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.
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