If you like mildew, you will love the Smokies.

Once again in mid-September, my long-time hiking partner Ken and I made our semi-regular fall backpacking trip into Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  Once again we found out why the Smokies are designated as a ‘temperate rain forest’.

Our trip was a loop from Newfound Gap, down the Appalachian trail then out the Boulevard trail to LeConte Lodge and down the Rainbow Falls trail to our car.  As this isn’t literally an  on-the-ground loop, we hired a shuttle from A Walk In The Woods guide service to take us from our car to the starting point.  My notes are wet and smeared so I can’t remember the name of our shuttle driver but she was very knowledgeable, interesting and made the trip to Newfound Gap very enjoyable.  What wasn’t enjoyable was the ominous gray cloud deck that shrouded the tops of the mountains.

About the time we passed the Chimney Tops picnic area I mentioned to our guide/driver that it is a proven scientific conclusion Ken and I cause rain wherever we go.  She laughed, as if I was kidding, then went back to discussing the incredible variety of salamanders that live in the park.  I smiled, knowingly, as salamanders are involved in a disproportionate number of my backpacking trips.  I’m telling you, we make rain.

We dropped off at Newfound Gap in a nice fog bank and after weaving through the tourons (tourist+moron) that clot the area like a fanny-pack wearing herd of bovines, Ken and I headed up the trail.

As a sidebar, I don’t hate tourists as I frequently perform the same function in various local economies.  I do tend to look with disdain toward park visitors as the majority never leave pavement and often ask brilliant questions such as “when did they plant all these trees?” and “Are you guys backpackers?”

No, Maude, we’re the guys who plant all these trees; we carry them dehydrated in our backpacks.  You add a cup of water to the foil packet and a 30-foot balsam fir magically arises.

Sorry, I’ll take my medicine and continue.

To avoid redundancy, I’ll simply summarize the weather conditions for the next three days: rain, followed by rain, with a side-helping of rain, topped with a thick layer of rain and fog with occasional heavy rain and fog during breaks between the rain and fog.

It was wet.

We were trying a unique rain strategy: kilts.  If you were hiking during this time period, we were the men wearing plastic skirts.

Ken mentioned he had just read an email discussing the use of trash bag kilts for rainy conditions.  I agreed and noted that the late backpacking writer Colin Fletcher was a devotee of this system.  The idea is to simply open up one seam of a plastic trashbag to form a tube.  One end is tucked into your waistband and the other end drapes to the area of your knees.

Now, after having used the system in horrible, lousy weather, I have become an enormous devotee.  It works better than rain pants because you have complete freedom of movement, greater air circulation yet keeps you dry.  Yes, the lower legs and boots get wet but short of wearing waders, there is no real way to keep feet dry when hiking for days in a downpour.  I suppose low gaiters might help but I used a set of Gore-tex socks inside my boots and stayed comfortable if not totally bone-dry.  As it was, I was impressed.

So, wearing our skirts, rain jackets and packs, we headed into the gloom.

I actually like hiking, hunting and fishing in the rain.  There is something adventurous-feeling about the whole experience, as if you are sneaking around a church at night.  The damp world is silent except for the occasional patter of heavier rain while the tangy forest smells are more vivid in the thick air.  There is a feeling that you are doing something that most of other people won’t.

Our destination was the Icewater Springs trail shelter.  We arrived a few hours later, remarkable dry, warm and comfortable.  There was only one other person there and we laughed that the man at the backcountry permit office was mistaken when he said that there would be a full house this evening.

I remembered our laughter at midnight when we were packed like immigrants in steerage as we lay shoulder-to-shoulder on the hard wooden decks.  I was awake at midnight because of the chorus of snoring that sounded like a combination of a buzzsaw and leaky steam calliope as I and about 20 of my newest friends shared the wet shelter.

Finally around 4 a.m. I fell asleep.  Promptly at 4:15 a.m. the first group awoke to hit the trail early.  The rangers had warned us that the bear population was at an all-time high and therefore we were not suppose to cook within the shelter.  Apparently the gentleman next to me hadn’t heard this warning as he was actually cooking on the deck as he remained inside his sleeping bag.  Bears aside, I was pleased to remember all the times I’ve heard of small canister stoves exploding.

An hour later, suitably awake and fully-unrested, we hit the trail.  I’ll leave the weather report to your imagination.

We slopped down the trail, talking loudly, whistling, telling off-color jokes and even singing to avoid problems with bears.  Aside from the rangers, numerous other hikers and even media reports I read prior to hiking told about the record number of black bears in the park this year.  Everyone we ran across told stories of close encounters with bruins so we decided to let Yogi and Gentle Ben know we were coming.

I am afraid that we might have done too well in this regard…shall I just say that you’ve never lived until you’ve heard Ken singing loudly about bow-legged women.  There are rumors that every bear in the park has moved to Florida.

The weather grew progressively colder as we went higher and fatigue began to take its toll.  Fortunately, by the time we reached the higher elevations of Mt. LeConte, the buffeting wind and heavy rain disguised the sheer hundred-foot drops below the slick, wet rocks.  Our jaws set in grim determination, I stomped forward, defying the weather.  At one point I even cackled maniacally and loudly dared Mother Nature to a duel.

It started to rain harder and Ken tried to hit me with his hiking stick.

Finally we arrived at the top of the mountain in weather that, compared to the horrific storms of the Arctic Ocean, was worse.   Standing at the trail junction, I defiantly pointed right and confidently said, “not much further now!”

A half hour later was a scene I was remember the rest of my life.  In my mind’s eye, I see Ken scrambling over a razor’s edge of granite as a 40-mile-per hour steady wind blew rain like buckshot while I screamed “Go back!! It’s the wrong trail!!!  We’re at a dead-end”  Unfortunately, the wind carried away my words.

After a quick shouted conference in the lee of a boulder, we went back and found the right trail.  As it turned out, we had hiked to Myrtle Point, a thousand-foot sheer drop where hikers can watch the sunset when Brent and Ken are not on the mountain.

A bit later, after a snack to ward off the worse of the effects of hypothermia, we arrived at the blessed sanctuary of LeConte Lodge.

The lodge is privately owned and offers a warm bed and communal meals on top of the mountain in rustic, 1920′-era cabins.  There is no electricity or running water.  After dinner, guests hang out in the ‘lobby’ of the office cabin and chat, play cards and tell stories by the light of kerosene lanterns.  I played guitar and sipped on snakebite medicine I brought up the mountain.  You never know when a snake might attack.

Sleeping was wonderful as I snuggled down under the wool blanket in the top bunk and listened to rain pour onto the wood-shake roof two feet above my head.  With the smell of kerosene lanterns, wet wood and wool perfuming the air, I felt transported to a turn-of-the-century logging camp in the blackness.

At 7 a.m. promptly we assembled in the dining hall for breakfast.  Around the tables we passed platters loaded with flapjacks, bowls full of scrambled eggs and baskets of biscuits.  Coffee and hot chocolate flowed freely as we also drank our morning glass of Tang ‘breakfast beverage’.  Obviously, orange juice cartons can’t survive the trek up the mountain on the thrice-weekly llama supply trains.

Fortunately, the rain stopped and we headed down the hill.  The first half of the trail is rocky and water flowed down the trail like a stream.  At one point, I was pretty sure we were walking in a stream.  Salamanders laughed as we passed.

Eventually, we made it halfway down the 6900-foot mountain and the clouds lifted.  We continued onward until the halfway point where Rainbow Falls made for a perfect lunch stop.    We lounged about, ate packets of tuna and crackers and talked about our adventure.  The falls is beautiful but I didn’t realize prior to arrival that rock scrambling is necessary to reach the base of the falls.  Due to the wet conditions and generalized fatigue, we deferred until our next trip.

Headed down the less-steep trail, we passed several smaller waterfalls and enjoyed the scenery.  This section of the trail passes through a large grove of old-growth timber and the quiet, damp conditions made it feel like walking through an ancient ruin.    At least until Ken slid in the mud and fell.

I immediately saw the look of pain on Ken’s face and knew he had hurt himself, possibly badly.  In concern, I immediately asked the most important question: “Can I have some of your gear??”

It turned out that Ken had merely destroyed various tendons, ligaments and other such innards in his wrist so we moved onward after a good cry.   Drying my eyes, I asked Ken if he needed an Ibuprofen.

The rest of the hike was pleasant as we passed increasing numbers of hikers, then tourists, then tourons.  Suddenly, I had one of the strangest experiences of my hiking career: it sounded like a jet fighter was sweeping down the mountain right over the treetops.
We both stopped at the sound and stood puzzled for a second until I shouted “RAIN!!”
It was the sound of an intense, fast-moving storm rolling down the mountain.  In seconds, it went from dry to a Florida-style deluge in the span of seconds.  Fortunately, we had stopped under a thick rhododendron shrub and remained semi-dry while scrambling for our rain gear.  Suitably re-attired in jackets and skirts, we headed towards our vehicle.
It was interesting as we passed other tourons who had ascended the mountain without the benefit of rain gear.  I was concerned about several of the young ladies as they passed us on the trail, soaked to the skin, clothes plastered to their shivering bodies.  We spoke talked with several to ascertain their well being.  I also paused and thanked the creator for the gift of eyesight.
Finally, in the pouring rain, we saw the trailhead parking area and I could even make out my SUV.  We whistle, laughed and carried on with that bittersweet satisfaction of completing an arduous journey.

Then, as we reached the car, it stopped raining.

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