Day Eleven, 15 miles
My sight is ideal and I sleep deeply until dawn when a Wood Thrush gently greets the day.
It’s foggy but my tent is bone dry. Easy packing and I toddle off for a long climb ultimately to Cheoah Bald at 5052. Within a few minutes, I find Yoshi’s tent at a spring.
Good Grief!
Somehow I was so distracted yesterday, I hadn’t realized just exactly where we’d intended to go. I’m perfectly happy with my plan to carry water, even if it required backtracking, and I loved being all by myself.
Still, I should have studied more carefully to ensure I knew what was ahead.
Yoshi is still asleep so I write “Bliss” in the dirt to let him know I passed, then toddle on.
There are a few misty views of the steep sides of the canyon that contains the Nantahala, but mostly I’m focused on constant up, sometimes on switchbacks, but also rock, stairs and simply straight up.
I come to a sign memorializing Wade Sutton who gave his life fighting s forest fire up here in the late ‘60s. The plaque tells us he did this so we can more fully enjoy the trail. I think every hiker has placed a stone on this place and I do too.
I feel a bit sad today even in this gorgeous place. The Artist-in-Residence program I was in has a new director. She’s colder than the former head, and treats me disrespectfully. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t even bothered to listen to my piece.
Her latest note left me with that ‘why bother’ feeling. But I realize as I move evermore upward that in spite of less-than-supportive people, I always give projects the best of me with love and care. To me, that’s integrity.
The trouble is when it spills into being out here and I begin to question the point in it. Funny how fragile that exalted feeling of rightness can sometimes be.
The mountain is still covered in wildflowers. Fat bumblebees lurch from flower to flower, droning in between.
When visiting Aunt Janet, Grayson, her seven-year-old grandson would sometimes have mini meltdowns. It was always about whether anyone really cared about him or loved him. He alternately “left the family for good,” or would throw an object in an attempt to cause some minor form of damage.
I can relate to his feelings and have found myself doing an equal amount of both, at least figuratively, when I feel left out or ignored. I wonder if the response is universal or learned?
I have no intention of acting out now. Instead I keep walking and waiting for the mood to shift.
It feels an eternity before I reach Sassafras Gap Shelter where I can get water. It’s a cute two-story number with skylights. People have carved in a written on the walls including, “Quit or keep going. They both hurt.” I plop myself at the eating area at the front set up like a luncheonette.
I meet Amanda, Tina and Kim here out for just a few nights. I take their picture showing off their packs, far lighter than the last trip, they tell me.
Eventually I toddle on, the last bit of climb to the bald. All the fog has burned off and the views extend to row upon row of mountain – blue, the furthest, then green and light green/brown, the closest.
I enjoy the view then head steeply down on the ridge. Nothing as aerie and precarious as yesterday, but I still have to watch my step.
The distance between water sources is long, but there’s a campsite at Locust Cove Gap below with a piped spring. I fill up and take a good long rest here.
Five guys arrive and tell me my next water is at the next shelter. This seems to happen every day – I start walking in the morning, certain I’ll never have the energy nor the time to go very far. Then early afternoon rolls around and it’s really not that much further on such a glorious day.
The sun is out but the breeze is cool as I climb up and down a few more short bits, including over Mount Possible, where black butterflies with blue fringe chase each other in tornadic circles. After, I head down on switchbacks to Stecoah Gap and a highway.
On my last stair, a man is sitting directly in the way. I say hi, and he laughs saying, “And here I sit directly in your way!”
I like Rocky right away and we somehow fall into an easy banter like old high school friends. Most of it is silly references to Monty Python. It gives me a chance to rest my legs before one very steep (though mercifully short) climb.
Just then, a young man walks by and I ask if he has a soda he could sell me.
Would you like two?
Shannon is a thru-hiker being supported by his dad, and I notice his tent set nearby. Dad Steve lives out of his van and has been following along, until his steering went wonky. Being Sunday, they’re a bit stranded.
We drink and chat, then the two of us set off together for the remaining few miles to a campsite. A fast hiker with not one scintilla of humor and carrying an itty-bitty pack passes us as we huff our way up the mountain.
Everything becomes a joke, like the near absence of switchbacks up Jacob’s Ladder until there suddenly is one, a “savior switchback.” The false summits also bring on giggles, as does two more heart attack inducing ups before a general down.
This is the kind of thing that happens on hikes. You suddenly come across someone and totally click like old friends. I waited all day for my spirits to lift and Rocky placed himself quite literally directly in my path.
We pass two older men (my age) who appear totally worn out and likely will stop at Then grab two liters of water to take to a small stealth site a mile or so ahead.
It’s still up and down with views, scary rock downclimbs and ridge walking. But the site is just right. Rocky joins me and we set our tents in the wee space then set about making dinner.
Just then, one of the old guys arrives and launches himself into our space.
Any room?
No, sorry.
To which he walks right over to my tent door and sets his pack down.
Dude!
I tell him I’m a woman who’s had her boobs chopped off and would like some privacy and this spot is not big enough for him and his friend. Besides, there’s a spot just beyond here.
“But I’m tired!”
Why this entitled jerk didn’t stay at the shelter is beyond me, but he’s using a book for navigation and may have thought he’d arrived at the established campsite.
He pouts before moving on, but we all still wish each other a good night.
Dinner is finished and I am dead tired, my lungs feel like they got a serious workout. I crawl in as the sun sets and Rocky plays a few tunes on his guitar. Tanagers click away and the wind gently rattles my tent. Life is good.
