The First Hike. Or, The Crabby Hiker has dreams of grandeur before nearly breaking leg

Sam’s Gap to Big Bald Shelter

Times almost tripped over root or rock: 16

Times turned ankle on uneven ground: 4

Times mauled by bear: 0

Actual injuries sustained: ½

We started our Saturday at 8 am. This is not an early hour for a normal person; this is definitely not an early hour for a hiker, who, I believe, should be able to rise effortlessly from the floor of his tent at sunrise, cook a spartan breakfast over campfire or cook stove, and then set foot to trail. She should not only rise early from a heavy slumber, one unbroken by the noises in the nearby night or the rocks against her hip bones, but should delight in the golden slivers of morning pouring through the trees or its full current pouring over a bald.

That’s not me, friend. That’s not me. So Husband and I rose a little while after 8, moaned our way through backpack and breakfast preparation, dallied over oatmeal and a little morning TV, and didn’t hit the trail ‘til 10 am. A 13-mile day of hiking started late.

Miles 0-1 (outgoing): I’m a little carsick. I do not mention this to the Husband – he’s a little sick of hearing about my carsickness. I’ve begun to mitigate my motion sickness, which used to be almost debilitating and required me to lie whining on a coach or car bench for several minutes after reaching a destination, by either driving the car myself or – get this – pretending to drive. You’re thinking there’s no way that could possibly work , but it kinda does – I move my right foot up and down on a pretend set of pedals and “drive” one-handed, like a pimp. On balance I do not look very pimp-like – but the upside of this humiliating little ritual is that my carsickness discomfort number has dropped to a 1 or 2 from a 6 or 7.

We’ve driven a winding road through Flag Pond, NC – hence the carsickness - and out to the trailhead at Sam’s Gap. We trip through an aluminum gate, and then up a series of switchbacks that directly overlook interstate 26, and then we plunge into the woods. One steep quarter-mile in, I am out of breath and sweaty, and this is Saturday. Why, on this, Saturday, the most peaceful of all days, have I chosen a 13-mile hike over, say, lunch at Primo’s and a long nap?

Miles 1-2 (outgoing): After that first initial gasping quarter mile, through which I strove not to whine aloud, the ascent became gentler and the whole thing much more bearable. This went on ‘til about mile 1.4, where we reached the old Native American talc mine promised in the guide – it’s just a big hole, so don’t get too excited – and began a killer incline that continued almost to mile 2. My legs begin to yammer – this is totally expected – but I’m actually surprised how well my lungs hold up. It must be that my miles on the treadmill are paying off, though the treadmill incline is always set unswervingly at zero.

At the top of the ascent, we commiserate with a middle-aged man and two middle-aged women who seem to be together, and an older man, who doesn’t “commiserate” so much as “stand silently.” We’re all working to catch our breath except for him, and he doesn’t stay long with us – just heads silently into the woods. I’m not crazy about the older guy – I wish he’d whine more – but I can’t help but respect him. We continue before the threesome do, and I feel proud – we’re like a slightly louder version of the stoic man, not still, but strong, nearly unyielding.

Mile 2.2 (outgoing): The trail slopes downward – glory hallelujah! The woods open up, and we find ourselves in a grassy field, open except for a few trees. Hubby points up – a sudden view of Big Bald has opened in front of us. It is lovely. It is green. It is majestic. It is Far. Away.

Miles 3-6 (outgoing): I keep tripping over roots.

I’ve also suddenly become almost ravenous. We sit on a rock and I immediately and unceremoniously devour a power bar, then start fumbling around for trail mix. This is when we meet our one thru-hiker of the day, who I will call Bob.

He’s dressed very well for a thru-hiker – he’s clean and un-smelly, wearing a lot of kind of under-armor type gear. His beard is trimmed. When he sees us, he immediately stops to chat us up. Turns out he left out from Springer Mountain in April, but he keeps stopping for white water and trips into town. “I need to pick up the pace if I’m going to make it to Katahdin,” he confides, “But if I need to, I can do 25, maybe even 30 miles a day.” I nod, impressed – I wonder if he can really do that kind of hiking. He confesses to us that he smokes 2 packs a day even while hiking. I like this too – can’t help it. He lights up, then tells us that if we see the middle-aged trio again, we should tell them he decided to power on ahead.

We finish eating and pick up, and the next hiker we see, just minutes later, is Bob. “Decided to have a bite and wait for my friends,” he says as we pass. This unexpected stop makes me question his ability to do 30 mile days – still, I don’t like him less for this. I feel attached to our talky, flaky hiker friend; I hope he makes it to Maine.

Mile 6 – 6.5 (outgoing): The lack of discernible trail guide landmarks over the last short while has proved irritating. Supposedly we’ve passed through “Low Gap” and “along a crest,” but Hubbs and I have found it challenging to distinguish one section of woods from another. Once or twice we’ve spotted the bald through the trees – it’s getting close, and the ground steepens beneath us as we begin the final descent.

I’ve been steeling myself for this the whole way, and that totally pans out – having psyched myself up for a grueling, hours-long struggle with my body, I practically trip up the ½-mile or so of steep climb to the summit. The trail brings us out from woods into a patch of rhododendron, then onto a clover-covered bald from which we have a 360-degree view of the surrounding mountains. I stare for a while, remembering that this is why were out here, then lie on my back and close my eyes. The bald is a perfect cradle.

Now all we have to do is go back again.

Miles 6.5 – 13: It’s four hours back to the car. On the way, we pass all our hiking buds – the older man, whom we’d passed at some point in the latter half of our hike in, Bob and two members of the trio, and then a third member of the trio who’d fallen a ways behind and was looking a little grouchy herself. After we passed her, I turned to my Hubby to say how great it was that we’d outpaced all the other hikers on the trail, when a horrible revelation stopped me dead in my tracks.

“The packs,” I said stupidly, and Hubbs turned around.

“What about them?”

“The other hikers are hauling all their gear. They’re wearing like 50-pound packs.”

“Yeah,” he said, still not getting it.

“We’re not better than them at all,” I said, crestfallen.

“Nope,” he said, and turned back to the trail. It took me a little more time to recover.

On our way back through the open field – what had been a lilting downward slope through a breezy pasture on the way out now seemed an impossibly hot slog up an unclimbable incline, I turned my ankle hard. In a moment, all thoughts passed through my mind – First, that I’d really done it, I’d broken my ankle this time, then images of the helicopter rescue and tears streaming down my husband’s face as they lifted my stretcher up into the sky, then the realization that I was just barely hurt, not even a sprain. Hubby noticed the tears stinging my eyes. “Are you really hurt?” he asked.

“No,” I wheezed as the last wave of pain washed over my leg. “Just give me your arm for a sec.”

We reached the car tender-footed and thirsty – our five liters of water had run out not too long after the turnaround – and we gulped down more trail mix and hundred-degree water from a bottle in the car. Hubby took a sip out of a mug from that morning. “My coffee’s still warm,” he said, then smiled to let me know he wasn’t that stupid.

Total mileage: 13 miles, plus bonus to shelter and back of 2.6 miles. 15.6 miles total.

Difficulty level: Intermediate

Recommended: Definitely