Long Trail 1991: Starting Out

 

On this date in 1991 long-time hiking partner Gary Winter and I began walking south from the Vermont-Canada border on the Long Trail. This was the first-ever truly long-distance hike for either of us although been out for up to a week and 75 miles on previous hikes in Arizona, Utah and Idaho. This time the hike was 24 days and 270 miles.  We had a plan and a ridiculously heavy packs.  Both changed considerably in the during the coming weeks.

From my August 2 journal:

We started walking today. Came in almost 10 miles from Journey's End Camp. The trail is brushy and overgrown in places.  Not hard to follow but hard walking in places. We had several steep climbs. Footing is also tricky with lots of rocks and roots to catch us unaware. Got a few views of the countryside but we were mostly in "the green tunnel" as Gary calls it. The trail passes through very green and thickly wooded forest with sight distance very limited. We got a glimpse of Canada at the before heading south. Canada looks very much like Vermont: leaves, bark and rock as far as we can see. The forest seems to cling together; roots holding soil holing rock, covered with moss. A few trees here and there are already turning color. Birch trees are common, their bark peeling off in parchment like sheets.

We are camped tonight at Laura Woodward shelter after about a seven and a half hour hike in. The shelter is an open front log structure with a view of Jay Peak and its bunker-like ski building. But mostly the view is trees. We had a pretty ride up from Montpelier, passing through small towns and farm land. Our driver, Rolf Anderson gave us a running commentary about the mountains and local history as we headed north. We stopped for coffee in Morrisville where Rolf amazed us by leaving the keys to his truck in the ignition--definitely not in Phoenix anymore. After coffee, we followed the 43rd Infantry Division Memorial Highway to North Troy. Each passing mile made me more aware of what we were doing: heading into some of the northeast's most remote forest for an extended trip during which will be on our own.

From the trail journals:

September 7-14, 1985.   Applachian Trail.  White Moutains, NH.  A midnight flight out of Phoenix brings three sleepy Arizonans—Colleen Hilber, Greg Schulke and me—to Boston to tackle about 50 miles of the Appalachian Trail in New Hampshire. Bev Wilson suggested this trip during last year’s Sawtooth Wilderness hike in Idaho trip and here we are doing it. Bev is waiting for us at the airport, having arrived just ahead of us. We spill out across the baggage area and rig our packs. Dan, a friend from Boston, takes our end of trail gear and wishes us happy trails. We head north and meet two of Bev's friends, Joanne and Marsha, at the NH border. The drive to the trailhead is longer than we anticipated. Bev and I shuttle the rental car to our take out point at Glencliff. We stop in the town to buy some fruit. The store has a soda fountain which means: end of trail milkshake! By the time we return to Crawford Notch, it's well past dark. The rest of the group has set up camp and has dinner ready. It's OK with me even if we are starting out behind schedule.

 

Starting Out

Sunday morning is bright and sunny. We confidently pose for group photos at the Crawford Notch Trailhead and step out. Joanne and Marsha hike with us for a few miles before heading back. Lunch at Ethan Pond Shelter. Greg's hip belt is rubbing him badly so he cuts a chunk of his sleeping pad, lacing it into his belt for extra protection. Necessity is the mother of invention. The trail becomes steep and rocky--hard going. The forest is pretty; some trees are beginning to turn color. Many small intimate scenes delight the eye: moss covered rock, highlights of leaves and ferns along the trail. As the day wears on we slowly become aware that we may be hiking until well after dark. We break at Zeeland Falls Hut and clamber on to the falls to view Zeeland Notch, a huge glacial cut in the granite mountains. Returning to the trail, we climb to Zeeland Ridge with its grand views of a gentle valley backed by gentle green slopes. Late afternoon light accentuates their many folds and peaks. We watch the sunset from Mt Guyot. The sky is a deep, intense red band sandwiched between ridgeline and low clouds. The sunset seemingly goes on forever. We finally reach the side trail to Guyot Camp and wearily stumble down. Today has been a long 12 mile day over challenging trail. Welcome to New Hampshire.

Monday morning is slow. We're in no hurry to get out of camp. We eat a leisurely breakfast and chat with the camp caretaker. She tells us that we may encounter orientation groups from Dartmouth College along the trail this week. Guyot Camp is a series of wooden platforms located adjacent to a spring. Without the platforms there would be no place to camp on the steep rocky slope. We leave camp refreshed and ready for the day's walk. We climb back to Guyot summit to pick up the AT. Actually, we are walking on the Twinway Trail today which serves as the route for the AT in this section of the White Mountains. The trails in this area predate the AT and the locals are obviously reluctant to subsume their heritage to some latter day concept. The sky is cloudy. Rain is in the forecast but our spirits are high as we head toward Garfield Campsite. We stop at Galehead Hut and buy extra trail munchies. The hut is inviting, I am tempted to blow off the hike and just hang out. The temptation passes and we push on. Vegetation is sparse on the crest—stunted pines cling to small patches of soil where they can. Many have blown over, victims of strong winds and a tenuous foothold. We make Garfield Campsite in time to claim the shelter. It's a spacious affair, enclosed on four sides with an open entryway. A good port in case it rains tonight. Greg returns from the privy to report that it has toilet paper. We have time to clean up and eat a relaxed dinner. Colleen serves wine. A hiker from Boston joins us. 

 

On South Twin Mountain

Rain falls during the night. Soft rain tapping against the shelter. Very pleasant and so unlike the violent rain I have come to know in Arizona. We awake to fog. No one really wants to roll out of their warm sleeping bags. But we do and begin the day's adventure. Today we are on the Garfield Ridge Trail which follows what will be the high point (literally) of our hike. We pass through an Alpine Zone at 5000 feet--dwarf plants and lichens clinging to shallow, rocky soil. It's a tough place to make a living. We climb the ridge, expecting each knob to be Mt. Lafayette Peak. Heavy fog limits our view and we are surprised over and over as we continue to climb after leaving each knob. Finally, a massive rock cairn tells us this is it. Out come the cameras for a series of documentary photos. We can hear the whine of traffic in Franconia Notch 4000 feet below us. The day is spectacular despite the absence of the grand view we would otherwise have. We enjoy the sparkle of water on leaves and blades of grass and see the looming silhouettes of knobs looming just ahead. We follow the trail from Mt. Lafayette to Mt Lincoln to Little Haystack before dropping steeply down the side of the ridge to Liberty Tentsite. Our two identical dome tents packed together on the platform look like some giant ladybug species about to mate. We cook dinner under a poncho strung between the tents. We're the only ones here tonight besides the caretaker. He says more rain is on the way. We don't care. We're having fun. The outhouse has toilet paper.

The night is punctuated with heavy rain and gusting winds, a wild night on the side of the mountain. The poncho collects water until the growing weight causes it to spill with a loud "sploosh!". The tent flexes violently in the wind, pushing down toward us and springing back. We are warm and dry inside. That's all that matters. Morning at Liberty is wet. The rain has stopped but mist hangs in the trees and the platform is slick with water and last night's mud. Breakfast is in bed as we reach out to boil water for coffee and cereal. We pack up wet and suit up in our rain gear for another wet day. The trail continues steeply down to Franconia Notch. Sun is poking through the clouds but not enough to convince us to bag the rain gear. We pick our way across the mud of the highway construction in the notch before heading up toward Kinsman Ridge. The day clears up so we finally emerge from our Gore-Tex cocoons. Feels good to be walking free. The day is cool with sunlight filtering through the trees. The rain and wind blew many early changing leaves off the trees, they make a colorful and sometimes slick carpet along our route. At Lonesome Lake Hut, we pull in for a coffee break and to buy more trail candies. Between the campsite fees and our constant resuppling at the huts, this trip is expensive. But it's so very civilized. I savor the relaxation, sipping my coffee while overlooking the lake. The hut is seductive but we push ourselves on to the Fishin' Jimmy Trail for the final climb to Kinsman Shelter.

The climb is steep, with some knee-to-jaw scrambling. As I pick my way up one ledge I look up and am startled to see a Black man standing on the next step. Before I can say anything he says in a very proper British-Caribbean accent, "I will stand aside. We in the Appalachian Trail community give the right of way to the climbing party." I scramble my way up and he introduces himself, "I am The Great Appalachian Athlete. Perhaps you have heard of me." I stammer, "Um... no. But I just got here from Arizona." The Great Appalachian Athlete is a sight to behold. He is wearing baggy red running shorts over long johns. His glasses are taped together. Plastic water jugs adorn his pack and a yellow plastic bag of fruit hangs from his sternum strap. He looks outlandish but his gear is serious. He tells me that he just finished cleaning up Kinsman Shelter after a night of partying by some hikers and advises that we sleep on the left side since the roof leaks on the other side. He warns me that the resident mice are agressive. I thank him and continue on but not before I hear him introducing himself to Greg who is coming up behind me. That night Bev tells us that she met him earlier this year in southwest Virginia. She thinks he is a Jamaican doctor.

Kinsman Shelter is a bit dilapidated but looks fine to these weary hikers. No toilet paper in the privy, though. We claim the left side and hang out our tents in the vain hope that the remaining sunlight will dry them. The shelter sits on the east side of Kinsman Pond with the entry facing away from the water. Too bad because the view across the pond to Kinsman Mt is impressive. The mountain looms over the lake and seems to dare us to challenge it. Northbound hikers have warned us about Kinsman. "Steep”, “rocky” and “rough" are the common descriptions. Right now it's just there, looking gorgeous with its silhouette lit by the day's last light. Tomorrow is plenty of time to worry about climbing it. The night is cold. I crawl into my bag wearing full winter gear, hoping it will be enough. Our packs, with all pockets and compartments open so the mice won't have to chew their way in, serve as our headboards. We hung our food under the shelter's eaves. Not particularly mouse proof but at least not readily accessible either. During the night I step outside to relieve myself. I revel at the star filled sky, a good omen for tomorrow. I shine my light on the food bags. A mouse tightrope walks across the line toward them and freezes in the light.

My star filled night sky gives way to a foggy morning. Kinsman Mt is no longer visible but we know it's there and start out with determination. The climb is indeed a scramble, long slabs of slick granite interspersed with rocky trail. Roots, trees, and cracks offer hand and foot holds. We reach North Kisman and fight our way through brush to the South Peak. The fog lifts during our climb so we are treated to some great views. Franconia Ridge dominates the eastern horizon, and I feel excited about having walked its knobby back. The countryside to the north consists of low rolling ridges, misty and gray on this wet day. And we can see Mt Moosilauke, our last peak on this amazing hike. The sky is dark and North Kinsman behind us is almost black. The trail across the ridge is brushy and slow going. For us, at least. Three Guys from New Jersey bolt past us like gazelles. We'd be left in their dust except that it's too wet. Picking our way down from the peak is especially difficult, all the more so because rain has started again, mixed with occasional snow flurries.

 

Scrambling Down South Kinsman Peak

Once off the peak, walking is a bit easier. Rain is falling hard now but the forest canopy breaks it into a gentle downpour. We are following Eliza Brook Trail now. It cascades down a long, steep drainage and over many waterfalls, some more than 25 feet. The forest is lush and green. We reach Eliza Brook Shelter but it's full so we pitch our tents nearby. I am in reflective mood after five days on the trail. Looking back, I marvel at the adventures and experiences that have been this trip. Names, places, sights and sounds reel through my head--Zeeland, Guyot, Garfield, Franconia, Kinsman, caretakers, northbound through hikers, rushing water, camp stories. I have reached Long Trip Nirvana. All I am is right here with me on the trail. The rest of the world has ceased to exist. Bev, Colleen, Greg and the trail are all that I need or want right now. And I still have two more days to go!

Today--Friday, I think--is foggy and damp. We are still on Kinsman Ridge, climbing to Mt. Wolf. The fog gives the trail an otherworldly look and feel, cutting us off from the larger world, leaving us alone with our thoughts. We've been hiking for days now and the routine is comfortably familiar. Walk, eat, walk, eat, walk, camp, eat, sleep. I no longer have to think too much about the physical effort needed to move forward; my body just knows what to do and I am along for the ride. Colleen's hip belt rips loose from her pack frame. I repair it using the awl from my Swiss Army knife (for the first time) and bootlace from my collection (a habit from days in ‘Nam) and we are on our way. The day clears up somewhat during the afternoon. We reach the end of Kinsman Ridge and catch a few glimpses of Mt Moosilauke through the trees. But Moosilauke is for tomorrow. First comes the steep drop into Kinsman Notch and camp at the Lost River Shelter. I hesitate before starting down, not quite ready to enter the last leg of this trip.

The descent is quick. We cross the Lost River Road and disappear into the woods. The shelter is not far from the road and is in marginal condition. The Three Guys From New Jersey are in the shelter ahead of us so we find a good tent site along Beaver Brook behind the shelter. No toilet paper in the outhouse but it hexagonal design is interesting. Bev washes her hair using cold water from the stream. The rest of us settle for rinsing off obvious dirt with our bandanas. We cook our last dinner on the trail and wander down to the shelter to talk with the Three Guys From New Jersey. They arrived early enough to shuttle a car to Glencliff and buy steaks and beer. We join them for a beer and compare experiences. Only two of them live in New Jersey now; the other moved to Maine. The oldest is near 60 and is close to finishing the entire AT, segment by segment. I hope I am in as good shape as he is at that age. The youngest is in his mid 30's. They hiked Mahoosic Notch in Maine and had sufficient time to do this segment as well. Talking with them gives us the idea of climbing Moosilauke without packs. We can stash all but one pack in the woods and retrieve them on our way out after we reach the car. One pack with a day's supplies will serve us all and we can trade off carrying it. What a great idea. We crawl into the tents under a starry sky, excited and sad about coming off the trail tomorrow.

Our last day begins like so many others--fog. We are pretty much indifferent to it at this point. We will enjoy ourselves whatever the weather. I am carrying the pack for the first leg of the day's hike. Compared to the beast that I have shouldered for the past week, this feels like nothing. The trail climbs sharply, following Beaver Brook up Moosilauke's eastern flank. The trail work in this area is particularly impressive, especially the wooden timbers anchored firmly into what would be otherwise difficult to scale slabs of open rock. I hand off the pack about halfway up and feel like I am floating--how wonderful to be walking unencumbered on this damp New Hampshire morning. Once on the ridge the trail levels out, passing through saddle before a gently ascending to the peak. The fog lifts occasionally, sunlight streams through the break and we catch views of the area. Now we are on the summit, an alpine zone much like Franconia Ridge. The wind is screaming past us and is very cold. We find shelter among the rocks. Out of the wind, the day is quite pleasant. As we eat, the fog lifts completely--swept away by the wind. The summit is awash in sunlight. Now we can see forever and trace our progress for the past several days across the ridges in view. We laugh and giggle like kids newly released from school and pose for a series of photos at the sign marking the summit. 

Moosilauke Summit

Other hikers are also on the mountain but we are far removed from them by our week long hike. Reluctantly, we begin our final descent. We cross the saddle to South Peak where the trail begins to drop. It is rocky and open but easy going. I turn around and look at the summit occasionally until it disappears from view as we re-enter the forest. A group of Dartmouth students rests along the trail as we pass, their faces showing the weariness of unacclimated hikers. Most look like they would rather be anywhere else. I, on the other hand, cannot think of any better place. 

 

Descending From Moosilauke

After a sharp drop from the peaks, the descent becomes more gradual. I notice how much fall has advanced during our week on the trail. Full fall spendor is still a week or two away but the occasional colorful trees have multiplied. The trail follows what appears to be an old road, wide, clear and canopied. The trail is the most gentle of the trip and sunlight streams through the trees, reminders that New Hampshire hiking can be other than rock, rain and fog. I have never felt stronger than I do at this moment--I could continue walking forever along this lushly wooded lane, watching yellow and red leaves drift by in the wind. The forest smells fresh and clean (even if I don't). I don't want this to end. A gate allows us to enter the pasture adjacent to the Sanitorium Road where we left the car. I see the car and the cemetery beyond. A moose wanders nonchalantly among the gravestones. He turns his head toward us as we approach and disappears into the woodline in a few short bounds.

Trail's End (for Us)

We find the store in Glencliff with the soda fountain. Greg orders a chocolate shake. The proprieter asks in a flinty Hampshire accent, "You want ice cream in that?" Greg, surprised, answers yes and the man replies, "Then what you want is a frappe." So we all order frappes. They are okay. Not high on my life list of perfect shakes but right tasty after a week of gorp, pasta, and freeze dry. We retrieve our packs at Lost River and shower at Franconia Notch State Park.

Next comes pizza, lots of it. Greg returns from the rest room to report that it has toilet paper. The drive back to Boston is long and we lurch through urban freeway construction in the dark, making our way to Dan's late in the evening. We are still high from the hike and probably will be for a long time to come. Greg returns from the bathroom and notes the presence of toilet paper. Dan and his wife exchange puzzled looks.

Trail Journal: 08.19.02

 On the Appalachian Trail in Vermont.  

Walked. 16.3 miles to White River today.  Only planned to go 14 miles but circumstances combined to make the longer distance a good idea.  We ended the day with cheeseburgers, milkshakes and a swim in the river.  Now we are camped in Randy and Linda Hart's side yard--first time I've actually camped in someone's yard, although a few previous camps felt like it.  Walking was good today.  We passed through beautiful forests in exquisite light.  This morning as we climbed a steep ridge the sunlight angled through the leaves with a soft glow.  Late afternoon rays of light sparkled against a lush green background.  The day was not easy--we did a fair amount of climbing--but not as bad as yesterday.  Weather was cooler and dryer.   For once I could walk across an open meadow without cringing at he heat.  We are definitely moving slower--1.55 miles per hour--but we are still making our way north.

The Zion Death March

June 27-30/85. Zion National Park, Utah.

A challenging four-day loop in Zion National Park, that’s what we planned. A challenging loop with a near fatal fall for me, borderline hypothermia and sheer exhaustion for us all is what we got. We ended alive and thankful, all too aware of what a close call it was. The years since have not diminished that memory.

Setting out on a pretty summer Thursday in late June 1985, Randy, Greg, Gary and I are prepared to scramble and even swim part of our route down a Kolob Canyon, a narrow side canyon that feeds into the South Fork of the Virgin River. Then follow the river through The Narrows to the main park road. About 25 miles total, all sheer-walled narrow canyon. No place to be during thunderstorms or high water. That’s why we’re here in June; water is lowest and chance of thunderstorms is low. Most people hike the Zion Narrows via a more accessible route from the east. We are taking the route less traveled. We’ve been hiking Arizona and the southwest together for the past few years as members of the Central Arizona Backpackers Association and know each other’s capability well. We’re pretty confident that we’re ready for this trip.

The first day’s walk is nothing surprising for anyone who’s hiked in canyon country. We follow the West Rim trail straight up a thousand feet from the Virgin River. The climb is steep, offering ever more grand views into the dark and deep narrow gorge we will exit three days from now. A side trail takes us out to Angel's Landing, an isolated knob high above the river. The trail is a knife edge with a chain railing that provides welcome support for me. The drop off on either side is precipitous and long. At the landing I can peer straight down at the river far below. Back on the West Rim Trail, we are actually on pavement for the first two miles--the ultimate tourist trail. A ranger passes by on a three wheeler. Vistas from the rim are grand: intriguing and unusually shaped rock stretches off to the horizon. We camp early after a 12 mile day.

Friday begins in the wonderful coolness of early morning but turns tricky early on. We can’t find the route into Kolob Canyon. The ranger at the station above the canyon isn’t much help. That’s typical of the Park Service response to our inquiries on this trip. The rangers at the Backcountry Office were also unhelpful. They told us only that hiking in Kolob Canyon is not recommended and take 75 feet of rope if you go. We have the rope. The rangers had no information about water levels but we know from the route description that water is lowest in late June. We think know the score.

Using dead reckoning, map, compass and, we drop into one drainage and thrash our way through brush to a 100 foot sheer drop. It looks climbable but we rope up to be safe. One by one we climb down to a ledge on belay. Off belay, Gary finds a route to a flat area without rope. I follow but pick a slightly different route that looks a bit easier. I edge my way cautiously down. My toehold breaks. I slide down the rock wall, digging with my hands trying to slow my fall. I don't slow. The canyon edge looms ahead. I drop over the edge with a panicked, “Oh shit!” And just when I know that I am about to die, I land on brush and timber wedged into a narrow defile a few feet below the rim. Rock and debris continue to fall into the canyon as I scramble off the brush to a rock a ledge. I am terrified. Fuck. I should be dead or maimed now.

Gary is first to the rim to see what became of me. I tell him that I’m okay but don’t want to move unless I am roped up. That takes a while as Randy and Greg are still making their way down the first wall. Once they are down and I am secured to a rope, I easily scramble out, shaken and scared. I lay back to regain my composure.

For all of the drama and sphincter-puckering fear, it turns out that this is not the correct route. We climb back up the wall and find a rest spot. I debate whether to continue. My fall left me banged up and shaken but not seriously injured. My partners offer to walk back the way we came. I regain my composure and decide to continue. I don't really want to walk back on the West Rim. We try another route. The right one this time. We chimney down a rock chute. My back and hips are sore from the fall but I make the descent with little trouble. We can hear Kolob Creek below us but encounter another drop. We're hungry and tired; the day is late so we make camp. It's been a long, long day. Tomorrow will be better, walking a slot canyon with swims around a couple waterfalls. Maybe even fun. For better or worse, the only way out for us now is down the canyon and out through The Narrows.

Saturday we reach Kolob Creek and find lots of water, far more than we expected. It looks like we'll be in water far more than we planned. We pick our way along the banks and encounter lots of brush that makes for slow going. I wish I had an internal frame pack--my external frame snags on everything. Now we're in the creek. The water is cold and the creekbed is rocky. Damn, this is fucked. We come to our first waterfall. We toss our packs (with gear thoroughly encased in plastic) over and jump behind them. I plunge into the water but cannot float with my heavy boots and parka filling with water. I call to Gary for help and he pushes my pack over to me. I grab on for life and make the shore, wet and cold. Little sun filters into this narrow canyon to warm us. We keep our warmth by eating and burning energy as we pick our way down the canyon. We've got to make it to the Virgin River by nightfall; camping in a narrow canyon like this is very risky, even in good weather.

At the second waterfall we are looking at 50 or more feet of sheer-walled canyon with water sluicing through it after we negotiate the fall’s 20 foot plunge. Greg comments dryly, “Shouldn’t we be hearing 'Dueling Banjos' about now?" Uneasy laughter breaks the tension and we set about negotiating the waterfall. We lower Greg using the rope. He lunges out from under the waterfall on his backpack, paddling and kicking furiously as he tries to break free of the roiling water at the base. Then he's gone. He reappears in a second attempt as futile as the first. Undertow! We hoist him back up and rethink our approach.

Some previous hiker anchored a D ring to the rock at the top of the waterfall. Someone in our group--not me--knows how to rig the rope on the D ring so we can retrieve it. We tie other end of the rope to Gary's pack and heave it over the fall and beyond the undertow. The pack floats down the narrows where it snags on rocks at the narrows' end in calmer water. We tug on the rope and find it snug. Gary lowers himself through the waterfall and begins pulling himself down the narrows. Randy, Greg ad I pull the rope taut so he can keep his head above the churning water. He reaches his pack, ties the rope around his waist,anchors himself against the rocks and stretches the rope taut over the narrows.

I follow. Wearing gloves, I put my weight on the rope, expecting to drop into the water like Gary. Instead, I find myself suspended above the maelstrom and quickly haul myself hand over hand through the narrows to shallow water. What a ride! I would never have thought myself up to it. Amazing what necessity will do. Greg and Randy send the rest of our packs down the rope using carabiners. I retrieve the packs and then the others follow. We retrieve the rope, having rigged it so cleverly. We're wet and cold. We fire up the stoves and drink hot water.

That was the last of the two expected jump and swims but we're still in water from here on, picking our way around rocks and debris. The water is ankle to waist deep. And cold. The day is getting late and we have no idea how far till we reach the Virgin River. Only hope is to keep pushing on. But we can't. We're hungry and light is fading. No choice but to camp and hope. We find a spit of sand large enough for us all and fall into place. Despite the all the water today, our gear is dry. We eat and crawl into our bags uneasily. I'm close enough to the stream that a drop of water occasionally splashes into my face, making me think rain. I can't see the sky so I don't know what the weather will be like. I sleep fitfully despite physical and mental exhaustion. During the night Greg drills a hole in his big toenail to relieve the pressure of a blood blister from a banged up toe.

Sunday morning we are battered, tired and almost out of food. Yesterday's effort consumed much of what we had. I begin the day with a freeze dried omelet, a granola bar and a Slim Jim. Not much for what will be a long day's walk. Gary has a bagel and some gorp as we leave camp so he seems well supplied by comparison. We reach the North Fork of the Virgin River after a short hike. Thank god! Now just 8 more miles to the entrance to the narrows and the end of our route. No waterfalls on this leg but water is high in places, much higher than in Kolob, with chest deep wades and a few swims. Bottom rocks are much slicker here so footing is tough. I fall a lot; each time getting up is more difficult. I eat the last of my food around mid morning. Greg drinks the last of his maple syrup. The day is long, hard and endless. The narrows are starkly beautiful: dark, sheer walls rising a thousand feet or more overhead. Little sunlight reaches us as we pass through. I can appreciate the beauty of this place but what I really want is out of here.

After a few hours wading, swimming and falling, I see two guys sunbathing on a large rock in the middle of the river. Day-trippers! The end can't be far! But the day-trippers were ambitious and the remaining distance is farther than we think. Time drags. Energy is low. My body is battered, beaten and banged. My legs have been flayed by a million thorns, brambles and branches. I look thoroughly flogged. Moving is an effort but I have no choice. I manage somehow. We are all hungry and tired. We use our remaining strength to plod on and encourage each other. More people! A ranger followed by a camera crew asks if we saw a Girl Scout troop upstream. I think of all the places where this group of six-footers had to wade and swim and hope those Girl Scouts are holed up somewhere or went out the way they came in.

Finally we are nearing the end. The canyon opens up and is becomes increasingly crowded with people enjoying the water on this bright, sunny day. We pass by like specters from another dimension. We shiver in our parkas and strain to walk. I am far removed from these happy frolickers in their swimwear with air mattresses, children and video cameras. All I can think about is pain and the difficulty of taking each step. I am beginning to warm up in the sun but feel like I will never be really warm again. We reach the end of the trail and collapse. Randy hitchhikes back to the truck. We are out! I am alive.

After the hike, I am laid up for about a week, moving with great difficulty. That’s when the enormity of it all hits me. By all rights I should be dead. Surviving that fall was sheer luck. And the desperate scramble down Kolob Canyon could have easily killed any of us from hypothermia. The fact that I am alive to ponder all of this is no relief from the shock and fear. The following weeks are very sobering.

Sometime later I hear from Greg. Looking at map during the hike we all noticed that upstream from the point where we dropped into Kolob Canyon was Kolob Reservoir. Greg managed to track down the dam operator to inquire about water releases around the time we were in the canyon. We had expected about 5 to 7 cubic feet per. Greg learned from the operator that releases had been increased to around 35 cfs just prior to our hike, which explains why we encountered so much water. Had we known about that—the backcountry office never said anything about water releases—our plans would likely have changed; our pre-hike information warned about the danger of hiking in the canyon during periods of high water. I like to think we were sufficiently smart to act on that information had we known. As it was, we were very lucky. Sure, we brought a certain amount of skill to the whole affair but luck was surely with us.

Later hikers were not so lucky. Once again Greg found the story, this time in the Salt Lake Tribune.  In July 1993 a group of 13 teenagers and three adults rappelled into Kolob Canyon and encountered high water. The two most experienced leaders died shortly after entering the canyon as they tried to get past a plunge pool. That would be the first waterfall we encountered not long after we reached the creek on Day Three. The surviving adult did not attempt to go forward and huddled with the hungry, cold teens in a small alcove beneath a cliff to await rescue, which came five days later.T he Salt Lake Tribune story reported that the water flow was 28 cfs. Once again I was reminded my good fortune eight years earlier.

I never fail to marvel at my good fortune.

Trail Journal 06.04.02

Long, hard, hot day today.  It's 9:00 pm now and I'm just getting around to writing.  Didn't get into camp till after 7:00--another 12 hour day.  today provided some of the worst and best experiences the trail has to offer.  On the worst side:  we had a long climb in the sun at noon with high humidity--almost did me in.  Even after the climb the walk across the ridge was hot and dry.  I was very low on water and desperately wanted something cold.  One of the best:  Just when I was thinking we should bail into a store at the next road crossing, we found a cooler of sodas.  The ice was melted but the sodas were cool and wet.  At the road crossing a day hiker gave me a half liter of water.  True magic.  Earlier in the day we found a cooler with sodas and other goodies just before heading to a nearby store to resupply.  The sodas were wonderfully cold.  We weren't as desperate then as we would be later in the day but we'd had a warm walk across Dragons Tooth and down the steep ridge so the sodas were much appreciated.  I also had a cheese danish.

For the record:  We walked 16.1 trail miles plus 0.3 out of camp and another 0.8 to the store for a total of 17.2 miles.  We sat out a thunderstorm and ate dinner at Catawba Shelter before climbing over McAfee Knob on our way to Pig Farm Campsite.  Great view.  Dark clouds in the distance.  Clouds in the valley.  Now it's time for sleep.

Around This Time in 1980

Ramsey's Draft, Virginia.  May 20-24, 1980

First extended solo trip. Well, my dog Toby is with me but he and I are the only domestic species in the woods. We just hiked into Sexton shelter via the Shenandoah Mountain Trail off Route 250. Got in late on a Tuesday evening. I had to brief a legislative committee on a report and didn’t get out of Richmond until after noon. Then I had to return home to get my wallet. You know, city things. Once on the road, though, the trip west was pleasant. Ran into some showers driving up along the way but mostly the rain held. The hike in was was nice but my pack, loaded with gear for an extended base camp, was a real bitch. The sky was partly cloudy but I got a few glimpses of the late afternoon sun.
 

Morning One dawns cool, cloudy and damp. Weather reports called for rain throughout today and evening. Clearing tomorrow. Sexton Shelter provides wonderful solitude, accompanied by the sounds of birds and a babbling brook, Jerry's Run. Saw a hummingbird a while ago. Trees are almost leafed in, but not yet fully. A few dogwood trees still show blossoms. Mountain laurel has yet to bloom. Maybe I'll see that happen on this trip. I wander back up to the ridge to explore. Don't want to be too far out if rain hits. Early going is nice. And if I read my position correctly, I'm a good ways toward Hardscrabble Knob. Bet I can do the entire loop. Even if I get wet, it won't be for long. But later on the trail deteriorates, brush and fallen timber make for slow going. Raining now, steady and hard. Where is that knob? It can't be too far. I camped there a couple or so years ago, came up Ramsey's Draft. It didn't seem that far then. [Note: This is my first recorded instance of Hiker's Amnesia, a cerebral impairment that transforms a previous hiking experience or memory into a less difficult physical task than it actually was. See also: Gila Wilderness 1984 for an example of memory loss in a three day period.] I make Hardscrabble Knob. Finally. It's socked in with rain and cloud. I hunker in the remains of a shelter with Toby. We eat and head down the Ramsey's Draft Trail. Thank fucking god.

Almost home now. A known distance, if I am still willing to trust my distance judgment after faking myself into a long, wet hike. The trails are pretty well marked although I always wonder if signs leaning against the bottom of the post point in the right direction. At least on this trail I know. Work my way down Ramsey's Draft (see Sep 26/77 for previous hike). Emphasis on work. Trail is steep and slippery. The grand experience of the gorge is overshadowed by my focus on getting back to the cabin. Numerous stream crossings. Not too bad. Toby and I are both soaked, we couldn't get any wetter. At last!! The cabin. I change clothes, towel off myself and Toby. Time to eat. Fire up the wood stove. I remember to build a small fire in the vent pipe to start the draw from the firebox. Arrange clothes and gear ritually around the stove. Now I sit on the porch listening to the rain fall. How nice it sounds now that I am warm and dry. I can hear the stream flowing beside the cabin. Bet it will be running high for the next few days. A bird sings in the distance. Despite the hardships of the day's hike, I enjoyed myself. Not that I wasn't anxious at times. The area is truly gorgeous: sheer ravines carved by strong running streams which at times take over the trail. I like it here. I can think of no place else I would rather be.

Day Two is easy. Legs and butt are a bit stiff after yesterday's long walk but they don't hurt. Slept late and ate a big breakfast. No rain this morning. Wrote a letter and cut firewood. Everything is dry now, even my boots which felt like sponges yesterday. Just thinking about the rain reminds me that I thought I would never be dry again. But the evening was nice. The stove worked well. I sat on the porch listening to the forest in the rain, enjoying the solitude. Sexton Shelter has a logbook that provides an entertaining look at those who came before. Two newlyweds spent their honeymoon at the cabin not long ago; they met on a club hike to this place the previous year. Many entries discuss the resident mice. One describes a major engagement between humans and mice complete with charges, feints, counter charges, retreats and body counts. Another writer describes the large wood stove as a very particular woman, liking her logs hard, dry and fast. Green wood need not apply.

Day Three is lazy. I head down the Jerry's Run Trail with the idea of hiking to Hardscrabble Knob via Ramsey's Draft. Jerry's Run is high and crossings are tricky. Ramsey's Draft is even higher. I'm not willing to make the crossings so I return to the cabin and bathe in one of the nearby pools. Get bitten in a most uncomfortable place. Cut wood to replace what I've used. The trip has been great one. I'm completely at leisure and the world is very far away and means little to me at this place. Late afternoon sun filters patches across the clearing. Jerry's Run is rushing strongly and birds are singing. The beauty of this place is entrancing. All around I see the inevitability of nature at work. Mighty trees felled by onrushing waters. Generations of fallen timber gather moss in steep ravines. Mosses, lichens, ferns and fungi grow everywhere, swaddling the ground in a carpet of green. A shattered tree, about three and a half feet in diameter, lies across the Jerry's Run Trail broke upon impact, its splintered pieces still intertwined. This place feels eternal.

Day Four is departure day. I pack reluctantly. Who wants to leave a paradise like this? The morning begins with drizzle which ends before I set out. Only takes an hour and a half to reach the car. My pack is considerably lighter than coming in but I am carrying out a lot of excess food. Drive into Monterey, a small town nestled in the ridges of the Alleghenies. The town has a genuine air of antiquity--well preserved with its old buildings still in use. A statue of a Confederate soldier stands in the town square, the first one I've ever seen outfitted with a bolt action rifle.

Reids Gap Selfie

When I was in Virginia in late October I made a point of visiting Reids Gap on the Blue Ridge Parkway and took this selfie.  My phone is pretty limited--it lacks a reverse camera that lets me see what I'm photographing so I never know what the results will be.  As it turned out, I rather like the result so it's a keeper.

Reids Gap is a significant location in the geography of my life.  I discovered it in 1972 after returning from my year in Vietnam.  I I had already begun to spend time hiking as a way of decompressing from that experience and was preparing to begin graduate school at the University of Virginia.  I met a woman whose father had a cabin about a mile below the gap.  Few if any other family members were using the cabin in those days so we took whatever opportunity we could to spend time there while we were dating and after we married.  Since the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Appalachian Trail passed through Reids Gap, it became a focal point for many of the trips there.

Even after we moved to Richmond, the cabin and the gap were still only a couple of hours away.  I recall watching many sunsets and a few sunrises from that spot.  It was also my first real introduction to the Appalachian Trail.  I saw the white blazes and wondered what hiking the entire trail would be like.  At the time that seemed like a preposterously unlikely prospect.

The marriage didn't last--no more trips to the cabin-- but my fondness for Reids Gap never diminished.  I continued to visit and hike in the area for the next few years before moving to Arizona.  I typically made a point of visiting the gap during periodic visits to Virginia.  When my dog, Toby, who shared my years in and around Reids Gap, died in 1988 my partner Maggie buried a small portion of his ashes along the AT south of the gap when she drove to a national abortion rights march in Washington DC.  Thirty years later we buried some of Prince the Dalmatian's ashes in the same area.  Prince never visited Reids Gap but he was, like Toby, a special dog so it seemed right to leave a bit of him in that special place.  

Reids Gap in 2019 looks much the same as it did when I first saw it in 47 years ago.  Meadow Mountain and other large landforms still dominate the view to the south.  Devils Knob rises to the north.  Open meadows flank County Road 664 as it crosses from Nelson County to Augusta County over the crest of the Blue Ridge.  If I look no farther I could think nothing has changed, which is hardly the case.  When I first drove to the cabin from Waynesboro the pavement on Route 664 ended well before reaching the cabin.  I remember the route down the east side of the ridge being even more primitive.  Now all of the roads are paved.  On the east side 664 is the gateway to a major ski resort.  The western side has many more houses than I remember from the past.

Perhaps the biggest change is that Reids Gap is no longer Reeds Gap, the name by which I had always known it.  It was Reeds Gap when I first encountered it and was still Reeds Gap when I hiked the AT in 2002 and 2005.  I discovered the change during a 2016 visit when I saw the new sign.  The Nelson County Historical Society informed me when I inquired that the gap was named for a early settlers in the Rockfish Valley named Reid and a descendant of the family moved to the Rockfish Valley and put a great deal of effort in documenting the correct spelling and effecting the change.  I never followed up on how the incorrect spelling came about but the lack of standard spelling prior to the mid-19th century probably had something to do with it.

The name change is a bit jarring because it's not what I am used to seeing.  Still, the landscape is timeless and my memories and permanent.  In the end, changing one letter is of little real consequence.