Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (12 page)

Desperate is desperate. We started the half-mile trek to the Clingman’s Dome bathroom. All along the way we engaged in false bravado about what we’d do if we arrived and the group from last night’s shelter already had it fully occupied. “With ten million visitors per year in this park they ought to have a half-decent place to take a crap,” I said hopefully.

“The women’s bathroom might make more sense from the standpoint of hygiene,” Sal noted dryly.

“No, let’s do this right, dammit,” I said insistently.

Suddenly, two barracks-like buildings appeared out of the fog to the left. We entered the bathroom which was empty, but the first impression was uninviting. It was dingy and somewhat cramped quarters. The ceiling was low, and it would be a stretch to fit three people unless one of us slept with his head under a urinal. Worse yet, the floor was covered with a cleaning solution that would get our sleeping bags wet.

“Skywalker,” Scavenger said loudly, “I can see my breath. It’s cold as shit in here.”

“Well, it’s warmer than a damn shelter,” I said defensively

“Look at all this steam rising off my urine,” Sal exclaimed. “What temperature is it in here?”

Irked, I said, “Well, let’s see what the women’s restroom is like.” But a quick tour revealed that the fundamentals were essentially the same. We had to decide what to do, and quickly.

We were on a ridge, well above six thousand feet, and exposed to howling winds. Downhill from the bathrooms was a parking lot for the Clingman’s Dome Observatory. Not surprisingly, it was practically abandoned. Further, it was twenty-two miles down winding mountain roads to the resort town of Gatlinburg. It was obvious we couldn’t stay out here exposed for long.

Another hiker we recognized from the previous night’s shelter, Snackman, appeared in the distance.

“There’s a couple without a backpack behind me,” he reported.

Presuming they owned one of the three remaining vehicles in the lot, I said, “Sal, use your diplomatic skills on them.” Sal walked over to them and, after a quiet conversation, he came back and flashed the thumbs-up sign.

We loaded up our backpacks and started down the cold, windy trek down a snake of a road. Then suddenly I screamed to Sal, “Where the hell is Scavenger?”

He looked around alarmed. Three of us were in the back of the pickup truck. But Snack Man, the new arrival, was the third.

“Oh, my God! What should I do?” Sal panicked. He started beating on the window at the driver and signaling back up the mountain, but to no avail.

“We’ve been together since the second day on the trail,” he moaned disconsolately.

The steep road to Gatlinburg offered some of the finest scenery I’ve ever witnessed. Lush green forests, sharp, jagged mountains, and rushing water abounded. The temperature and visibility increased steadily as we descended. By the time the driver dropped us off in Gatlinburg I was in disbelief.

“It’s twenty or thirty degrees warmer down here than up on the mountain,” I said exuberantly.

“Oh yeah,” Sal said. “Weather forecasts in town are utterly useless to hikers.”

I was even more cheerful as we checked in at the one motel in town, which was known as “hiker friendly.” Some didn’t even allow such vermin on their grounds. While I sat there savoring the comforts of this downmarket motel, Sal said, “I’ve got to go back out and see if I can’t find Scavenger.”

An hour later, Scavenger and Sal walked in and Scavenger yelled out, “Bastards.”

After some heated explaining on our part he lashed out again. “None of those assholes in their fancy cars would pick me up once I got to the main road. Finally, some hippies came along in an old car and were decent enough to give me a lift.”

I had known Sal Paradise and Scavenger for six days and Snack Man for two hours, but we laughed and clowned it up that night at dinner as if we were all best friends. The grim conditions of the past three days had given us that elusive sense of shared ordeal. All things considered I couldn’t think of anywhere I’d rather be, or anything I’d rather be doing. Not even a phone call to my mother dampened my mood. She expressed disbelief that I had made just fifty miles of forward progress in the last week. “Bill, you had better start thinking of making it to New Jersey,” she advised.

Chapter 6

T
he Appalachians have had a tremendous effect on the country’s development. It’s a 2,500-mile chain of more or less continuous mountain ridges and valleys. They span three hundred to 350 miles in width in the southern Appalachians, and eighty to one hundred miles of width in the northern regions, and are consistently more steeply inclined and jagged than the Rockies and Sierras. In fact, this inhospitable terrain had the effect of restricting the British settlement of the Americas to thirteen seaside colonies. And to this day there are still only a handful of roads that pierce the hills to link the east coast with the heartland.

Looking over the craggy, rugged landscape, another thought occurred as well: No wonder people living in terrain like this tend to be more provincial and less cosmopolitan than somebody living in Manhattan or Boston. These two seaboard cities have easy waterway access to ships from all over the world. What’s more, as major entry ports for immigrants, they’re regularly exposed to diverse cultures and ideas. Compare that to people living in these parts. It was often said they live so far in the “hollers” they have to pipe in the daylight. Of course, in popular culture this has all spawned multitudes of yarns about incestuous hillbillies.

But the hardworking, pleasant nature of the denizens of these parts has won over many an unsuspecting soul from other parts. Thomas Jefferson, a Virginian, believed virtue and character came directly from rootedness and attachment to the land. This set him in direct opposition to rival Alexander Hamilton, a New York central banker, who extolled the virtues of large cities. Needless to say, the AT is an overwhelmingly Jeffersonian experience.

Miraculously, the weather had cleared and we were afforded some of the breathtaking views the Smokies are known for. We passed an area known as “Charlie’s Bunion,” a rocky outcropping that stuck out like a bunion on a hiker’s foot. Then the trail traipsed a chillingly narrow shelf called “the Sawteeth,” which features steep cliffs on both sides, poised above scenes of incredible mountain grandeur. This exposed ridge would have been nigh impossible to do in the wet, windy weather of a few days before. But despite the often miserable weather and rugged terrain the Smokies are a must-see destination.

Finally, the trail finally left the ridgeline and descended several miles into a forest bursting with spring flowers and watery coves. The northeastern boundary of Smoky Mountain National Park is at Davenport Gap. Standing Bear, a new hostel, had just opened near there. The owner, Curtis, showed me around his newly constructed bunk house, but as usual, the bunks weren’t nearly long enough. He asked if I minded sharing the guesthouse with another hiker.

The hiker, named “Drama,” was doing “work for stay,” an arrangement in which a hiker does various tasks around the hostel in return for free stay. It wasn’t clear whether Drama was male or female, a mystery that created a stir among other hikers. When Curtis noted my apparent reluctance he said, “What have you got to lose if it’s a he-she or she-he? You’ve got a bed to sleep in.” His reasoning was ineluctable, and I nodded my assent.

Around the campfire that night Drama regaled us with her trials and tribulations. “I was a sex worker for several years,” Drama intoned. “I specialized in S&M.”

“What is S&M?” I meekly asked. It must have been a stupid question the way everyone looked at me—not Drama—strangely.

“Sado-masochism,” Drama solemnly said. “I was a dominatrix in several films.”

“I’m sorry,” I again interrupted reluctantly. “I’ve heard the word ‘dominatrix,’ but could you define it for me.”

“Sure,” Drama replied helpfully. “A dominatrix is someone who takes the upper hand over a man during sex, usually with a combination of toys and weapons.” Again
I
seemed to be the person getting the most odd looks and finally decided to go to bed.

When I pulled my clothing bag out I looked all around for both sets of longs johns. Thrashing around frantically everywhere in the backpack it soon became obvious they weren’t there. The thought immediately occurred that perhaps Drama thought some XXL long-johns might jazz up her wardrobe in her other career. But the more likely explanation was that while shivering this morning at six thousand feet—as I hurriedly packed up in the maze of clothing and equipment hanging off various hooks in the Tri-Corner Knob Shelter—I hadn’t packed them.

Without long-johns I shivered, tossed, and turned again for the second straight night, and wondered if I hadn’t spent more energy trying to stay warm that night than in the day’s hike. Also, I had gone to bed wondering when Drama was going to return to the room we were sharing, and whether I needed to be on alert. But Drama never arrived, and in the morning I noticed Drama had tented out. Perhaps Drama was just as afraid of me as I was of Drama. If so, that was a well-needed ego boost for an insecure, rookie hiker!

It is often a great relief to emerge from extended deep immersion in the woods and confront civilization. And it’s especially cool in a town like Hot Springs where hikers follow the white AT blazes on the telephone poles right down the main street. This town’s mineral baths had so mesmerized German prisoners of war during World War II that many chose to stay there. One of its main industries now is hikers, and a center of hiker activity is Elmer Hall’s Sunnybank Inn.