Hump Mountain, or The Crabby Hiker Assigns Herself to the B-Team

Times slid and fell on butt in snow: 3
Times swore under breath: like a hundred
Times cried like a little baby: 2
Quantity awesome views: Infinite

So the A-team is a group of friends and colleagues of mine who take on very challenging hikes. They hike in all weather; they hike year-round. They hike 10-20 mile hikes that are meant to stretch even the experienced hikers who lead the group. The hubby had come limping and grinning back from at least one A-team hike in the past, but up 'til now I'd had the sense to stay at home in my cozy bathrobe. That was about to change.

I don't know, as the girl who got picked last for kickball every jr-high P.E. day, maybe I just wanted to be part of the A-team. But as the last 5 years or so have probably been the most athletically minded of my life, I thought it was the right time to test my endurance. And so yesterday, I embarked on my first A-team hike with a small group of just 3, myself, the hubby, and our leader who will be called from here on The Mountaineer.

Mile 0-0.5 - It is March, and it snowed yesterday, but the temperature at the trailhead at 9:30 a.m. is already creeping into the 50s. We quickly pass the highway-side area of the trailhead that is littered with . . . uh, litter . . . and move into the quiet woods. We are happy and chatty. "How's this pace," The Mountaineer shouts back to us. "Fine. We're fine." We shout back. We pass the Apple House shelter, where a hiker still naps in his sleeping bag. How promising - a lazy trot to the top, perhaps?

Mile .5-1.5 - When winds whip through the trees in a snowy woods, you typically expect them to be chilling - particularly when you're not wearing a jacket. The breezes we encounter are warm and utterly inviting. We shed our outer layers; I am in a tank top. We ooh and ahh over beautiful icicle displays that dangle from overhangs like organ pipes. "Pace still good? Feet okay?" "Fine, we're fine."

1.5-2.5 - I'm starting to breathe pretty hard, but you know, I want to prove myself! And we have a stop at Doll Flats upcoming at the 3 mile mark. I am pushing, but I let Jeff pass me. "Don't worry. I'll be right behind you."

2.5-3 - Here's the thing about me as a hiker. I'm kind of a stop-every-quarter-mile-for-a-breather kind of girl. I'm an it-ain't-no-thing-if-it-takes-an-extra-hour-as-long-as-we're-comfy style expeditioner. It occurs to me, around mile 2.5, that this is not the A-team philosophy. The A-teamers are, apparently, the "Stop along the trail just because we're out of breath? We're losing daylight!" type of group. The first 3 miles of our hike sport a rise of 1700 feet, and around mile 2.5, we begin to encounter ankle-high snow. "No problem, no problem," I keep thinking to myself, as my breath gets a little ashmatic in my chest. "I'll stop for breath when this gosh-darn song stops circling in my head," I consider as a solution to the respiratory shutdown I'm experiencing. The boys are pretty far ahead; my little stump legs can't keep up, and finally, I stop for breath, and fall behind. Hubby keeps me in sight, but I don't catch up 'til we reach Doll Flats.

Mile 3 - Doll Flats - Hubby posits that Doll Flats are "Just beyond the Valley of the Dolls," but Mountaineer indicates that Doll was probably someone's last name. We sit on a big rock and rest, and I devour a power-bar. I suck on my Camelbak tube like a baby's bottle. Mountaineer, perhaps aware of my fundamental weakness as a hiker, asks whether we want to turn back, but that doesn't seem very A-team. We eat, we recover, we water the daisies, and we continue.

Mile 3.1-5.0 - The thing about hiking in snow is that it's really hard. In addition to the continual slip underfoot and the soggy socks, every step requires a little extra effort because, well, you've got to raise your foot over the snow. Before we reached Doll Flats, we were following the trail of a hiker with a dog, so the snow was packed down before us. After Doll Flats, not only does the snow deepen, but the friendly tracks no longer lead us. We are breaking ground. It's supposedly getting chillier, but I don't feel it - my 170-beat-per-minute heart rate is keeping me like a furnace. I've resigned myself to the falling behind, and while the Mountaineer is utterly sure-footed, every step for Clumsy Clara is a potential injury, so my pace slows again. I wonder casually why we ever agreed to this. Typically, the lungs are my primary hiking problem, and yes, all my bronchioles (???) are burning now. But my legs are now reminding me with every step that they did not sign up for this little trek. The ascent, at least, is less steep.

Hubby and I are both panting pretty hard by now. At one point, I actually do the impossible and pass him. We round a corner out of the woods, encounter a stile, and suddenly we see the reason we've been doing all this - we survey an overmountain cow pasture, an astounding near-360 view of the surrounding mountains, and the final bald ascent up Hump Mountain. "Totally worth it," I mutter impossibly, and we forge out onto the open mountainside.

5.1-5.4 - Any hiker could have told you this, but the final ascent is always much longer than it looks from below. The warm breezes we encountered in the woods below are now long gone - instead, frigid winds whip across the balds and push us off the narrow path. My perception is that most of the final 1000 feet of ascent has been saved for this last half-mile, and its on one of these steep stretches of ascent that, oh, surprise, my legs stop. They don't stop working exactly, and I don't collapse; they just utter a big, fat, muscular, nope to my suggestion that they continue walking forward. "No thank you," they say, "We'll just stand here and get whipped by the icicle breeze for a minute." At least, I am encouraged, I don't have to decide when to take my breaks anymore - my body decides for me. Hubby is stopping pretty frequently too, and we can see Mountaineer bobbing in the farther and farther distance, and finally at the summit. I begin counting steps, and finally I can tell I'm within 100 steps, within 50. At the top, we collapse, gasping. Mountaineer offers us dry socks. We can't stay long, because the wind is tearing the skin off our faces.

5.4-10.8 - For the most part, the descent is relatively uneventful, except that we are so very tired. In the snowiest part of the descent, I fall behind again - if Clumsy moves too fast, she just falls down, and I do indeed fall twice. The second fall is on thin snow above rock, and results in some mild eye-wetness - no sprains, no twists, just a very sore butt, and with Hubby's comforting sympathy, I move on. We walk more miles. We descend and descend. We exit the woods.

Our night was spent splayed out on the couch, nursing our wounds and eating pizza. This feels like a continuation of the refusal of my legs to move on the mountain - each time I rise, my body says, "We your parts will only tolerate this for so long. Go back to the couch and stretch us out." And I obey. I obey.

Total miles: 10.8
Rise in elevation: 2600 feet
Difficulty level: Hardest hike EVER
Recommended: For the experienced hiker, probably
ideally not in snow. Highly recommended as challenge-
hike with big payoff.

Saddest Nature Story Ever?

I listened to a Radiolab story this morning that seemed so utterly appropriate for "The Crabby Hiker" that I had to post. It's the story of a man who hiked up a high hill to a shimmering, gnarled stand of trees, began to study them and then . . .

. . . had an experience so traumatic it set him off trees forever. Here's the story:

http://blogs.wnyc.org/radiolab/2010/06/28/oops/

Fast-forward to 14 min 50 sec to hear the story; however, this whole hour of radio, entitled "Oops," is well worth listening to.

Reliving the Horrors of the Preteen Years (Laurel Falls)

Ease of Hike: Very Easy, except for the death stairs

Traumatic Childhood Flashbacks: 5ish

There is a picture hanging in the hall of my family home that I have often pleaded with my mother to please, please, for the love of mercy, take down off the wall. The picture is taken at Laurel Falls on our first family vacation in the Tennessee Mountains. Our family is with the Gwilt family, some of our closest friends in youth and our very best vacation partners. In the picture, my parents are young and flushed with sun, the group is sweaty and comfortable, even the Gwilt girls who sport knee braces wear contented smiles - all except for me. I am 12 years old; if I have not yet had my first period, then it is building up within to a tidal wave, ready to burst forth literally at any second; my hair is a massive, mousy halo of frizz, and I am wearing a flowered shirt with plaid shorts over fat legs. My eyes are red from crying, and my mouth is turned down in a malicious scowl.

This, oh readers, is the Crabby Hiker at her first - the primordial C.H. This is the first I knew that I hated the woods, and the woods, likewise, hated me. Though nature and I have now reached a restless armistice, embracing each other one moment and resorting to exchange of fire the next, this resumption of relations has taken more than a decade to settle in, perhaps all due to the early horrors of Laurel Falls.

To be clear, Laurel Falls is among the very easiest trails in the region. On our short Sunday hike, we encountered two dogs (one a puppy), countless children (some under five), vacationers hiking in flip-flops and old women in bikini tops just back from a dip under the falls. This is not a wilderness trail - this is the tourist trail at its best, which is why my parents and the Gwilt parents were hiking it with eight children in tow. However, though I've taken this trail many times since the fateful day when modern photography immortalized my pre-adolescent hellmood, I figured it's never too late for an Official Redemption Hike.

Mile .5 - I trip over my first root. Husband likens me to a blind AT hiker without a guide dog; however, in defiance of my track record, this is pretty much all my tripping for the trip. We're surrounded on both sides by thick rhododendron; it's not in bloom, but rhododendron leaves are beautiful, and the way they grow up all around us makes it feel a little like we've stepped into a jungle.

Mile .75 - Though, as I mentioned, I've been back and forth to Laurel Falls on numerous occasions, Hubby surprises me by taking me on a side-trail to "Potato Top," a short, steep climb to a beautiful view, including some surrounding rocky outcroppings. It's unexpected and beautiful. A sunny shower falls on us at the top, and a skeletonized tree nearby makes me fear briefly that I will be struck by lightning, but we make our way back to the main trail without incident.

Mile 1 - We trip our way down the long set of stone steps that lead to the falls. Here we encounter the dogs, who "do not bite," according to their owners, but who bark at us as if they thirst for blood. Also coming up the stairs, a family with two kids are brought to a halt by a daughter on the verge of tears - I feel an immediate connection with this four-year-old as she moans in agony, "It's going to be such a long way back!"

It occurs to me that, in the 12-year-old picture where I am already clearly past the whining stage into crying, I had not yet encountered the only miserable part of the Laurel Falls trail - the part the four-year-old is facing now - the climb back up the stairs from the waterfall to the main path. I wonder how I dragged my whiny carcass back up the - this is a guess - .2 miles of stairs before me. I wonder how my mother tolerated the agonized laments and constant stops; I wonder how my siblings and friends bore it, and if they did. Maybe I would surprise my current-day self by having braved the steps with stunning ease - after all, my well-remembered tears were not due to the woods itself, but because of the perceived abandonment that occurred when I fell behind the "fast group," the big kids, and nobody waited or came back for me. Too slow, I was relegated to the realm of parents and babies, and for that I punished everyone with my sour mood.

Mile 1.2 - We're at the falls. Hubbs needs to go to the bathroom - badly. We don't stay long before conquering what will prove to be, for my husband, an especially uncomfortable journey back up the hell stairs. But the waterfall is what I'd hoped - it is calm, it is cool, it is non-judgmental. It makes no demands on my current or my pre-teen self. It says, come, wait, sit, wade - no need to turn back yet toward the torturous stairs. No need to turn back ever. Why dont' you just live here, by the water, forever?

Total miles: 2.4, plus the Potato top bonus. 2.8 altogether.

Difficulty Level: Easy

Recommended: For a light day hike with dogs and children

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