North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee- hiking, states 32-35
February 26 – March 4, 2017
Inspiration
I don’t want to provide a step by step regurgitation of my latest trip. I want to tell you why it happened and what kept me moving, day by day.
Inspiration, from the late Latin inspirare, inspiratio, through Old French and into English: To breathe upon, blow into, to fill the mind, heart etc. with grace, to prompt or induce someone to do something.
It started with an itch, a desire to move. I hadn’t logged any states since May 2017. Time to get moving, or fail. It’s only February. Am I really going to sit on my butt until Alaska, planned for July?
Itch led to click- United Airlines. I wonder what it costs to fly to Asheville, NC? What? You have got to be kidding me, $250, round trip. You must be joking. I’ve got to catch that plane. Why? Well, Asheville is in the mountains of North Carolina, within an easy drive of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee, Georgia, and South Carolina. I can hike my legs off and test out my gear for Alaska. Rain gear, that is…
So with no particular plan, I left February 26 for Asheville, figuring my trip would find me once I got down there. Thanks, United. While you are globally hated and much maligned, you set me on my way. Delayed, of course, but headed in the right direction.
I set up my base camp in a lovely West Asheville loft apartment and set off to find a bite to eat and a bookstore. I found an organic market and a book- Grandma Gatewood’s Walk, by Ben Montgomery. Herein lay inspiration. I curled up in bed with my book and learned that a woman named Emma Gatewood became the first woman to through-hike the Appalachian Trail (AT) when, in 1955, she told her children she was going for a walk, and did. A 2,000 mile walk. At age 67. In Keds. Without a tent. And after having 11 children, and 23 grandchildren. I closed my eyes, knowing that on the morrow, I would hit the AT and trace a fraction of the footsteps of this amazing woman.
A spectacular weather day greeted me as I scraped the ice off the car at 7 am and hit the road for Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The AT forms the border of NC and TN at the spine of the park. I hiked north, my left foot in Tennessee and my right in North Carolina. I felt so clever, capturing two states at the same time. I had bear spray, technical layers, a cell phone, and I was twelve years Emma Gatewood’s junior. She hiked the full length of the trail. Three separate times. I hiked eight miles, out to a rock known as Charlie’s Bunion, then back, with an extra mile or two in Tennessee on the Boulevard trail to Jump Off Point.
Just short of the Point and a brief, solitary lunch stop, I made a momentous decision. I came up with my trail name. Through hikers on the AT all have trail names, a handle they use when greeting one another. I ran through some possibilities- Kerful, Kerless, no… it has to be Kerry-oke, which perfectly captures my tendency to sing, poorly, for absolutely no reason at all, at any time. For while I cannot Kerry a tune, I do know all the words. I laughed to myself. It just felt right.
Later in the day, after icing my toes in the crystal clear waters of a frigid stream, I treated myself to a 5- mile waterfall and cliff- laden hike on the Alum Cave Trail. This hike lulled me in with a long flat saunter through groves of rhododendron, then smacked me in the face with hundreds of steps to an arch rock and beyond, to an overhanging man-made cliff where the Epsom Salt Company extracted, you guessed it, Epsom Salts.
On the way up, I encountered a couple of women whom I had seen earlier in the day. They were in their seventies. We recognized each other and compared notes on our exploits. They were finishing up on a thirteen mile shuttle hike. I had about fourteen miles “planned,” not that I really planned them. They put me in mind of Grandma Gatewood, and I drew further inspiration from them. If they could make it to Alum Cave, so could I. I hope like hell I am still hiking multiple miles in my seventies.
On the drive out of the park just before sunset, grazing elk dotted the fields and stopped traffic along the roads surrounding the Visitors’ Center, and a cloudless day drew to a close, the sun setting behind the Smokies. I had two states, two more days to get two more. My quads were pleasantly tingling, a solid, full first day. South Carolina beckoned on the morrow, and the weather was a-changin’.
Day two, rain, and a short trip to South Carolina, to Table Rock State Park, where I envisioned a ten mile hike, up Pinnacle Mountain, the highest peak wholly contained within South Carolina’s borders. I had all my new rain gear on, and it worked wonders, though my pants seemed too big in the waist, and the pack tended to shove them down, so I felt somewhat exposed in back. But with only myself for company, I had little need for concern, and ample time to reflect, amply, on my comfort. I decided that short of a hurricane, I’d just as soon skip the rain jacket. Smartwool, true to its claims, is warm when wet, even when thoroughly soaked.
Up, down and over, I followed the Foothills Trail, blazed yellow, through rhododendron and mixed hardwood forest, crossing many streams, and climbing steadily. My quads were complaining, and I was very aware that I wasn’t first day fresh. I stopped to rest for a second and eat an energy bar, and the word on my lips was Bonk. I was doing it, and had to stop it. Turned out I was fairly near the summit of a preliminary peak called Bald Knob, after which, the trail went straight up toward the fog-shrouded sky for a heart pounding quarter mile to the pinnacle of Pinnacle, 3,425 feet up. Not very high, but very UP.
I dropped my pack in relief and to get the camera out, and Pffft! Instantly, I knew.
My bear spray discharged, accidentally. No bear in sight. Its telltale red-orange stain spread harmlessly across the side of my daypack. I was one lucky solo hiker. Had it hit me in the face, I would have been temporarily blinded and alone at the highest peak in South Carolina, blowing out the dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot of SOS on my whistle. I will never be without a whistle, unless I forget it, which is likely.
I followed the orange trail, which I thought would lead me to the red trail in a mile or so. It seemed to be taking me forever to walk that mile, and I started to doubt myself, perhaps shaken by the bear spray incident. On and on, and no red trail. I had checked the map, but I should have taken a picture of it. I started to make contingency plans to turn around. I really didn’t want to, but I was beginning to imagine that the trails were not going to intersect. The alone-ness was playing tricks on me. After a solid hour, I hit the red trail. I think it was more like a three mile traverse. So I was learning; it takes more than a whistle. Hiking demands a map.
Ok. Decision point. Do I add another three miles to my day by summiting Table Rock, or do I head back? I reviewed the days events: Bonking. Bear Spray. Crisis of Confidence. Continued Rain. Fatigue. I headed down the rocky, steep trail. I had to get to Georgia on the morrow. If it was my final day, I would have gone for it, but I had to keep my goals in the forefront of my mind.
Back at the parking lot, rain continuing, I saw two older ladies who were just embarking on a five mile hike, their first of the season. They said they were old, but I disagreed. I said we all just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other for as long as we possibly can. They headed uphill as I pulled out in my car. Sharing its enclosed space with my bear-sprayed daypack set me to coughing and wiping my watery eyes.
Day three, more rain. I hit the road for Georgia and headed straight for my destination, Black Rock Mountain State Park. After nearly two hours, I arrived.
Thwarted, I called another state park. Seemed Georgia doesn’t think people want to use state parks until March 15. I wonder if that increases the obesity rate in Georgia… Anyway I needed a Plan B. I went to a state forest and started off on an 11 mile mountain biking trail, reputed to be one of the best in Georgia. Lovely spot, waterfalls and hills, solitude and stream crossings, but poorly marked. And a loop. I am more comfortable on an out-and -back if trails are poorly marked, and especially when winging it. This was not my plan. I couldn’t afford to get lost. The forecast called for high winds, rain, and falling trees. I didn’t want to put myself in jeopardy. I hiked around four miles and abandoned the quest for Georgia, knowing I was due to fly out the next day. Time to download and use a hiking app. I learned that today. At least I accomplished something.
I wandered into Clayton, Georgia and explored the streets in the rain. A cute town, lovely coffee shop, where I treated myself to my first cup since arrival in the South. I am cutting back on coffee because my urologist demands it. And because, to be honest, it does make me feel better. I’m down to one cup a day, and kind of proud of myself.
He also wants me to stop drinking. That’s harder! Especially when there is live music to be had at the Bold Rock Hard Cider mill. I ordered a sample flight of six different ciders, bought barbecue from a food truck, and settled in to listen to the music and watch the FA cup on one of several TVs. The game was surreal, played in a snowstorm, with groundskeepers using shovels and brooms to keep the lines visible for the refs and players. Tottenham was hammering a lower tier side. My bartender recommended a hike for the next day that was near the airport, at Dupont State Forest, where the Hunger Games was filmed. That sounded perfect for me, since my flight wasn’t due to leave until 5 pm.
Day Four dawned sunny and breezy, and perfect for hiking. Six more North Carolina miles on the Triple Falls hike. Like my friend, Brett, used to say, “It don’t get much better than this.”
Upon my return to the car, I learned that my flight was canceled. Thanks, United! For while the weather in Asheville was fine, back in Newark, another nor’easter was pummeling the airport.
I am such a genius. I went right over to the airport, got myself a flight two days later,extended my rental car for two days, extended my air bnb one night and secured another night on the East side of Asheville. Thus outfitted, I determined to return to Georgia on the morrow and bag that sucker. Where to go? Why, Clayton, of course, and with my new hiking app, I can visit another Pinnacle Mountain, this one in Georgia, and hike the famous Bartram Trail.
Day five, which almost didn’t happen, another beautiful day, if cold and windy. And again, I found myself following in the footsteps of giants. William Bartram traced this route between 1773 and 1777, as the revolutionary war took hold up north. He was collecting plant specimens to send home to England. That must be why he walked up and down the hills so many times, gathering plants at various elevations. I can tell you what he found- rhododendron! It was everywhere on this hike.
I parked in a CCC site known as Warwoman Dell. Warwoman was the name given to a Cherokee named Nancy Ward. In 1755, after her husband was killed in battle, she pick up his weapon and led the charge against the Creek. There are Cherokee in the vicinity still, and a reservation school sits near the National Park in North Carolina.
The Bartram Trail is rife with waterfalls, rhododendron, impossibly huge white pines, and the song of the Carolina Chickadee. As I approached the summit ridge, I startled an older man who had a friendly but very noisy dog. He had gained the peak a while before me, and he and I remarked on the chill wind, when we could get a word in edgewise through the barking. He was an avid hiker. Matter of fact, he told me that he had been planning a 20 mile hike for the day before, but the wind chills in the single digits led him to wait until this day, and he only had time for eight miles.
On the way down, I passed him a time or two as we both made adjustments to our equipment and he worked, unsuccessfully, to keep his dog from barking at me. By our third encounter, I finally noticed that he had a severe gait abnormality. He was probably close to eighty years old. He had a challenging dog on a leash, a walking stick that both helped and hindered him, and a pronounced limp.
The Bartram is no cakewalk. Here he was, out there, alone, climbing mountains, despite all his difficulties. Today, I realize that every day of the trip, I found someone to admire, to emulate, to learn from. Emma Gatewood. The two ladies at Alum Falls. The two ladies at Table Rock. The gentleman and his dog at Warwoman Dell. They were my inspiration on this trip. They saw me through. As I age, they give me something to shoot for. I won’t forget them.
My final day, back in Asheville, in a new air bnb owned by a woman my age who is about to retire from the postal service after 38 years and start her own business, I was thumbing through a hiking book, and I found one last place where I could walk in the footsteps of people I greatly admire.
Folks in Asheville tell the tale of President Barack and First Lady Michelle Obama’s visit to the city. First off, they ate ribs at 12 Bones, a legendary Asheville barbecue joint. Then, they took a hike. Their 3.5 miler on the Mountains to Sea Trail is now known as the Obama Hike. Icy, muddy, challenging, I trekked along, imaging Obama’s long legs striding along the same path, and Michelle, like me, picking her way over the roots and rocks, looking out from the ridge at fields and woodlands.
Next, I drove a portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway and stopped off at the official Folk Art Center of the Park. I bought a hand- loomed blanket for the nephew I know is soon to be born, Dusty and Melinda’s second child, who has already lost his dad to the opioid crisis. Funny how easy it is to say “opioid crisis,” and not really know what it means, until it hits close to home. I opened up about the blanket and the baby and our loss to a volunteer at the Folk Art Center, and she shared the story of her brother. He, too, is struggling with addiction, and she never knows, day to day, whether their conversation that day will turn out to be their last.
We touched each other’s lives that day, and she tucked a set of notecards into the baby blanket. She bought them for me. I gave her a hug. We told each other that we would always remember this day. If inspire can be defined as “to fill with grace,” she inspired me.
My last stop on this fortuitously elongated vacation was at the Frederick Olmstead Arboretum. I learned that all native North American azaleas are deciduous. I was too early for the rhododendrum or azalea bloom, but to be on time for that would mean to encounter crowds. Off season works for me, and winter weather at home afforded me the gift of two extra days.
I boarded the plane and made it back to New Jersey in time for the next nor’easter.
As I write this, I can accurately report that we had four nor’easters in March. And today, April 2, we had a Nor’Easter, the day after Easter. Apparently it was not a nor’easter… 😉 Nor was it on Easter. So it must have been a Nor’Easter…
OK. Enough of that nonsense. I’m just having so much fun exploring the USA, I can’t contain myself sometimes.
