Our goal this week was to have minor adventure in the form of a short backpack trip.  On that point, I succeeded.

I also managed to permanently damage my 43-year-old body beyond repair and develop a deep disgust for everything outdoors.

OK, that last statement might be a bit of hyperbole, as I will certainly go backpacking again once the full-body sprain has healed in a few years.  Regardless, I have certainly satisfied all unnatural cravings for adventure.  In fact I might not leave my living room couch for six months.

Ken on the trail

This week and next we will share the details, gory and otherwise, of our time spent backpacking in the beautiful Great Smoky Mountains National Park on the Tennessee-North Carolina border.

My hunting buddy, hiking partner and co-casualty for this trip was Ken.  He has many trail miles on multiple continents under his belt but had never engaged in any “real” backpacking until this trip.  After this jaunt, I’m sure his gear has already hiked its way into a nearby dumpster.

The plan was simple.  We would park at Newfound Gap, in the middle of the National Park, where U.S. 441 bisects the spine of the Smokies.  From there, we would hike the Appalachian Trail to the Icewater Spring Shelter and spend the night in this quaint trailside hovel.  The next day, we would hike to LeConte Lodge, high atop the mountain of the same name.  We would then retrace our steps in time to make it home in time for Friday night high school football.

Sunrise on Boulevard Trail

As we pulled into the crowded Newfound Gap parking area, we noticed a tour bus that was unloading wave after wave of senior hikers.  We joked about the slow pace if we got stuck behind these oldsters on the trail.

A few steps into the woods, I realized our worst fears had come true.  The group was indeed hiking the trail and we were stuck.  Fortunately, as we strode briskly up the rock-strewn path, the day hikers stopped and allowed us to pass.  I tried not to be too smug while striding upward.

Another mile up the trail, things had changed.  As we crawled along, trying not to stumble over our dragging tongues, the octogenarian hikers streamed past us like a lithe herd of gazelles.

Two hours later, we finally overtook the most fit senior hiker, even though he was returning downhill, smiling.   “See…pant, pant….we finally outlasted…wheeze…them…gack,” I told Ken.  He dripped sweat in agreement.

We eventually reached the Icewater Spring shelter and found it vacant.  We took off our packs and floated around several feet in the air for a few minutes, readjusting to life without 50 pounds on our backs.

Icewater Springs trail shelter

Bear warnings had been posted for Icewater Springs and we joked about bears while unpacking.  The conversation reached a pause and grew strangely quiet for a moment, at least until I heard crackling in the bushes.
The noise turned out to be P.J., a fellow hiker.  After climbing down off the shelter roof, we greeted P.J. and welcomed him into our shared overnight home.  He was friendly and didn’t even ask about the high-pitched shrieking he had heard just before arriving at camp.  We heard the noises also but chose to remain silent about the possible source.

Nighty-night

After eating and unfurling our sleeping bags on the wooden platform, we talked about various topics as the gathering pastel of twilight grew into dusky purple and finally darkness.  P.J. explained that he recently obtained his Ph.D in microbiology and was touring the country to celebrate before joining the workforce.   Yours Truly mentioned that he was paid to lie about things on paper and sometimes even got the spelling correct provided I could remember to hit the spellcheck key before sending a column.  P.J. seemed enormously impressed.

P.J. has also been virtually everywhere and done everything, including that Spanish foot race known as The Running of the Bulls.  We did, however, finally discover his Achilles heel: mice.  This would prove problematic as dozens of the little critters scampered about the shelter in the dark.

Even though we were tired to the bone, Ken and P.J. spent the next hour in vain trying to maim one of the little buggers while Yours Truly served as tactician and color analyst.  Eventually, scoreless and exhausted from the exertion, we crawled into our sleeping bags, pulled the drawstrings closed around our faces to preclude nocturnal visitors and promptly fell asleep.

Of course, “asleep” is a relative term when you are lying on an open wooden platform in a federally declared bear emergency zone as mice tap dance around your head like a rodent version of a Busby Berkley musical number.

Trying to be helpful, I then mentioned that snakes would undoubtedly be attracted to the mice.

——

Sunrise at Icewater Springs

After a restless night and a glorious mountaintop sunrise, we saddled up and headed down the trail.  Our goal was Mt. LeConte, the third highest peak in the National Park and one of the highest points in the eastern U.S.  Our approach would be via the five mile-long Boulevard Trail that follows a high ridge connecting Mt. LeConte to the spine of the Smokies.

The last mile of the trail involves a long, non-humorous climb to the top of Mt. LeConte along rock ledges and slide areas.  After the hour-long, heart-pounding trek, we finally arrived to place a rock apiece on the cairn that marks the top of the 6593-foot-high peak

A half-mile downhill in a broad bowl below the summit lays LeConte lodge.  Established in 1925, the privately operated lodge offers hikers a unique lodging experience if you can get one of the scarce reservations in the 50-bed camp.

After a snack and well-deserved rest in the rocking chairs on the office porch, we tromped inside.  J.T., the clerk, showed us to our cabin while explaining the lodge rules, operation of the oil lamps that provide light (there is no electricity) and the purpose of the bucket she carried.  We learned the steel pails are used to carry hot water from the cookhouse to your bedroom so dirty hikers can freshen up.  It did feel wonderfully luxurious in the 50-degree mountain air.

The cabins are tiny, three bedroom log structures with each room holding a bunk bed, desk and oil lamp.  With six people in three rooms and a person sleeping on the cot in the common area, it is a cozy but comfortable arrangement.

Cabin at LeConte Lodge

Dinner and breakfast is served family-style in the small dining hall.  With 15 hungry people around the table passing food in the glow of oil lamps, there is a wonderful abundance of ambience.  Unfortunately, exhausted and hungry, I could only give passing notice to the surroundings while shoveling down roast beef, mashed potatoes, soup, green beans and corn bread washed down with coffee, sweet tea and delicious spring water.  A peach half and enormous mountain-baked cookies finished the meal.

After dinner, the guests wandered around the camp and lamented the clouds that had collided with the mountaintop to ruin the sunset view.  We hung around with a trio of our tablemates who shall remain unnamed due to their proclivity for home-distilled refreshments that came up in the mountain in a mason jar.  Over cups of “snakebite medicine” to fortify ourselves against the damp air, we swapped lies about trout fishing and enjoyed a nightcap high above the rest of the world.

Later, a full moon appeared just over the summit as the clouds briefly parted.  I have seen the full moon from offshore, the desert and many wilderness campsites but that particular full moon will always stay fresh in my mind.

After a wonderful night in a comfortable bed we awoke and headed to the dining hall.  Everyone had slept well and was in talkative good spirits while devouring the tasty southern breakfast of eggs, sausage, pancakes, grits, biscuits and coffee.

Later, after buying souvenir t-shirts and saying goodbye, we hit the trail at 9 a.m. Our route of descend was the Alum Cave Trail, named for a large rock overhang halfway down the five-mile walk.  Along the way, we would lose about 3000 feet in elevation, the thought of which made my knees hurt in anticipation.

Wide spot in the trail

I should have been more worried about the first mile of trail.  Suffice it to say that if you enjoy walking an 18-inch-wide snake path along 500-foot sheer cliffs with only a lowest-bidder government safety cable as a handhold, then you will enjoy the Alum Bluff trail immensely.

I didn’t.

Fortunately we made it off the toughest part of the trail just in time to twist my knee.  Heedless, I limped along down through Alum Bluff and the six creek crossings, singing loudly and off-key to disguise my whimpering.  At Arch Rock, where the trail passes down a natural passage via carved steps, the stone felt nice and cool on my backside as I crab-walked due my feeble knee.

After what seemed like a decade, we finally arrived at the trailhead parking lot to hitch a ride back to our car at Newfound Gap.  There, finally unburdened, we stood around enjoying the mountain air, the scenery and even the passing tourists who made gushing, slightly awestruck comments about our obvious backcountry skill.

I would have enjoyed the special moment a little more had I not been lying on the wonderfully sun-warmed pavement, clutching my knee and whining like a broken bus transmission.

[Show as slideshow]

Bookmark It

Hide Sites