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

[icw39@ncfreedom.net (Clark Wright)]

Jan, thanks for reminding us why we are here, why we hike, and why we
like each other! Awesome post; awesome thoughts; awesome memories . . .
:)

I needed to drink up your magical words and good thoughts about people
and the Trail that ties us all together.  Thanks again!

thru-thinker

Jan Leitschuh wrote:
> 
> 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.
> 
> --
> ========================================
>         Jan Leitschuh Sporthorses Ltd.
> 
>         Website:
>         http://www.mindspring.com/~janl2/index.html
> 
> ========================================
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