Appalachian Trail: Flint Mountain to Whistling Gap

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Day twenty-one, 22 miles

Hiker Midnight is easily adhered to since everyone is exhausted from dodging the storm. Of course the six of us in the shelter had a nap during the afternoon deluge, then enjoyed the brief dry spell when the sky was blue and the sun streamed in through the trees.

But we knew ‘the big one’ would be coming in the middle of the night.

It’s a monster. We must be smack dab in the center of severe when it roars in. The lightning flashes are so bright, we can see each other’s faces perking out from the safety of our sleeping bags. The quickly following crashes are like wild animals on the loose, growling, spitting, biting.

At first the rain is merely heavy, then it’s like a massive bucket emptying the contents at once. Wind whips up sending spray into our faces. The change is ever so brief, a hiccup really, when bucketing rain becomes released marble sized hail crashing on the roof.

A couple runs towards the shelter and I fear their tent is destroyed so invite them in, but they seem happy standing under the wee roof to watch the show.

Not once do I fear for our safety. I’m just intensely grateful to be inside a structure while this intense storm runs its course right in front of my eyes.

In the Smokies, someone affixed tarps to the open side of the shelters. It can get bitterly cold up there and it’s the only way to stop the wind. I never get very wet, just a mist, but the close proximity to nature in its fury.

As the worst subsides, I fall back asleep and by morning, there are just puddles and mud but no obvious damage. Moxie and I hope to move further today, so we are up and out into the mist before 7.

The next shelter is just shy of nine miles away and over a mountain, so you can see why we didn’t (couldn’t, really) move on in between deluges.

Within a few minutes, it begins raining. We cross a road near Laurel Hostel, described as a cross between “Deliverance” and “Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” I think all hikers who have visited are accounted for.

Now it’s steeply up past waterfalls in flood. I’m so wet, I dare not take out my phone for a photo, but they are stunningly beautiful.

What can be said about rain? We need rain to fill the streams, to water the beautiful wildflowers, to make a home for our wee salamanders. But on a hike, it’s totally demoralizing. My mood goes way down and I just put on the power to keep walking and get to the next safe place.

We’re also surrounded by non-stop thunder as we rise higher and higher. This can’t be good. I count the seconds in between flashes and rumbles and it does appear to be getting further away.

My raincoat works well, but honestly no raincoat works for someone who’s active. Once you breathe heavy, you sweat, and once sweating under a wet raincoat, well, you’re wet through and through.

We push on to get to the shelter, down to a road then up again, then in the final miles continually saying, “This would be a good place for a shelter!” even though still far away.

I’m beginning to get chilled and worry I won’t be able to stop at all when suddenly, the rain lets up. A cool breeze hits me, which does make me slightly colder, but I say “bring it!” to help dry my soaked self.

Finally we arrive at a cutoff for the shelter, slightly annoyed it’s more walking. I offer to gather water for the both of us and find a sign saying water, followed by a series of blue blazes.

The blue blazes go on and on, and then on again. It’s like a fun house without the fun. There’s no indication just how far the water is and after nine miles, I need a rest. Yet I dare not keep following. We need water and it must be just around this bend, or maybe that one.

By the time I fill up and return, Gabby and Jeff arrive and Moxie is half-way through lunch. The good news is she has signal and discovers no rain expected the rest of the day.

That news is something to celebrate.

We depart for the hogback with some mountains coming into view. Below is noisy Highway 23 at Sam’s Gap where a big sign welcomes motorists to Tennessee. We have been walking in both states for much of this portion of trail since the mountains straddle the states.

An underpass delivers us to the foot of Big Bald beginning with nearly straight up for a good view of what’s in store. All this clearing of the sky and cool wind changes the mood nearly instantaneously from beaten down to can do.

It’s a typical climb here with much rolling up and down to creeks and ravines, followed by steep ups as though you’re barely moving. The views open up to mountains covered with trees all in shades of green as they enter spring.

We stop at a stream for water then push on where you get a clearer view of the mountain and its bald top. A few feet beyond, we meet Scatter along with a German named Barron.

Next to them is trail magic! We each get a coke along with a snackpack of cheese, cookie, carrots and boiled egg. What a treat! and right before the hardest bit of the climb.

Those two push on before us and we come to a stunning walk of green grass along with thousands of white phesilia, all amidst gnarled hardwoods as if back in our orchards of the Smoky Mountains.

What a price to pay in days of rain, mud, feet getting chafed to finally return to this eden-like experience. You can’t imagine how depressing it is to climb and climb to only be in mist and rain, sometimes drenching.

The top is a big like Max Patch, a grassy bald with views all around of mountains coming in and out of mist, the sun lighting up portions to highlight the colorful mosaic of trees.

The wind is high and I hold onto my hat, feeling exalted to enjoy this moment. Barron sits above, shirt off drinking a beer and watching the mist cover and uncover the view.

We snap pictures before ducking out of the cold wind and heading back into a white-flowered wonderland. It’s up one more lone peak – Little Bald – revealing an even closer view of the vastness of this landscape.

To avoid my earlier extra long walk to water, we collect some on the long descent to the gap. Barron catches up and camps nearby offering both of us a delicious dehydrated dinner given to him by another foreign hiker who needed to head home.

We set, eat, then lay back in our own private nests, so happy to be in our own tents again with the beautiful Appalachian Mountains once again visible to our eyes.

The change today is dramatic – in the natural world and in me. Weather does matter and can make or break a hike. In the end, like a lot of things, we have no control over the weather. The key is to go anyway (within reason) and let things unfold. Things will change eventually and the beauty will return.

In the meantime, holding that beauty close while managing the worst, helps me step forward.