The party's over

So yeah, it was pretty disappointing to have only covered about half of our intended mileage. But it was the right decision to stop. As Bob Peoples shuttled us back to Damascus, we learned that the temps in that area were actually in the teens at lower evelations, and into the single digits at higher points, which was where we were. No wonder our water bottles froze into bricks. And even colder temperatures were on the way for the following night.

We also learned that we weren't the only ones who got blindsided by the weather. The cold and snow were originally expected to hit mostly the regions north of us (West Virginia reportedly got ten inches!) but the front extended further south than anyone predicted. Schools were shut down in the three surrounding counties.

The blessings out of this? Well, we learned a lot and were grateful to have gotten through it without injury to ourselves or to the hound. We also got the pleasure of befriending Bob Peoples, a truly extraordinary man whose Kincora hostel will definitely be the launching point for my next section hike. And hey, I did get a little closer to Katahdin... 410 miles down, 1,765 to go!

On our way out of town, we stopped at a diner and I consumed the most delectable bowl of vegetable soup ever concocted in the history of the planet. And by nightfall we were at a hotel, showered and jammied, and can I just say that we will never take for granted the pleasures of a nice warm, clean bed? Least of all Buster.

AT: Moreland Gap Shelter to USFS 50

I have never been so cold as I was last night. There are no words to describe it.

When I woke at about 4 a.m., all my water bottles were frozen solid, and there was a good inch of snow covering everything in the shelter, including us. Tim and I discussed contingency plans in muffled voices through the layers of our respective cocoons. We both knew Buster's feet would have a hard time going very far in the new layer of snow, and Tim's feet weren't doing so well either. Last night he wore three pairs of socks, topped by my fluorescent orange hunter gloves, and a raincoat wrapped overtop of all that, and his feet were still numb. I too was starting to feel like I would never get warm. We decided that the best and safest next step would be to go to a hostel about six miles out, called Kincora.

We summited White Rocks Mountain, hoping for an easy descent, but even that was perilous. The plentiful snow, combined with a blanket of fallen leaves and the sharp grade, made it impossible to step carefully. I wiped out again several times, once banging my elbow and leg hard on the rocks (and I now have some nice purple bruises to show for it). I was hiking sloppy, I think, because I'd had nothing to eat or drink that morning — our water was frozen into blocks and so was undrinkable, and it was so painfully cold that to pause and feed ourselves seemed unwise — we just wanted to get to Kincora. So by about an hour into our hike, I was so thirsty that I was scooping up snow from the trailside like a cave woman, just trying to hydrate myself a little. I felt like an animal.

Tim offered to take Buster and clip him to his own pack, which was a big help because even at a petite 30 pounds, that dog can pull like nobody's business. So I gratefully accepted and then spent the rest of our descent fretting that both Buster and Tim would go careening swiftly down the mountain — and then where would I be!? Fortunately, Tim was more surefooted than I, and no further wipeouts ensued.

Finally the trail evened out a bit. The descent became more gentle and I knew the hard part was over.

We made it to the spot where the trail crosses US Forest Service road #50 and hiked the quarter-mile to Kincora, where we gratefully found proprietor Bob Peoples (the same guy who helped build Mountaineer Shelter, where we stayed earlier in our trip) available to shuttle us back to Damascus.

I was really disappointed that I didn't capture more of our experience in photos, but to my delight, I learned later that a fellow Whiteblazer happened to be at Carvers Gap just before we passed through, and he got some great pictures. Many thanks to TwistedToad (yes, that's his trail name — and I'm sure there's an awesome story to go with it!) who was very gracious to share the following photos with me.

AT: Mountaineer Shelter to Moreland Gap Shelter

There was more snow on the ground when we woke up this morning. Where is all this snow coming from!? This was not in the forecast!

Buster did much better hiking today. He seems to be getting the hang of hiking on a lead. I am concerned about his paws, though. The last mile or so today he was limping a lot and I had to stop many times to clear the ice chunks out from his toe pads. I'm pretty worried about this. I know that if this persists, the webbing between his toes will start to tear and bleed. Today we covered a fairly moderate 10 miles, but later this week we have a 13.5-mile day and a 15.9-mile day. I don't know if his feet are going to hold up.

Here's a view of an Appalachian rhododendron that I photographed today. Snow-covered rhodo leaves just don't compute! I'm accustomed to seeing them vibrant green and decorated with big pink flowers — not frigid and drooping under the weight of snow! Um, hello? Whose idea was it to come here in November!?

We are at Moreland Gap Shelter tonight... not nearly as nice as last night's shelter. This is an old one, built in 1960. Some goofball decided that its open side should face northwest, which means all the cold and wind comes blowing right in. Which maybe isn't a bad thing in the summer, but right now the weather is continuing to decline and snow continues to fall. Tim's got a little portable radio with him, and he picked up a weather report, but there's no way it could be right. They're saying the temp is in the 20's, but we are experiencing terribly bitter wind and cold. As an old mountain man and fellow hiker told me several years ago, the mountains make their own weather.

We tried like crazy to build a fire this evening to dry out our snow-soaked boots, but the fierce wind and dampness from the snow made it impossible.

I cut the sleeves off my wool sweater tonight, so that Buster could wear it more comfortably without getting tangled up in it, and Tim gave up one of his polypropylene hiking shirts so that Buster could also have a base layer to wear. He's making quite the fashion statement in this get-up, let me tell you. He's very, very cold, even when wrapped in the fleece pad that I brought for his bed. Right now I have him bundled up in my sleeping bag with me and he is still shivering.

AT: Route 19E to Mountaineer Shelter

When we woke up this morning and started getting ready to set off, there was about an inch of snow on the ground at the hostel. Whoa. Didn't expect that. And to Tim's chagrin, since this is the off-season, Mountain Harbour doesn't serve a humongous breakfast like they did when we were here last May. So instead, Tim scored a couple packages of oatmeal from the hiker box and I ate a Clif bar. Buster dined on several pieces of pizza crusts that the 50-mile-runner-guy gave him. Then we were off. I'll admit it was a little hard to leave the cozy woodburning stove at Mountain Harbour.

We got started about 9 a.m., and here's Tim making his way up the side of Buck Mountain in his signature red hat. As we picked up more elevation (about a thousand feet in the first mile and a half), the snow definitely became more plentiful, and more of a problem. Not only did it make for some slippery hiking, but in many places it made the trail almost invisible. It was pretty easy to lose the white blazes on the trees, too, because of the snow clinging to the tree trunks.

The snow really does make the view beautiful, though. It feels a lot like cross-country skiing in Stinchfield Woods — only with 40 pounds of dead weight on my back and an over-anxious dog bumping into the backs of my heels every third step or so. Buster's doing fine overall, but hiking with a lead attached to my backpack definitely takes some getting used to. I can't risk letting him off-leash, because he does have a history of running off after interesting scents or animals, and I would have no way to find him easily if he decided to go off on a wild romp. I don't love hiking with a leash, though. I wiped out a couple of times today because of his pulling.

Right now we're finished with our 8-mile day and snuggled down in Mountaineer Shelter. It's a deluxe place, and only two years old. A very well known trail maintainer named Bob Peoples helped commandeer the team that built it.

Tim's got his hammock strung from the rafters in the upper part of the shelter, and I pitched my bivouac on the lower deck so that I could have a little extra protection from the cold and wind. Buster's curled up inside with me, and he's definitely very cold. In fact I put my wool sweater on him to try to help him conserve some heat.

Here he is all bundled up with Tim. It is going to be a wicked cold night.

The Road to Damascus

No, not the biblical Damascus where Saul became Paul ... I'm talking about Damascus, Virginia, which is where Tim and I left a car this evening, and where we will eventually end up after hiking north for a week on the Appalachian Trail.

After studying up on the weather forecast all week, it looks like temps will be in the 20's at night and up to the high 40's in the daytime. And no thunderstorms predicted! Woot! So guess who got to come along? Yep, Buster. This will be his first long-distance trek on the AT. If there had been any chance of thunderstorms I would've had to leave him home, since he is deathly afraid of those. He is carrying a small pack which contains his food for the week, two collapsible dog dishes, and about 20 ounces of water. He is rarin' to go. I took this photo of the noble beast taking in a nice deep breath of mountain air.

That red house you see in the background is Mountain Harbour, the same hiker hostel where Rob and Tim and I stayed on the eve of our last big hike in May. Last time we did a southbound segment, and this time we're starting at the same spot but heading north instead. They're very pet-friendly here, as you can see from the treats that were on their shelf.

Also on the shelf here is a "hiker box," which is a common thing to find at a hiker hostel. It's just a big huge box full of all kinds of stuff — food, gear, fuel, maps — and you can take anything you want. Hikers leave whatever they're not going to use, and they take anything that might be helpful to them. How cool is that! Obamanomics, trail-style. Love it.

There are two other guys staying here tonight. One is Ben Davis, an elite athlete who is running (not hiking, but running) the entire AT in 65 days to raise awareness for ALS (see his website here). Sixty-five days!! I think the current speed record is something like 61 days, but to put that in perspective, most thru hikers take at least six months to finish the whole thing. Ben's support person, Rick Cheever, is here too... he meets Ben at specific points along the trail each day and provides food and other resupply items. Right now it's about 8:30 at night, and Rick told us that Ben started running at 2:30 this morning (!!), and he's expecting him to roll in about 11:30 tonight, for a total distance today of 54 miles. Unbelievable.

There was lots of rain all day today on our drive down, but that's supposed to go away overnight and give way to clearer skies for the week. I'm pretty excited.

Terrorist? Hiker? Terrified Hiker?

Check out the new headgear. No, it's not a terrorist get-up... it's my latest in a string of purchases in preparation for next week's adventure on the Appalachian Trail.

On Sunday, my brother Tim and I are setting off from Roan Mountain and hiking north toward Damascus. With temperatures predicted in the mid-20s at night, this Cupcake is, frankly, terrified of freezing her frosting. I've never done an extended hike this late in the year. Last week's snowfall in Michigan didn't help the fear factor.

Hence the headgear: the black thing is called a balaclava (not "baklava," nor "burka," as Joe and Maria have taken to calling it). It's made of fleece and covers my whole head and neck. The hat underneath was a knitting experiment with wool, based on a pattern from my friend Sue. The combo is certain to launch a fashion trend while at the same time (I hope) keep me from dying a cryogenic death in some A.T. shelter next week.

Here are the rest of the layers I'm bringing:

• On the top: polypropylene tee, longsleeve synthetic UnderArmour shirt, short sleeve synthetic tee overtop of that, zippered fleece, thermal jacket, vapor-barrier raincoat.
• On the bottom: long undies, synthetic lined workout pants, lined ski pants.
• On the tootsies: synthetic sock liners, Smartwool socks, fleece booties.
• On los manos: I've apparently lost my mind completely and might've singlehandedly rescued the economy from the recent financial collapse, because I blew $55 on a pair of Black Diamond gloves. In a kind of funny twist of irony, overtop of them I'm going to wear a pair of blinding-orange hunting gloves, which I picked up at the thrift store for 85 cents. During the day when we're hiking and I don't need the double layer of gloves, the orange ones are going to be clipped to the top of my backpack and double as the universal sign of please-don't-shoot-me-Mr.-Hunter, since it will be deer season.

As you can imagine, all this extra stuff means that I won't be bringing my usual sassy little ultralight pack, as it can't accommodate all the bulk. So I've upsized to my bigger green Kelty backpack, which I haven't used for a couple of years now. It feels funny to have all this room to spare. I'm pondering bringing along a space heater.

The Great Train Race

Alright, I have to showboat a little here.

Let me preface what I'm about to say with one important fact: despite my goal of entering at least one 5k or 10k per year for the last who-knows-how-many years, I haven't placed in even one running race since high school. And I'm okay with that, since running really isn't a passion of mine — it's just a mechanism by which I try to maintain some level of physical stamina, so that I can take my twice-annual backpacking trip without fear of a cardiac event. (That, and races are just fun. You get a cool T-shirt and they feed you afterwards.)

Well. Given my past performance, you can imagine my disbelief when I placed second in my age bracket in The Great Train Race, which was held in conjunction with Ypsilanti's Heritage Festival.

I'm only a little bit embarrassed to admit that when I saw the results, for a brief and glorious moment I felt a swell of kinship to Michael Phelps. Yes, I'd like to thank my family and friends for all their support, and especially my training partner, Buster...

Okay, so there was no tear-jerker award ceremony, and at only 140 entrants, it was definitely a very small race. And never mind the fact that I was second out of only 10 women in my age bracket (which was 35-39, since I know you're wondering). And the fact that my time was a leisurely 28:38. And the fact that a 69-year-old man beat me by well over a minute. No matter. I still placed, and that was a pretty big (and unexpected) rush.

The host of the event was The Corner Brewery, a nifty little beer garden and bottler of Arbor Brewing Company beers. No beer for this runner, though, as I wanted to finish The Great Train Race without turning into a Great Train Wreck before the finish line. Plus it was way too early for beer - the race started at 8:10 a.m.

Why 8:10 a.m., you ask? Well, the starting line is right next to the train tracks by the Ypsilanti Farmers Market, and the race officially starts as soon as the 8:10 Amtrak comes barreling past. For a pretty sweet half-minute or so, all the runners run parallel to this massive and thunderous train. It's really cool.

Long story short, I ended up with this kitschy but adorable medal, which the kids are convinced is made of real silver.

I haven't tried to convince them otherwise.

Rock On

Yesterday the kids and I spent the day at Planet Rock, the local rock-climbing gym in Ann Arbor. What a cool experience! I am definitely a rock-climbing newbie, and now, 16 hours later, I have the aching triceps to prove it. And the embarrassing thing is, all this soreness is due to scant little climbing, since my real purpose in being there was mostly just to belay the kids. "Belay" means "to hold" — so my job was basically to stand on the ground with a death-grip on a rope that was keeping my beautiful babies from careening down a 40-foot rock wall to their deaths. No pressure there.

Fortunately, the kids were quite comfortable with all this, especially Maria, who immediately emerged as the knot-tying expert of our little trio. She had learned all about knots earlier this summer while sailing in Maryland. Joe and I happily deferred to her when roping ourselves in. Here's an example of her lovely little figure-8 knot, which became the basis for the tie-on to our harnesses:

And here's my girl, climbing like a monkey:

Joe made quick work of the initial wall. He scampered straight to the top and touched the ceiling.

We'll definitely be going back. I'm already trolling the REI website for harnesses and chalk bags.

Day 7: Bald Mountain Shelter to Sams Gap

Our last day of hiking. Ironically, Rob’s missing knife and toothbrush – which we thought were lost three days ago at Cherry Gap Shelter – both turned up this morning. (For the record, as soon as I get home, I am officially retiring the Family Toothbrush that we’ve been sharing for the last three days.)

Like cows headed to the barn, the boys practically ran up Big Bald Mountain today, knowing that by lunchtime we’d be at Sams Gap, where Tim’s car is parked. Here are the two happy campers on the summit of Big Bald, which unfortunately didn’t afford us quite the 360-degree view that we’d hoped for, because there was an impressively low ceiling of clouds gathering.

We traversed eight mountainous miles in a brisk four hours, finishing up just after 11 a.m. On the last peak before our final descent, the boys stopped to appreciate the sight of clouds and fog swirling in Street Gap, from which we’d just ascended.

The last hour or so of our hike, it rained on and off, but we didn’t care in the least. We were mere miles away from a fresh change of clothes and a vehicle that would take us to food and showers.

Good thing, too, because I was seriously jonesing for a Diet Coke.

Once we piled all our gear and our bad smelly selves into Tim’s car, we drove a few miles to a little roadside gas station, where we changed and cleaned up a bit. And of course I slammed a nice cool 20 ounces of caffeinated, carbonated bliss.

Then it was on to Erwin, where we stopped for lunch. I’ve never in my life seen Tim eat with such gusto. Not only did he put away a hefty portion of spaghetti and garlic bread, he even topped off his meal with chocolate cake.

No, that is not a typo. I really did say cake. Since this was possibly the first time in like twenty-five years that he’s eaten anything that indulgent, I had to take a picture for proof. This is the guy who usually eschews all forms of sweets for earthy-tasting concoctions made out of stuff like millet and wheat berries and flax and whatnot. But for that brief moment, Dr. Dog was all about the chocolate.

He would’ve tossed back a beer, too, but when he asked the waitress what she had on tap, she looked like she might whip out a ruler and rap his knuckles. With a serious, unsmiling expression, she explained that “Perhaps you didn’t know, but this is a dry county, sir.” Ah, the south.

It’s been an amazing week. I feel so blessed. How many people on the planet have two crazy brothers who are willing to hike alongside a Cupcake for 73 miles, up and down mountains, through rain and hail, braving mice, risking coffeepots, and sharing toothbrushes? And not only are we all still on speaking terms, we actually still kinda like each other. Seriously, these guys are a treasure to me. I am lucky to have them.

Day 6: No Business Knob Shelter to Bald Mountain Shelter

Tim was up half the night, going toe-to-toe with the mouse. The mouse didn’t bother me, really – I guess I’ve just accepted mice as one of the inconvenient truths of the AT. There was another kind of interloper invading my space last night, however, that really did some damage. I think a spider took up residence in my sleeping bag, because this morning I had about 25 welt-like bites all over my legs. They have been itching like crazy all day.

We did a go-getting 12.5-mile day today, so we were pretty elated to see this sign, pointing the way to the shelter. Well, it’s either pointing the way to a shelter, or to pi, we weren’t sure.

We’re at Bald Mountain shelter tonight, and I’m kind of sad that it’s our last night on the trail.

There are two other guys here tonight, and one of them has a huge adorable dog named Trekker. He’s about the size of a pony. Here’s a shot of him and our very own Dr. Dog.

The other guy we’re bunking with is probably in his sixties, and kind of chatty. He was interested in the fact that the three of us are siblings, and he wanted to hear all about our family. When he heard that I have a husband and young kids at home, he said “You know, I read about someone similar to you – it was an article in A.T. Journeys maybe a year and a half ago, about a lady who does section hikes on the AT a couple times a year…”

It was kind of fun to tell him that I’m not just similar to the chick he read about – I am her!

Day 5: Curly Maple Gap Shelter to No Business Knob Shelter

Dr. Dog’s knee is still barking up a storm. But at least there doesn’t seem to be any more swelling. (Cupcake’s taking credit for having the foresight to bring a truckload of ibuprofen and Arnica on this trip. I’m just sayin’.) Plus, one of the many cool things about Tim is that he’s definitely the kind of guy who will muscle through just about anything without complaining. Today would’ve been his last opportunity to bail, since the trail crossed a significant road where he could’ve gotten a bunk at a hiker hostel, or hitched a ride into the little trail town of Erwin, Tennessee. But he barely even slowed down at the crossing, pausing only a couple minutes on the Chestoa Bridge to snap a few shots of the Nolichucky River.

Here's a shot of Uncle Johnny’s hostel, which the trail passes just after crossing the Chestoa Bridge.
Tim forged ahead, but Rob and I stopped in to see if Uncle Johnny might sell us a toothbrush to replace the one Rob lost. No luck.

It was quite the kick-butt climb up to Temple Ridge, so Rob and I enjoyed frequent breaks. Check out those silver shins! Whoa. You might need a pair o'sunglasses to gaze on those babies.

After about ninety minutes and nearly as many switch-backs, we had reached the top of Temple Ridge, and this was the view we had of the river. Pretty respectable climb!

We encountered a couple significant blow-downs today – large trees that had fallen right across the trail, completely blocking our passage. One of them required some rather acrobatic maneuvering and bushwhacking to get up and around the obstruction, and I got a nice little gash on my right knee in the process. Joe will be impressed with that, as he thinks it’s cool when his mom comes home from a hiking trip with some war wounds and good stories to go with them.

We’ve got the No Business Knob shelter to ourselves tonight which is kind of nice. This is the kind of shelter where I’m glad to have company, because it’s so high up and remote that it would be a little spooky to be here alone.

And I guess we’re all a little jumpy, because as we were hunkering down for the night, we heard an odd noise that we could’ve sworn was the squealing of a wild boar (those really do exist in this part of the country, and believe it or not, they're believed to be more dangerous than bears because they're quite aggressive). After further investigation, though, we discovered the noise was actually just the echoing of a woodpecker as he was working on a nearby hemlock. Don’t ask me how we could mistake a woodpecker for a pig – I guess our imaginations are just on overdrive. And it’s not because of Rob’s five-dollar scotch, either – that’s been gone for two days now.

Here’s a little family portrait we did tonight after dinner, and you’ll have to excuse my deer-in-the-headlights expression. I think I was just a little distracted because I still had wild boars on my mind. The cool thing about this picture is, the photography was done with the aid of Rob’s trekking pole. Check this out: if you jam the sharp end of his pole into the dirt (so that it stands up by itself), and then unscrew the little knobby handle at the other end, you can actually attach a camera to the screw at the top and use the pole as a monopod! How cool is that?

The other cool photography trick was that we managed to make it look like Rob's pants are on fire.

The big tragedy of the day happened around 6 p.m. when Rob pulled out his espresso maker to brew up a cup, and found that the little bendy thing at the top seems to have broken in transit. Buh-bye, espresso. Rob is beaming smugly, however, over having the foresight to bring a backup coffeepot.

A mouse appeared in the shelter this evening. Might be an eventful night.

Day 4: Cherry Gap Shelter to Curly Maple Gap Shelter

Tim was the first one up and out this morning, around 7 a.m. He wanted to get going early because he knew today would be full of lots of climbing and descending, and he wasn't feeling too spry due to his still-painful knee. Rob and I wished him well and told him we’d catch up. We set out about 20 minutes later.

Being one of the first hikers to pack up and vacate an overfilled shelter – especially when it’s still not fully light outside – is always hard. There’s gear all over the place, and because there are lots of sleeping hikers lying about, you don’t feel good about bumbling around and making a clatter to collect your stuff. Consequently, you’re never quite sure that you really got all your belongings. Case in point: when we finished hiking this afternoon and began inventorying our stuff, Rob realized he’d left behind his toothbrush and one of the several knives he’d brought. (I think he regards knives just like coffeepots – the more, the better.)

The knife he could live without, but the toothbrush? Ah well, good thing we’re family. We shared.

Saw lots of trillium on the trail today. I never tire of looking at these little beauties. They’re just amazing.

The biggest news of the day was that Cupcake had a near-meltdown when it appeared that it might be necessary to launch a search-and-rescue operation on our first big summit of the day, Unaka Mountain.

Here’s how it happened. By 9 a.m., the three of us had gotten considerably far apart from each other – Tim was way out ahead of me due to his early departure from the shelter, and Rob was quite a ways behind me because he preferred to climb at a slower pace. So for a solid couple of hours, I saw neither brother, which at first didn’t bother me at all – I just figured we’d catch up to one another before Indian Grave Gap, a few miles from Unaka’s peak. But after summiting Unaka and descending down the other side for about an hour, I still hadn't seen either of them.

I hiked and hiked and hiked some more, straining my eyes through the heavy fog, thinking Tim had to be just ahead of me. I even yelled out his name a few times. But I didn’t truly start to fret till I began noticing that every twenty or thirty feet I was running into strands of silken spiderwebs stretched across the trail, which meant no one else had passed through that area yet this morning. So if Tim wasn’t ahead of me, where was he? I started to worry that maybe he’d gotten disoriented at the top of Unaka, since the fog was so dense and the trail was easy to lose in the thick stands of red spruce. What if both brothers got turned around up there? What if they were still up there, wandering around and looking for the trail and each other? What if Tim’s knee blew completely out? What if one of them had a heart attack? Or ran into a bear? Or slipped and fell down the side of the gorge? How would I ever find them?

My heart in my throat, I decided I’d better just sit down and wait for a while, in hopes that one of them would arrive and then we could figure out how to find the other. But after a full 30 minutes of waiting, I lived up to my Cupcake moniker and started to well up with tears. I started to consider how I would break it to my sisters-in-law Michelle and Sue that I had lost their husbands in the wilderness of Unaka Mountain.

I couldn’t just sit there and keep waiting; I needed to go back up the mountain and look for them. I dropped my pack on the side of the trail, took my poles with me, and started climbing. After about 20 minutes (which felt like 20 hours), my eyes caught a flash of yellow: Rob’s shirt. With Rob in it. Sashaying leisurely down the mountain, a relaxed grin on his face. I could see he was listening to his Zune – the wires from his earbuds were flopping around as he walked. I think he was humming a blues tune. Not a care in the world.

“I LOST TIM,” I shrieked wildly, my voice cracking and tears flying out the corners of my eyes as I bounded up to him. Rob gave me a big smooch on the cheek and said “No you didn’t – he’s about five minutes behind me.” I dissolved in a heavy sigh of relief for a few seconds before moxying up my sternest Mom voice so that I could give that Timothy a good talking-to. I strained my eyes through the trees to see him, and there he was, still wearing his jaunty little red hat, stepping gingerly down the mountain so as to protect his knee. When he got within earshot, I fired out a dour “WHERE have you BEEN?”

He looked up, seemingly surprised at the severity in my voice. “I, uh, well… I stepped off the trail for a minute,” he said kind of sheepishly. “You know … when nature calls…”

He got two demerits and strict instructions to never just vanish off the trail again without telling someone. You just can’t mess with Cupcake like that.

The rest of the day involved a blur of – yep – climbing and descending. We hiked through quite a few fire-damaged areas, like the ashen hillside shown here. A passing hiker told us that the Pisgah National Forest had attempted to do some controlled burns recently, and things ended up being, well, not-so-controlled. In fact, some of the shelter logbook entries described how hikers had to walk through still-burning patches of trail as recently as a couple weeks ago. The whole area still smells strongly of smoke.

Right in the midst of a big stretch of fire-damaged landscape, we saw our first rhodo-dendron bloom of the week. Even though the plant itself looked like it had suffered irreparably from the heat and smoke, the flower at the top was open and stunning. Somehow there's something significant in that. It made me think about Isaiah 61:1-4, where God talks about exchanging ashes for a "crown of beauty" - in other words, turning really crummy situations into something good.

This is what the blooms look like just prior to opening up.

Tonight we’re at Curly Maple Gap Shelter, and there are three other hikers staying with us, all around 60. One of them is a dead ringer for Dustin Hoffman, and he’s kept us quite entertained all evening. He was quite impressed at my bear-bagging skills when it came time to hang the food this evening.

We’re thankful that there’s a clean, sparkling spring just a stone’s throw from tonight’s shelter. The last couple of nights, the water source has been kind of far off - and it’s quite a kick in the pants to hike yourself into a stupor all day, then finally collapse at a shelter, only to find that you have another significant distance to go for water.

Oh and check this out: at the little creek by our shelter tonight, some inventive person has fashioned a spout out of a rhododendron leaf and a string of dental floss, so that it’s easier to harvest the water. (Click on the photo to get a closer view.) Aren’t hikers cool?

Day 3: Clyde Smith Shelter to Cherry Gap Shelter

Just a nine-mile day, but wow is Tim’s knee taking a beating. He’s self-diagnosed it as some form of tendonitis. On Rob’s suggestion, he started out this morning with his knee tightly – and I do mean tightly – wrapped in an ace bandage. And just under the bandage, he cleverly slipped a smooth stone right where the problem seemed to be the worst – the idea being that the stone would put pressure on the offending tendon and keep it from flopping around like an overstretched rubber band. To we three non-medical people, all this seemed like a good idea at the time.

Had a great view from Little Rock Knob, which is where I snapped this shot of Tim. He looks grateful to be sitting down for a moment, no?

About six miles into our hike, we were all getting pretty warm, so we stopped to remove our zip-off pant legs. As Tim examined his gimpy knee, I heard him say, “Uh, I think I’ve got a problem.” I took a look and was more than a little alarmed to see that his shin and calf – that whole area just below the ace bandage and just above the cuff of his sock – had swollen to about twice the normal size. “Dude, looks like you grew a whole new muscle,” Rob said helpfully.

I tried not to be too obvious about it, but I was really worried about Tim's leg. Where was all that swelling coming from? And the bigger question: would it go back down? Not much we could do about it at that moment, however, being several miles from anywhere. So after ruling out the possibility of amputation, we decided to just remove the bandage, rumple Tim’s sock down all the way to his ankle (because then the cuff wouldn’t be so tight around the swollen part), and hope for the best. I also mommed him into taking a megadose of ibuprofen, topped off with a few beads of Arnica Montana. Hey, call it hippie-freak-voodoo medicine if you want, but I think the Arnica was the magic bullet.

A few miles later, when we got to the shelter, he propped his legs up for a while and by bedtime you could hardly tell the swollen knee from the non-swollen one. Reminding him that Cupcake knows best, I made him pinky-swear to not only discontinue the tourniquet-style ace bandages, but also to maintain a steady diet of the ibuprofen/Arnica cocktail. He put the ibuprofen bottle and the tube of Arnica in his shirt pocket.

We were lucky to get to the shelter when we did, because not five minutes after we landed, we experienced more hail – not once, not twice, but three significant stormy downpours. Each wave of the storm was spectacularly loud, on account of the shelter’s metal roof. Over the next couple hours we made room for several more hikers, each of whom had been caught in the hail and arrived covered in icy droplets. Before long we had eight hikers plus a cute little dog named Hank, all crammed into a shelter that supposedly has the capacity of six. And still more people kept coming, huddling under the scant overhang of the roof till the precipitation stopped.

Once the skies dried up at about 6 p.m., all of the overflow people began setting up their tents in the flat areas surrounding the shelter. Within an hour the placed looked like a KOA, with wet gear and clothes hanging from any tree with branches low enough to reach. I counted 10 tents in our line of sight.

The last to arrive in our little makeshift village were a couple of cranky older ladies (yes, you find those even on the AT). They were quite put-out that there wasn’t an inch of room left in the shelter.

Now, before you start thinking that I’m a self-important Gen-X’er with a princess complex and no regard for my elders, let me clarify something. I was totally ready to jump up and give them our spot in the shelter – I even started gathering up my stuff and trying to remember which of us were carrying which pieces of the tent, so that we could mobilize and do a quick set-up. HOWEVAH… as the two ladies approached the shelter, all you could hear was their snarking and complaining,

“Too many damn people on this trail …"
“Yeah, and I see there’s a mangy little dog in that shelter …” (For the record, dear reader, the photo below is evidence that Hank the dog was about as tidy and cute as they come. And clearly too tired to be a nuisance to anyone.)
“Guess we’ve been displaced by a stupid little mutt … “
“You’d think all these damn kids would show a little respect … they’re less than half our age.”

That last comment got Rob’s attention, since he happens to be 55.

“Wow,” he replied, “you two look pretty good for 110.”

I don’t know how old they really were, but they looked to be maybe 70, tops. And we all silently decided they were plenty spry enough to set up their own tent.

So none of us in the shelter had much of a problem with staying put and allowing the old biddies to make their way past the shelter and on to a tent site. An entitlement mindset is such a disagreeable thing, at any age. Hey ladies, this is the AT. You get what you get.

I think Rob’s five-dollar bottle of scotch is starting to taste better. Toward nightfall, it again made the rounds in the shelter as we all tried to shake the chill of the damp evening air.

Day 2: Roan Mountain Shelter to Clyde Smith Shelter

It was so dang cold this morning that even though we were wide awake by 6, none of us could bear the thought of emerging from our sleeping bags till almost 10 a.m. That’s a new record for me – I don’t think I’ve ever lolled about so late in the morning on a backpacking trip. It felt downright indulgent. I was about to ask if someone could pass me some bonbons, when Rob and Tim finally dragged themselves outside to fire up the isobutane: it was time for their brew-ha-ha.

Here’s Tim in front of Roan Mountain Shelter, hunting for the java.

And while we’re on the subject of coffee, would you believe Rob brought not one but two coffee pots? The man needs options. In this case, a French press and an espresso maker. The French press is definitely second string, though – to be used only if the espresso maker gives up the ghost.

Here are the two back-country baristas, paying homage to the magical font.

After the boys had tanked up on the requisite amount of caffeine, we packed our things and got a move-on. We took our time noticing cool things like this amazing tree, which somehow still clung to life despite the fact that a person could pass right through its middle. It was a good day to dawdle a little, since today is our shortest-mileage day – just a seven-mile hike to Clyde Smith Shelter. All very fortunate, because Tim’s right knee has started giving him a fair amount of pain, especially on the descents. He’s a powerhouse when we’re climbing uphill, but put him on a downward slope and he slows to a crawl. Tonight he’s working on fashioning a second trekking pole out of a sturdy branch. He already had one hiking stick, which he picked up from the side of the trail early in the day yesterday, but his bossy sister told him he’d be much better off with two, especially when trying to negotiate a steep downhill grade.

As you can see from the picture, he’s either really determined to get it just right, or he’s silently cursing the day he decided to let me talk him into backpacking. (Click on it for a closer view of that furrowed brow - if I didn't know better, I might think it's a picture of our dad.)



We’re thankful that today ended up being totally rain-free and sunny, which meant that all our stuff that got soaked in yesterday’s hail-ish rain had a chance to dry out. In fact, by late afternoon it got downright steamy, and Tim and Rob started disrobing, which prompted some bawdy talk about how we might’ve just created the hiker version of Manhattan’s Naked Cowboy. Fortunately, though, there were no sightings of tighty whities. I’m all about being close to the earth and all, but you gotta draw the line somewhere.

We met a thru-hiker today who tortures - I mean entertains - other hikers by telling riddles. Really hard, complicated, annoying ones. The kind that aren't really designed to be solved by non-Mensa types. Especially non-Mensa types whose brains have turned mushy after a physically and mentally draining day of beating oneself to a pulp by hiking over miles of mountains. So if any of you reading this might know how five hooks and a broken matchstick, all found in an otherwise empty room with a dead man, could have resulted in the man's death, Rob and Tim and I would be most grateful if you'd email one of us.

I realized yesterday that I’d forgotten to ’splain to the boys the phenomenon of trail names. We met another hiker who introduced himself as "Medium Rare," and this quite perplexed my brothers. Rob tilted his head slightly to one side, raised one eyebrow, and studied the guy for a second. I think he was trying to decide whether to beat him up or just back away slowly. See, many section hikers, and almost all thru-hikers, assume some sort of colorful or symbolic nickname that they use during their hike. Some of the trail names I’ve heard on this trip include Mr. Cowpie, Twisted Sister, Storyteller, Wingfoot, Privy Monster, Prometheus, El Jefe, Kerosene, Black Cloud, Bear Bait, and Captain Jack. Sometimes people come up with their own trail names, and sometimes the names are sort of conferred on them by other hikers. People typically use their trail names when signing the shelter logbooks, and even when talking with or about one another – in fact, it’s common for people to hike alongside each other for days or weeks or even months and never know each other’s real names. (I know. Weird.)

It’s something I’ve never gotten into, so before this hike I didn’t have a trail name. But the tradition quite intrigued Rob, and he decided “Silver Shins” would be a particularly fitting name for himself, due to the fact that his Michigan legs are blinding white. For Tim, we decided on the name “Dr. Dog,” because not only does he love dogs, but his zillions of hours spent volunteering as a dog trainer for the Humane Society have turned him into an amazing expert in animal behavior. And it shows when he encounters dogs on the trail – every pooch we’ve seen out here really responds to Tim.

And me? Well, Silver Shins and Dr. Dog have decided that “Cupcake” is a fitting trail name. Why? Maybe it's just a funny bit of irony, since I actually aspire to be sort of an anti-cupcake. Or maybe it's because there’s no changing the fact that I’m still the baby sister (even though they both know I can kick their arses on this trail). Or maybe it’s just because I’m so sweet.

Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

Day 1: US19E to Roan Mountain Shelter

After hiking nearly 16 miles and gaining 3,380 feet of elevation, with two hours of rain and a hailstorm thrown in for good measure, we’re finally done for the day.

It was a very punishing 10-hour climb, which started out under overcast skies. We summitted a couple of peaks, including one called Jane Bald, where I snapped this photo to send to our cousin Jane in England – she’ll get a kick out of that.

Jane Bald is also where I risked a limb to keep from bruising the only piece of fresh produce I brought with me: a small red apple. We had stopped to catch our breath at a little rocky outcrop on the summit, and I set my apple and my trekking poles on a boulder. As I started to writhe my way out of the shoulder straps of my backpack, out of the corner of my eye I saw the apple teetering off the rock and threatening to skitter down the slope. I leapt to catch it, slipped on a loose rock, and bloodied my elbow against the rough edge of a boulder. Now that smarts. I lost about a four-inch patch of skin. But hey, I didn’t bruise the apple.

As we continued from Jane Bald on to Roan Mountain, the temperature dropped, the skies turned dark, and it started to rain – and then, mercilessly, during our last hour of hiking, the rain turned to hail. It was quite a sight, hiking behind Tim and watching marble-sized balls of ice bouncing off of him and his backpack. As Rob aptly put it, “Um, I don’t think this was in the brochure.”

We made it to the Roan Mountain shelter a little after 6 p.m., soaked and frigid. At 6,275 feet, this is the highest shelter on the whole AT. In a previous life, it was a firewarden’s cabin, and might I just add that we’re darn lucky that it has four walls and a door that closes? (Most shelters have only three walls and a roof, with the fourth side totally open to the wind.) But lest you think we’re reclining in luxury, I need to clarify that we're sleeping on a dusty wooden floor with five other hikers and evidence of mice, and even with all these bodies inside the shelter, it’s a nippy 40 degrees inside (according to a fellow hiker’s clip-on thermometer) and we can see our breath. Never mind what the temperature might be outside, where the wind is howling and rain is still coming down in sheets. Some things, it’s just better not to know.

To warm our insides a bit, Rob passed around a small bottle of liquid fire masquerading as scotch – I think the price tag on the bottle said something like $4.99. Because he’s just classy like that.

I gotta admit, I’m questioning how well the synapses were firing last week when I decided on bringing my new ultralight Mountain Hardwear sleeping bag on this trip. It’s rated for a balmy 45 degrees or above. At the time, I was all starry-eyed about the fact that it weighs a mere 12 ounces – which explains why it has about as much warmth as a swatch of burlap. I’m currently cocooned in said sleeping bag, along with three layers of clothes, a pair of fleece gloves, and earmuffs.

And I’m still shivering like an Aspen in a windstorm.

Embarking Upon Seven Days With My Brothers

Tomorrow begins seven days with my brothers. And this is no spinoff of some smarmy Nicholas Sparks chick lit – this is the real deal. First thing in the morning, Tim and Rob and I will set foot into the woods to cover 70-some miles on the Appalachian Trail.

When I put the plans together for this hike, I assumed I’d be going it alone. After all, people don’t usually line up and beat my door down to accompany me on these things. But in early February, I was talking with Tim about the Meredith Emerson tragedy, and that seemed to spin my twice-annual Appalachian Trail experience in a different light. Tim is a serious, contemplative type, and I think Meredith’s death raised some concerns about his darling baby sister (yes, that’s me, and quit laughing). So I told him maybe he ought to come with me as my bodyguard.

I was really just joking and he knew it – I mean, he’d never been on a long-distance hike before, and I sure as Sheol don’t consider myself in need of a bodyguard. But the more we talked, the more it seemed like a fun opportunity for both of us. We come from a tribe of 10 siblings, where the decibel level at family gatherings rivals that of a Guess Who concert, so the idea of a little quality time in a peaceful setting seemed kind of appealing. I found myself twisting his arm a bit, cajoling him into the idea of coming along. In typical Tim style – temperate, deliberate, reserved – he said he’d think about it.

Rob, on the other hand — the bodacious and wild-eyed firstborn — needed no cajoling. When he heard I’d planned a trip for mid-May – just two weeks after he was scheduled to retire from Ford Motor Company – he was ready to sign on the dotted line. It also helps that he’s a seasoned hiker who’s done quite a bit of backpacking with his wife Sue, not only in Michigan but also out west. What better way to launch into his retirement than a wicked-cool backpacking trip?

Here’s a shot of Rob and me in March, after spending a giddy 60 minutes poring over topo maps and the AT data book in preparation for our trip.

By early April, we hadn’t heard a definitive yes from Tim, so it was looking like he’d probably opt out. Then, out of the blue, I got a two-line email message: “I’ve decided to go on the backpacking trip. Just wanted you to know so you could plan on me.” After several practice hikes with a 40-pound bag of kitty litter in his backpack, and a few excursions to my favorite store, he was good to go.

Here’s a shot I snapped of him earlier today in his bossy new trail hat. Isn’t he the nattiest thing this side of Roan Mountain?

So we got a crazy-early start this morning, tackling the 10-hour drive from Michigan to Sams Gap, where we parked Tim’s car at the trailhead parking area for the week. (By the way, no, I didn't forget the apostrophe in "Sams Gap"; all of the maps and data books express it without one. And yes, being a technical writer, that drives me nuts.)

A softspoken man named Terry Hill picked us up at Sams Gap and shuttled us to Mountain Harbour, a little place he owns with his wife Mary. It’s just a third of a mile from the AT trailhead at US-19E, and they offer both a hiker hostel and a bed-and-breakfast.

It was a long 90-minute shuttle ride over and around the mountains. Tim and I sat in the back seat of the pickup, and I could hear Rob up front, chatting away to Terry. At one point, I heard Terry ask Rob politely, “So what do the three of you do for a living?” Rob explained that he was newly retired, and that Tim works for Ford. And then he said very matter-of-factly, with the most deadpan expression, “And my sister Jeanie – well, she won the lottery awhile back, so she doesn’t really need to work, but she does exotic dancing on the weekends for fun.” I know. That’s just the kind of sense of humor Rob has. Poor Terry just stared straight ahead at the road in front of him.

When we arrived at Mountain Harbour, the boys began bee-lining it up to the main building, a very pretty Cape-Cod-style home where the bed-and-breakfast guests stay. I had to redirect them. “Um, guys, we’re not staying up there. That’s the b&b. Our bunks are in the hostel.” I nodded toward the much humbler-looking outbuilding, a rustic barn with steps leading up to a loft. Some goats were running around, chasing each other in and out of the barn door.

Tim looked at me quizzically and blinked, not sure if I was joking.

“Really? With the goats?”

“Um, yeah.”

Actually, we weren’t really with the goats – we were above them. In the loft. And it was much nicer than you might think. Running water, a little kitchen, and comfy bunks.

Rob even managed to find a guitar leaning in the corner, to which he helped himself.

Like the shelters along the trail, this hostel has a little journal in which sojourners often jot a line or two during their stay. Tim’s entry from the following morning is shown here, right below an entry written by a guy named Murphy, whom we met at the hostel.

Murphy’s a very friendly sort and is finishing up a thru-hike that he started last year. He explained to us that he intended to hike the whole trail in 2007 but had to stop about two-thirds of the way through because he kept falling and injuring himself. We thought at first that he must be extraordinarily clumsy – I mean, even in sections where the trail is hard, it’s rare for a typical hiker to fall (I’ve only taken a bad spill once in the last seven section-hikes). But later, when we saw Murphy walking around in shorts, we realized he isn’t a typical hiker. The man has two prosthetic legs. Incredible. What an amazing guy.

I am really antsy to get hiking. I cannot wait to put my feet on that trail tomorrow.