April 29, Day 27, 6.2 miles to Uncle Johnny’s Hostel
Hunger got me out of camp early and downhill to town. I stopped to photograph new wildflowers and the view of the Nolichucky River, which tore the valley up last fall. Uncle Johnny’s is right where the trail meets the river, minus the bridge that washed away in the hurricane. An awesome construction flagger cheered as I came off the trail; he celebrated each of our arrivals at random mile 344.5. The road has a steady stream of dump trucks hauling rock to the new rail bed, as part of the rebuilding effort. The river bank is all torn up, but sadly, it’s also terribly polluted.
The washer was empty at the hostel, so I got my clothes straight into it, just to learn that the only midday shuttle was heading into town. I dressed in embarrassing loaner clothes from the bath house, and went to town in a pink fish-print shirt and pink-striped seersucker shorts. I looked like the weird goth kid wearing ill-fitting hand-me-downs from a preppy cousin, but at the grocery store, they didn’t offer me the hiker discount card, because I was “too nicely dressed” to be a hiker. So I fit right in here in Erwin. The next day, Taxman wore those same shorts around town, which is much funnier.
I had lunch at the Red Fork, getting the largest Rueben sandwich I have ever seen. I don’t know how they found rye bread that large. Did they bake it themselves? All the plates coming out of the kitchen were enormous. After lunch, I headed to the library to blog until the next shuttle. The charming Erwin Library is in a remodeled red-brick train depot. No one whispered in the very shouty library; perhaps it’s hard to whisper with their distinctive nasal twang.
Jeff had mailed me a package of my medications and supplements, so now I have an extra six ounces of pills to carry. In my reading about recurrent ovarian cancer, I came across the “cocktail” treatment, essentially borrowed from AIDS care. When huge numbers of patients were dying of AIDS, their community rallied support to bypass some of the standard three-phase testing protocols. The process moved too slowly for a group facing imminent death. Physicians were allowed to treat patients with unproven drugs, several drugs simultaneously, and in higher doses.
Despite over 500,000 cancer deaths in the US yearly, we inch forward with studies, while patients die. We could use the powerful advocacy the gay community brought to end the AIDS crisis to reduce cancer deaths. Why should people die of terminal cancer waiting for studies to inch forward? Why be so conservative with new treatments in a doomed population? And I’m sure funding for ovarian cancer has dropped now that you can’t get money if your proposal includes women or female.
There are many phase-II studies that show efficacy in suppression of tumor growth for common supplements and drugs. For example, melatonin, baby aspirin, statins, Metformin, and herbal berberine all showed promise in cancer trials, but no one is going to fund phase-III trials for common drugs that offer no profit. It falls upon patients to experiment with them. My doctor had no suggestions when asked what I could do to slow cancer growth until I can go on a PARP inhibitor after my hike. But when we asked about specific drugs, she quickly prescribed them and clearly had other patients with the same ideas. So I carry a supply of my cocktail, and it feels empowering, if nothing else. Plus my pills blend well with hiking, helping me sleep, providing magnesium lost to sweat, reducing inflammation, and stabilizing my blood sugar. That hungry night at camp, I had run out of meds.
I bought a ton of food for only fifty miles, plus a dinner I am too full to eat, blueberries, bell peppers, beer, burritos, and guacamole. Oh, the things I miss! Real food! Vegetables! The raft rides across the river start at nine am, one hiker per trip, so I will be sitting on the shore, scooping guacamole up with bell peppers and a breakfast burrito, trying to whittle down this sack of food. On the third day, I may text home complaining about hunger pangs, but right now I am stuffed.
April 30, Day 28, 14 miles to a spring past Beauty Spot Gap
The hostel had the most wonderful night time river sounds. Were they frogs? I have no idea, it was just this incredibly soothing mix of cascading water and animal chirps. Of course, we could only hear it because the dump trucks stopped streaming by.
We all got up pretty early, but the raft shuttle and van to town didn’t start until nine, so we milled around the porch. The raft captain, Dave, was a wonderful guy, bursting with energy, rowing us across the Nolichucky River one at a time. I really enjoyed the short ride, and then walked across the rocky sand bar to the far shore in my sandals. Might as well get full use of them and have dry feet.
For a while, the trail headed upstream, but eventually it began to climb, sometimes (of course) very steeply. I stopped for an early lunch at a shelter, and a late lunch on the trail, and an Arnold Palmer at trail magic at Indian Gap. Then PMA caught me and pointed out the trail closure ahead, which I did not know about because stupidly, my app was not updating, and I didn’t realize back in town when I could have fixed it. This meant a closure ahead blocked all the water and camping and I had to stop short. Arg! It got very hot up on Beauty Spot Bald, and while I was trying to get updates, lightning began to threaten me. I raced along to the last water/next camping and got set up just before the rain hit. The sites are sloped, but Slow-Goin’ is also here, camped on a slant.
I don’t know if it was frustration over my app, tiredness, the crazy lightning , the lack of anticipated cell service tonight, or some combo, but I climbed into my tent and cried. I was holding a bag Jeff sent that said, “I miss you,” and it was all too much. It isn’t a thru-hike for me without a few tears. And really, what was wrong? My tent was on a slope? My husband missed me? I missed him back? My app was outdated? Buck up, lil camper.
May 1, Day 29, 14.4 miles to Clyde Smith Shelter
I got the FarOut updated last night and had a brief call home before flies chased me down off the hill and into my tent. I slept well despite the angle of my bed and got an early start. The trail climbed into another dark forest like the Smokies, but without a view. Six miles of the day was spent on a road reroute, where I helped two older hikers who were lost. I’m not sure why they use guides not GPS, but it certainly isn’t enough when the trail is rerouted. I was thrilled to have FarOut working. The reroute had two horrible climbs, the first a steep PUD, which I skipped by walking the road. The second was inevitable, but at least the trail crew was there working so I could thank them.
I was exhausted after that climb, and flopped down at a spring to rest. I realized I might have caught something in town, that this might be more than typical fatigue. I decided to stop at the shelter, but I camped in my tent, and I didn’t touch anything, just in case. Still, it was nice to have dinner companions. I love how this trail provides company whenever There was a large group from Warrior Expeditions, who help gear up and support vets walking the trail.
May2, Day 30, 17.9 miles to a camp on Little Hump Mt.
Best day ever! I’m not sick, I think it was just adjusting to a new medication. I felt fairly positive today, right from the start, a hard climb up Roan Mountain, to view absolutely nothing in the fog and hurricane wreckage, but I didn’t care. After climbing down, everyone from the shelter ended up on the steps at Carver’s Gap, lamenting that with so many cars, they couldn’t manage a little trail magic? Or a trash can? But really it was just nice to sit in the sun together.
Then the trail climbed up into the Roan Highlands, a series of balds. This was finally the epic views I had expected in the morning, glorious rolling hills upon hills, with blue skies and green grass. It turns out I really do like Appalachian views, I just prefer them bald. The weather continued to cooperate, despite dire warnings, and the trail was lovely, rolling and without steps, so I kept going past Yellow Gap, where most people were stopping. On the last bald, I had a transcendent moment of gratitude. It took so much love and caring from my family, so many treatments from my doctor and medical team, such support from my friends, all to get me to the top of this mountain. How could I be anything but grateful? How can I dwell on the aches and exhaustion, when I get to be here? How many people get to do this under the best of circumstances?
So I am thankful for it all today: all that love from home and this beautiful trail that tests me every day. The sun that came out when I craved it, the rain that fell as I wished for it to stop, the fog and wind, the steep steps, the lack of trash cans, the good company and texts from trail and home friends, the food I trudged up here, the ramps waiting at camp to season dinner, the creek water just when I needed it, the thunderstorm that held off until my tent was pitched, and the cell service to call home. It was a big day, a perfectly chaotic day, the best day ever.
If that made me sound like a big-hearted, enlightened person, let me assure you that I am still emotionally-damaged goods. Shortly after I went to bed, an unusual bird began a repetitive song, which the Merlin app identified as a Northern Saw-whet owl. Sign boards back at Carver’s Gap had mentioned these rare little owls and the importance of this habitat to their survival. But I was not amused. My equanimity was shot and this bird sounded like a dripping faucet. I began shooting mental daggers at this endangered bird, thinking, ”It’s not going to work, little dude, so just give it a rest. It’s probably not the habitat that’s the problem, it’s your singing. The ladies hate it. They’re off trying to hybridize with Is that how you got your name? That your song is like water dripping on a saw? If I had a pipe wrench, I could solve this problem, you little drip.”
As I was losing my mind and imagining a sleepless night with Drippy, a Barred Owl arrived in camp and made normal hooting sounds that completely shut that little faucet off. I had a wonderful sleep, alone for the first night on this trail.
May3, Day 31, 6.7 miles to The Appalachian Station at 19 E.
There was one more beautiful bald to climb this morning before the trail dropped down gradually to the highway. JD from the hostel picked me up and got me settled in. There are 26 bunks, plus some tiny rooms, so it feels like every hiker is here. Plus, my friends from before Hot Springs will arrive this afternoon. The next two days should include rain, and it has sprinkled lightly off and on while I showered, laundered, resupplied, and ate such a big meal that I feel sick. When will I learn that I can’t eat more than normal?
May4, Day 32, 15.9 miles to an unnamed camp
I lost my pee cloth doing laundry; then my bandana disappeared, which was folded and with my clothes. This was incredibly annoying, as I couldn’t blow my nose or pee without tissue, which I must carry out. And now I need to replace both.
Today was a big day with three waterfalls, a really beautiful one, a medium one, and one named for the Hardcore Crew, trail maintainers that work in this area. I stopped at all three and enjoyed them along with most of the rest of this trail, which was quite cruisey. Most of the people from the hostel were slack-packing except for a few that I passed along the trail and my group still be behind me. They got a much later start after going to the grocery store. I think they only plan to make about 12 miles and do the rest tomorrow. That seemed like way too much tomorrow for me, especially since there’s a big climb near the end so I wanted to make it about halfway. I got my camp set up and my dinner eaten just in time as it started to rain pretty hard. There were some campers up at the main camp on the hill. They probably have service, but I heard them so I camped down below. They came down here to hang up their bear bags.
I listened to a couple of podcasts today with Glen Van Peski from Gossamer Gear talking about minimalism and ultralight backpacking. He suggested you should leave margins in life, basically extras that allow for wiggle room. If you had extra money, you could give to people in need, or by having a light pack, you could carry someone else’s stuff if they needed help.
He also talked about curiosity being part of ultralight, and it is interesting to make that connection, because it does seem like the people with the heaviest packs aren’t at all curious about how they could pack better. It’s like they’re fighting the idea there’s another way. The people with the lightest packs are the ones who are wondering, “What could I take instead?”
I’ve lost quite a bit of weight already; my friends mentioned it several times. And I got on the scales, so I know it’s true. So I’m most thankful today for the huge breakfast I ate at the hostel. They served eggs, bacon, biscuits with gravy and coffee, and I ate a giant plateful. That, and the peanut butter and mayo I packed, will help me keep weight on I hope. If I lose too much weight, I could actually lose muscle, and I desperately need muscle to get up these hills.
May 5, Day 33, 17.5 to Boots Off Hostel
It poured all night, but thankfully my tent is working well and I woke up without a drop inside. It was an easy day of hiking, with views and a huge waterfall. The morning was on a misty ridge, but a few times a slight view opened up. Then we walked through beautiful Laurel Canyon, with cliffs decorated with blooming lavender rhododendrons and orange azaleas. The falls were lovely, but the rocky canyons were my favorite.
There was trail magic after the falls, with Emoji, who goes there every Monday and opens her trunk to reveal a cornucopia of hiker treats. I had chips and a Gatorade before moving along. The last part of the day was going over Pond Mountain, a 3.4 mile climb and equal descent, just as it started to rain. The worst part was knowing that you could get off near the trail magic and the hostel would pick you up. I wasn’t really considering cheating that way, but hiking in the rain, up a mountain for no view, when you know you don’t need to, is harder than if there wasn’t any choice. You know you chose this, that this particular misery is voluntary.
After the big downhill, there was a short, steep climb to the Boots Off Hostel, with inspirational signs to get you up. The hostel was wonderful, very cozy and full of great people. I booked a dome, and it was nice to have a view of the sky. The shuttle ran us into town for dinner and groceries, but my friends straggled in a few minutes late (Tex), much later (Taxman and Bluey), and is-he-ok-late? (Klondike). Kramer and Losty had bought lots of beer and shared, saving the night.
The only bad part of the day had been the storm soaking my shoes, so I am thankful for the shoe-drier at the hostel. What a treat to quickly dry them, before they get that wet-shoe funk.
May 6, Day 34, 8.5 miles paddling, 3 miles walking
Tex had arranged for us to do the Aqua blaze, an official AT alternate, where you kayak down Lake Watauga, skipping part of the trail. The idea is to experience the lake in a way you miss if walking by, while also bypassing hurricane damage. There were nine kayaks; eight young men and me. It was intimidating, and I worried right away that I would hold them back or be one of those people rescued from the park along the lake. The paddling was hard, but I figured out quickly to stay in the middle to let the wind and currents move me along. Keeping the boat aimed straight took tremendous concentration even without paddling hard.
We stopped to have lunch on the island after the guys swung by a marina for beer. I took one for the road and left before them, knowing I might struggle to keep up if the wind changed. It’s difficult to steer a kayak in the wind, drink a beer, not lose the paddle, and navigate with your phone—while not dropping the phone in the water—all at the same time. I definitely live in an era of cup holders and phone mounts.
Eventually, I rounded a corner and had to paddle more to head into the wind. I was getting tired, sunburned, and hungry. I pulled up third at the exit and took photos as the others pulled in, also tired, sunburned, and hungry. We ate at a restaurant on the hill and the shuttle dropped us and our packs (who took the day off) back on the trail. Just as we got into our tents, a tree fell in the lower camp. There were curious lights, but everyone seemed to be okay. There will be a story in the morning no doubt.
May 7, Day 35, to Damascus, Virginia, 20 miles
It wasn’t a tree that fell, it was actually a really bad bear hang throw that missed the branch and landed on the metal roof of the shelter where people were sleeping. That must’ve been quite the shock!
I got up early and had a wonderful morning. I stopped twice for breakfast and coffee, once at a roadside picnic table. I saw more interesting animals and plants than I have in weeks. The best was a fisher, a large relative of weasels and martens. It looked a little like an enormous black cat, but with that distinguishing marten posture. There was also a big rat snake across the trail.
I found a large moth disguised as an old dry leaf, hanging from a fern frond. He was so leaf-like, I wasn’t sure until I took a photo and looked at the details. How interesting that my subconscious knew that dead leaf didn’t look quite right and checked it out.
Lady Slipper orchids lined the path several times, and there were many new vines—green briar, pipe vine, and wild yam—and wildflowers to look up. I passed a really ancient shelter and stopped for lunch at a better one. The spring was a long way downhill below the shelter though. I stayed at the shelter, hanging out and stalling; then Bluey arrived and I hung out more. Finally I walked to the last camp and waited a few minutes for the Goof Troop to show up and we continued down to the last camp together. As a solo woman, I don’t camp close to town without a group.
The camp on the edge of town had no people, but there was a nice car-camping tent with tidy gear, and a tired thru-hiking tent. After we set up, I walked behind the small tent and realized it was open and held only a huge wood-handled ax. How creepy! I’m set up right next to the ax. I told Klondike that if I was an ax murderer, I would kill him first, since he’s the biggest, but he pointed out his tent is smaller, so they would not know that.
We walked into sleepy Damascus to buy some beer and snacks, and of course the convenience store was on the far side of town. Extra miles are the worst. They used to allow camping in their park, which had bathrooms, but not anymore. On the walk back to our tents, we passed a diner and ended up going in for dinner. We have been carrying all these meals and then getting town food.
When we got back to camp, an older man and his dog were there. He told us he does plant surveys in the areas damaged by the hurricane. He had the ax out and talked about making a fire, although I don’t know where. I guess he realized that the other campers were nervous about getting chopped up, so he’d moved it.
