Uneasy. It's not often that I have to admit that I'm uncomfortable while on a hiking trail; I can think of three total times since I started traveling. This particular hike, deep into the forests of Great Smoky Mountains National Park on my way to summit a mountain, makes that list. I had an ambitious day planned for myself, starting well before dawn, meaning I arrived at the trailhead earlier than expected and actually sat in my car to wait for the forest to lighten a bit before I headed out. I'm normally all for early morning hikes that start just before or with sunrise, but it night clung to the ground under the thick canopy of trees, even though the forest was beginning to wake up. I just really didn't want to run in to any surprises around a corner on the trail, especially because I was alone. Even with how long I waited, I still had my headlamp at full power when I finally set out, scanning the gloom for telltale eyeshines that indicated something was watching me.
I made my first destination, Rainbow Falls, in good time, occasionally splattered with drops and drips from above. It is always raining in those forests. Either it's actually raining from the sky, or the trees shower you with droplets left over from the last rain with the slightest breath of wind. The constant moisture wasn't cold, though, and actually brought forth an abundance of life that astounded me. Tiny, dark little salamanders scampered through the leaf litter, trying to stay out of sight. Mushrooms of every color pushed through fallen trees and clung to crevices in crumbling rock. There was green everywhere, and the plants around me seemed to breathe out more moisture wherever I looked. Rainbow falls was a thin stream of water braiding itself down an alcove tucked back a bit from the trail. I rested there, eating and drinking, but didn't remain long; the droplets from above started to increase, indicating it was raining above the canopy.
The trail from Rainbow Falls to the summit of Mount Le Conte easily lands itself on my list of Top 10 Most Beautiful Hiking Trails. I felt like I was walking through Mirkwood or Fangorn, a feeling that was accentuated by the lack of other human beings. Thick old-growth trees towered above the trail, casting everything below in shadows even when the sun was shining. Roots and rocks twisted the trail, necessitating caution with every step. The normal forest sounds surrounding me were muffled, though whether that was a result of the excessive vegetation or of my imagination I'm not sure. Even the rain was muted, though the melody of dripping water was by far the loudest aside from the crunch of leaves and twigs under my boots.
I climbed upward constantly, losing count of how many switchbacks and corners I rounded. A mile or so from the top I took a side trail detour, coming out in the middle of a thickly overgrown ridge on the side of the mountain. I was surrounded by shoulder-high shrubbs and young trees, obscurring the trail at my feet. I was also enveloped in a thick layer of fog. Everywhere I looked puffy white water vapor pressed in around me, and I knew my trip to the summit of the Mount Le Conte was going to mainly consist of looking at the inside of a cloud. At least it wasn't raining. I pushed on anyway, slipping and stumbling through the gloom on wet rocks and little rivulets racing down the mountain trail. I reached the Le Conte Lodge panting and puffing, and wandered around to the Cliff Tops to rest my feet. There is a lodge located at at the top of Mt Le Conte, like actual buildings and a kitchen, that you can make reservations and backpack in to. I had no idea, but some day I will go back and stay there! The lodge wasn't full when I poked around, but I didn't stay long; it had started raining again and I wanted to get back to my dry car.
It was on my descent that I became uncomfortable. The rain increased so that I felt more like I was swimming than hiking. My rain jacket kept my head and torso dry, and my pack's rain cover did it's job, but it didn't take long for my pants to soak through, and I was essentially wearing boats on my feet. Mositure, friction and heat: a combination of any two of those on skin and you can develop blisters. Want to guess how my feet felt? I didn't care much, even though I should have; I was concentrating too much on what was going on around me. Fog had descended and settled over my trail, swirling in the dark tunnels created by overhanging trees, blurring the forest and making benign objects transform into threats. And then I started seeing piles of bear shit. Great big heaping piles, right on the trail. I knew none of them were fresh, but they also hadn't been washed away by the previous rain. I knew there were bears in the area, the warning signs were everywhere. I'd seen a bear myself on my first day in the park. Great Smoky Mountains National Park has one of the highest concentrations of bears in the eastern United States. But to see the evidence of that statistic right in front of me while on a trail in the middle of a dark and rainy forest a very long way from civilization, or any other human, was disconcerting. The icing on the dreary cake? It started thundering.
I only caught one or two flashes of lightning while crossing a relatively open stretch of trail, but that did nothing to calm me. If there's thunder, there's lightning, and I was hearing plenty of evidence. I did not want to be stuck in a forest of very tall trees in the middle of a thunderstorm. I picked up my pace, half-running down hill, tripping over tree roots and rocks raised above the surface, hyper-aware of the can of bear spray at my right hip. I made as much noise as physically possible, frightened of turning a corner at high speed and colliding with a surprised bear. I didn't care about the condition of my feet, or that I was sweating and therefore making myself colder and wetter, or that I could hardly see any of the trail I had come to hike. I stopped enjoying my hike after seeing the third pile of bear poop and hearing thunder. I just wanted off the damn mountain. About four miles from the trail head I whipped around a corner, unsure if the water running down my face was rain or tears, and stumbled into a dry overhang with a stone placed in the center, clearly a bench for weary hikers. I collapsed onto it, upset with the situation and myself. I knew better than to rush down a mountain side without any regard to the condition of my gear and body. I weighed my options: stay in the small dry alcove and wait for the rain to possibly stop, or continuing on through the rain and get to my warm, dry car as quickly as possible. With the first option there was a possibility of the rain not stopping, meaning I'd be looking at spending a night in the forest because I refuse to hike at night in bear country. With the second option, I was guaranteed to get more wet and miserable than I was sitting on that dry bench. Knowing full well that my family would lose their shit if I didn't check in on time that night, I resolved to continue through the rain and get dry sooner rather than later.
I set out with more confidence, reassured that the trail head and the safety of my car wasn't too far ahead of me. For many reasons, mostly to cheer myself up and with the goal of making as much noise as I could without crashing through the undergrowth like I had been doing, I started singing at the top of my voice. Poorly, out of tune, and out of breath, I sang every single song that came to mind. Frozen and The Lion King had their entire soundtracks abused by my cracked voice, as did the ABC's (in English and in French, twice), Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Mary Had A Little Lamb, Frosty the Snowman, and many more. It wasn't long before I was wiping tears of laughter out of my eyes, confident that any animal within hearing distance had taken cover and plugged it's ears. Imagining a bear curling up in a tree somewhere, covering it's ears with it's paws set me off laughing so hard I doubled over. I'm pretty sure that if another hiker had seen me they would have been worried about my sanity. Shit, I was worried about my sanity. I had been alone all day, I had been cold and wet and miserable, and now I was singing to myself and laughing my ass off about it.
I finally reached my car nearly ten hours after I had set out, still giggling to myself and in much better spirits than I had been for a majority of the hike. It was still raining, still foggy, still gloomy, but I made myself feel better about it all, and that's what made the difference. I knew I would have to deal with the blisters on my feet when I got back to camp, and drying my clothes and bag out was going to be impossible with the humidity, but it didn't matter. I had turned what could have been a disaster of a hiking trip into one that I still giggle about when I tell the story, just like I'm doing now.
What I'm listening to: The Downed Dragon by John Powell
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