we
called them.

I have had several home-schooled kids as working students in my stable, and
they all share some traits that are remarkable in teens these days. They are
open sorts, interact well with all age groups (not just their peers) and
they look you directly in the eye. Eye contact!  How rare is that?!

In fact, in meeting these children on my very first backpacking trip last
April, I had a pivotal moment. An epiphany. I had set out to meet
thru-hikers, and question them about their gear and experiences. And what I
saw were quite a number cranking out the joyless miles, polite but a bit
guarded, competitive, intense. 

Then I saw others who were present, joyful, not missing their miles. 

The first group to catch my eye were the retirees, who took time to learn
everybody's name, story, and tended to be quite jolly.  
Then I noticed the trail dogs, always panting and happy to see everyone,
just plain happy to be alive, even at the end of a long day of lugging their
packs. 
Then I looked at these kids. They too were happy, friendly, direct - wide
open. Fresh. They had the same look as the retirees and the dogs, only more
so. 

There was a momentum to this insight. 

And right then, I made a decision, a promise to myself: "I want to be like
them." To hell with reserve, grimness and measuring.
 
And now Glory might be out again? They called her "Sassafras." Last year
some called her "Sasquatch." Could it be the same girl, this Sass? 

"If you see her, tell her Jan from last year is out here too," I pleaded
with my fellow campers. There is a Trail grapevine. I knew word would filter
out. "And don't bet against her. She is young, yes, but not naive. She is
open by choice - and  frightfully sharp, a fast learner. She'll likely make
it to Maine."

Ah yes, the transition. At last,  there is the "recognition" period. For me,
it happened before supper.

It took the owl, silent and starling, to remind me: take the sigh, release
that tension of "getting there."
 "You are here now," I realize. 
Suddenly, finally, I am present in these stunning Southern mountains. It is
colder than cold now, and soon we are all cooking in our sleeping bags. The
tarp snaps in the wind all night.

Sunday, March 10. Miles traveled: Six, alas, six. I work on cutting myself
some slack. The work ethic persists, even out here. The Trail puts you right
in the middle of your "stuff," for sure.

-- 
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    	Jan Leitschuh Sporthorses Ltd.

	Website:  
	http://www.mindspring.com/~janl2/index.html

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