Tennessee

It was Geoffrey’s rowing prowess that took me to the unlikely destination of Oak Ridge Tennessee in June. My aversion to cheap hotels and unwillingness to pay for nice ones compelled me to research the state parks into the far more attractive camping option. When I discovered one with the peculiar name of Frozen Head just 35 minutes west of Oak Ridge that boasted the added attraction of “backcountry” camping, the deal was sealed. I packed for all occasions and invested in a battery-powered fan to provide relief from the famed infernal heat of the summer south. While I did a fair amount of research into the area immediately surrounding Oak Ridge, discovering, among other gems, the largest outdoor swimming pool in the States, I had only a vague sense of the state’s overall geography. Namely, while I knew the Smoky Mountains rose up somewhere to the east, it wasn’t until I had picked up a map at a rest stop and laid it out flat that it struck me: I was within a stone’s throw of the National Park’s western gateway and from there but a few more miles to Newfound Gap, where the Appalachian Trail crosses the highway. The Appalachian Trail—made forever famous by Bill Bryson’s Walk in the Woods. The AT and the PCT—two great north-south traverses. A Mecca for backpackers. And not only that—the map proudly displayed Clingman’s Dome, highest peak in Tennessee. Right there, on my rest-stop road map. I stared at it. Google Maps advised me that it was less than two hours away. My heart pounded. The temptation was too great to resist. Now how could I squeeze that in between Geoffrey’s races? He had two races on Saturday—one in the morning and one in the early evening. While it was possible to make the drive that afternoon, I had no incentive to return from higher elevations to spend the night in a tent in the sweltering lowlands. The plan began to take shape: I would leave immediately after his second race, get there just before dark, head to the campground, get up early Sunday morning, ascend Clingman’s, take a short side trail to the AT, hike along it for some unspecified distance and be back on the road by 9:30 a.m., in plenty of time to watch Geoffrey’s final race at 12:30. Awesome plan!

I set my awesome plan into motion right on schedule: by 7:00 p.m. I was in the car heading away from the racecourse, east toward the Great Smoky Mountains. Zipping along in my Chevy Cobalt rental, feeling supremely adventurous and smugly pleased at leaving the oppressive city air behind. I made excellent time until traffic came to a screeching halt as I entered possibly the most surreal place on earth with the bizarre and unlikely name of Pigeon Forge. I crept through this uber-kitschy quasi Disneyland in a state of horrified disbelief, further annoyed by how it slowed this pilgrim’s progress. Finally relieved of any further assaults on my senses, I moved on toward the Smokies, the verdant woods lining the road now far more congruous with the Great National Park I had envisioned.

The quaint mountain town of Gatlinburg proved to be another bottleneck. Somehow I hadn’t expected to see so many people, albeit on a Saturday night in June. And the throngs never really thinned out. When I reached the visitor’s center, the parking lot was packed, though it was now 9:00 p.m. and the center itself had long since closed. A posse of rangers stood guard at the entrance, waving cars along. I pulled over to consult with one of them about the campground a few miles down the road. “That’s full for the weekend.” In response to my question about the overflowing parking lot he mentioned the something-or-other festival. It was of so little concern to me and my plans that the name barely made it past my ear’s irrelevant information filter, perhaps because what did register sounded so incongruously pagan that I immediately disregarded it. The ranger was eager to shoo me to a different, less crowded area of the park, but that would take me far away from my coveted destinations of Clingman’s Dome and the Appalachian Trail. My heels were dug in and I pressed for more information about backcountry camping (“requires a permit”) and parking at trailheads (“sure, but you can only camp in designated sites with that permit”), and ultimately persuaded him to retrieve a trail map from his truck and point out said designated campsites on the trails. The AT was out of the question – camping was allowed only in shelters and only by reservation. The nearest first-come-first-served site was about 4 miles in, but it seemed worth a try, despite the late hour. So up I drove toward the gap and into the enveloping darkness.

By the time I crossed the gap and began descending I was hungry and needed to pee. Hence the first order of business at the trailhead pull-out was a quick foray into the bushes. The temperature had dropped by about 30 degrees over the past hour by virtue of the now set sun and the 3000-foot elevation gain. I began hastily assembling my gear at the open trunk, standing in my shorts and tank top now slightly concerned that I would be cold without a sleeping bag. These concerns were very suddenly interrupted by two flashlight-wielding rangers who must have driven up in time to see me emerging from the brush. Aah! Fight or flight?! Flight wasn’t an option, nor, really was fight, so I fell back on lying when they asked me what exactly I was doing there. Or perhaps just evading their questions—a form of flight I suppose. Heading into the woods at night?! Fortunately the idea was so patently absurd that my explanation of needing to stop for a clothing adjustment and a bite to eat placated them, though not without peering suspiciously into the car and open trunk where my backpack lay in its state of half readiness.

The folly of my undertaking now hit me full force. It was dark, had just rained, I had no phone service and no one knew exactly where I was, the rangers had my license plate number and were apparently no-nonsense with regard to the permit issue, and I, of course, had no such permit. Nor could I remember whether my headlamp took double or triple A batteries (I only had the former as spares for the camera). I got back in the car (demonstratively eating a peach in case the rangers were still watching) and, lacking any plan at all, started driving east again, away from the gap. I could continue to the opposite side of the park, where there was another campground, but that would take me further away from Clingman’s Dome and create an even longer journey back to the race site the following morning. As I mulled over my predicament and silently cursed my crazy-ass obstinate ways, I saw another trailhead parking lot. This one was far more substantial in size and had a number of lined spaces, but only one vehicle. It was in fact the official parking for the trail I had passed, the other being but a pull-off along the road. While only 100 feet or so from the actual trailhead, it seemed far enough away to thwart the nosy rangers if they came back to check up on me. My brain was busy rationalizing my hasty decisions. I resumed my frantic packing, this time switching off the trunk and dome lights to avoid detection. I threw things into my pack without much thought or order, grateful for having picked up a bottle of anti-freeze to use as fuel for my stove, so I could rehydrate the one small dried meal I’d packed. It had been a long day, which began by swimming across a reservoir in Tennessee, then hiking up a stream at Frozen Head State park, and was ending some hundred miles away in the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina with a backpack and a dubious headlamp, and on reflection I couldn’t recall having eaten anything of substance since dinner the night before. Every car that passed along the highway sent me ducking into the darkness, my heart pounding, paranoia wreaking havoc with my imagination. At last I threw my pack on and prepared to leave, regretting my lack of sleeping bag and choice of hiking footwear—sandals—as the night was cool, the grass and leaves dripping from the evening shower. I peered into the dark woods and my heart stopped. Flickering lights appeared among the trees. Rangers, patrolling the trails, were emerging with their headlamps and flashlights! A deer in the headlights, I stood glued to my spot—caught, my backpack strapped on, headlamp in place, mentally whispering apologies to my son for missing his race as I waited to be bailed out of National Park penitentiary.

As I stood there, transfixed, something truly amazing happened: the ominous lights continued to flicker, but the flickering now spread and was all around me. My senses rushed to catch up with the message the brain had registered, and my fear turned to wonderment. Fireflies. I didn’t know then what I later learned: it was mating season for this particular species of firefly—a short window in June when they produce a spectacular light show. (http://video.nytimes.com/video/2011/06/15/us/100000000866518/the-smokies-light-show.html?emc=eta1). I had no idea I was in the midst of such a rare and celebrated display, but the twinkling bugs nonetheless worked their magic to remind me why I had gone to such lengths to be there. The forest no longer appeared dark and ominous, but rather, inviting and luminous. I had now but one hurdle left to overcome—traversing the 100 or so feet along the road to the trailhead in full backpacking regalia avoiding discovery by the National Park Gestapo. My backpack is inconveniently equipped with reflective webbing, thus rendering me a beacon to every passing car, which continued with alarming frequency despite the late hour. Each time I heard the sound of tires on the wet pavement I dove for cover in the brush and tall grass along the side of the road—a soldier in the trenches seeking cover from the enemy. At long last I reached the trail and disappeared into the welcoming embrace of the nocturnal forest.

The trail I had somewhat randomly selected took me directly down at a steady grade, rapidly losing elevation and offering no remotely flat spot to pitch my small tent. Traveling by the light of my headlamp was easy going--the trail was smooth, the sky now clear and the moon bright--yet I was anxious about the battery life, hungry and ready for sleep. Naturally it was just a matter of time before the necessary flat spot appeared, nominally off the trail, where I quickly erected my tent and took the opportunity to test the antifreeze fuel to concoct my dinner. It was now 11:00. In my haste to pack I had forgotten my digital watch and phone, both of which have alarms, leaving me no reliable way to execute my pre-dawn exit plan. It also began to sink in that I had left two cameras, wallet and phone in the car at a trailhead in a crowded park. Top on my list of undesirable outcomes was missing Geoffrey’s final race the next day and once again I allowed my mind to imagine all manner of disasters that could occur during the night. Would I even need an alarm if I couldn’t sleep?

However, sleep I did, off and on, through audio hallucinations of footsteps on the trail just above me, music blaring somewhere (this was real, I swear), phantom bears… until I awoke the final time to a lighter sky and the cacophony of birds. Though I wouldn’t make it out before dawn, it was only 5:30 and there wouldn’t be many cars on the road. I hiked up the mile or so I had come down in the dark and had only now to sprint the 100 feet to the shelter of my car, hoping to find everything I had so thoughtlessly left inside it. At roughly the half-way point I heard a car and once again dove for cover in the high brush, loathe to fabricate yet another tall tale were the rangers to stop me with further interrogations. For me, lying causes a level of anxiety that no doubt shaves days if not years off my life. There seems to be a quantum leap in discomfort between being caught in the act, and being caught in a lie about the act. Suffice to say I preferred to hunker down in the wet grass than risk it.

The little Chevy Cobalt was indeed intact, its contents strewn about haphazardly, precisely as I had left them, despite the fact that in my great haste I hadn’t even actually locked the doors. Safe. All was good.

The rest of the story is almost dull.  The views from Clingman’s Dome were mediocre, a haze settling on the rather low rolling hills of the Smoky Mountains (ah, hence the name…).  The “trail” leading to the outdated space-age observation tower at its summit is… paved. I packed my stove and found a relatively nice spot along the Applachian Trail to drink my morning tea.

We in the west are accustomed to the dramatic snow-capped peaks of youthful mountain ranges; to our eyes the venerable green hills of the east appear worn and lackluster.  Still, I fulfilled my mission—stood atop the highest peak in Tennessee and got at least a taste of the Appalachian Trail--an image, a smell, a touch of my own to file alongside the myriad of tales.

I made it back to the racecourse in Oak Ridge at noon, plenty of time--by my standards--for Geoffrey’s 12:39 race.

Two additional strokes of good luck befell me that day. I discovered on Clingman’s Dome that I was missing my glasses—my expensive prescription transitional, progressive, rimless glasses, procured during an era of Cadillac vision insurance—and had to decide whether to go back and look for them on my now empty tank of gas or give them up for lost and increase my chances of making it to Gatlinburg. I chose the former, and to my great amazement I found them lying in the tall grass halfway between the trailhead and the parking lot, exactly where they had fallen in the fray of my trench warfare exercise. And I made it all the way to Pigeon Forge to refuel. Ah, another fine adventure.