A Limp in the Woods (Day 18)

An Appalachian Trail Tale
Day 18: Thursday, April 11th, 2013
Mount Collins Shelter area to Newfound Gap/Gatlinburg = 4 miles
Miles to date: 207

Odd Men Out

I hate the expression Go Big or Go Home. No reason. I just do. On the AT, you go big and bring your home with you. THAT is big.

Anyway.

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Yesterday’s unstained skies were today’s memories. The heavens grew increasingly agitated last night, first with some directionally-indecisive wind, then with the covering of clouds. Skies don’t deal in agitation; they outsource it. It was not still. Still, it mattered not. There were just four miles separating The Fanny Pack and Newfound Gap, where Tennessee and North Carolina intersect again and where Newfound Gap Road, which hides under the alias of ‘US Highway 441,’ would drop us into Gatlinburg, ride pending. Newfound Gap is the only spot where the AT crosses pavement during its seventy-something mile passage through Great Smoky Mountain National Park.

For what it’s worth, on the Appalachian Trail, a thumbless handful of miles is still one hell of a walk. Some might figure four miles as micro-dosing, a ‘nero day,’ a near no-hike day. But not me, not on the AT.

On the Pacific Crest Trail, my happy place (but beginning to be loved to death), I use to liken such a distance to an hour and a half, what with its clean-shaven tread and sensible approach to hills. On the AT, my crappy place, where nightmares come true, such distance will possess a few hundred more feet of vertical gain, adding to the time--thus the toll (toil?)--it takes to walk. By “walk” I mean crawl, stumble, scrap and so forth.

When a prospective thru-hiker says he’s “gonna hike the AT someday,” he has no clue what he’s getting himself into. I still don’t. But based on the hints so far, I’m beginning to get an idea. And it’s an idea that fills me with dread. The hope is that, when all’s said and done, it doesn’t end up being a bad idea. Still...go big or go home, right?

I reached the road just as the cloud cover dropped to the point of hurting my head. The group had secured a ride from a pony-tailed fellow. He had a large four-door truck, ideal for large loads. Sleeping Beauty and I were the odd men out (no surprises there). We were forced to take up residence in the back, with everyone’s pungent packs, and without seatbelts! Or seats! We requested the camper shell’s rear hatch remain propped open, opting for fuel fumes over pack fumes.

Our ride down the mountain...

The road to Gatlinburg is as zig-zaggy as they get. Ziggier-zaggier, in fact--at one point it does a full 360°, tunneling back beneath itself, much like a freeway on or off-ramp. This usually doesn’t educe a second thought; by now we’re used to tunneling. But when you’re crammed into the trunk of a truck, facing rearward, it meddles with the mind. Beauty and I were hollering like children, as though we were on a roller-coaster, not knowing when to give up our counter-balancing leans. The speed was equally as intense. After traveling at a mile an hour for nearly three weeks, fifty times that was altogether twisted. Twists, fumes, speed. We felt queasy when we reached Gatlinburg.

An old postcard of the Newfound Gap Road "Over-Loop"

Town only made it worse. Scents of fried food, revelations of rampant roundness (in the form of free-flowing obesity), and more machine noise than should be legal all saturated the senses. Food was our first priority. It was also our second and third priorities. Hikers have their priorities in order. We ordered away. Pizza, burritos, enchiladas, malted milkshakes, salads, and beer. I’m not sure what the others ordered. Go big or go home, right?

Hitting up the local grocer after lunch (pic courtesy of Jenna)