Mt. Le Conte

I was too tired to write last night, although I had a lot of thoughts during the day. Saturday night was spent planning a trip to the Great Smokey Mountain National Park using Bill Bryson's "A Walk in the Woods" and www.gorp.com for inspiration. The park straddles the Tennessee/North Carolina border, marked by the Appalachian trail. It's the east-cost equivalent of Yosemite, and it is gorgeous. A midnight run to Wal-Mart for maps and a disposable camera caused me to oversleep (actually, it was the fact that I'm reeeeally not an early riser), so I hit the road with a vengeance.

A town called Cherokee, which lies on an "Indian" reservation (why hasn't this term been abolished yet?), serves as a gateway to the park. It seems its sole purpose is to distract visitors from the point of their traveling using mindless shops, an amusement park, restaurants, etc. Apparently, they're catching on to the frivolity of it all, as one shopkeeper dubs his wares "Antiques and Junque". A Harrah's casino, brand new, gives the town the final wannabe-South-Lake-Tahoe touch. Finally... the ranger station to the park. Noise and commerce give way to lush beauty and relatively undisturbed lands.

I met a ranger who hooked me up with a nice topo of the park and gave some insider tips on the best day-hikes. I took his advice and decided to forego the original plan of walking part of the Appalachian Trail to Clingmans Dome. As suspected, this is what the majority of tourists do. Clingmans is the highest point on the AT, but it is only a 1/2 mile hike from the road. Mt Le Conte, rises to only 50 feet short of Clingmans, but is a much more satisfying hike. 10 miles round trip, 3500 foot elevation gain to the peak, and most importantly, much more solitary. Sweet.

The three-day weekend seems to have drawn a lot of folks from allover. The Yosemite allegory is true on this account as well. Licence plates from New York to Georgia, families, purists, romantic couples, visitors from Europe, Asia, and many many bikers. Seems like every local chapter of every motorcycle club on the east coast had a ride scheduled through here this weekend. I cram the lead sled into a shoulder of the road and prep for the hike.

1:45pm. I take a guess: 3 hours up, chill for :30, 2 hours down. These numbers are based on prior experience, although there are a lot of variables. In anycase, with a 2 hour drive home, I'll be getting in late, and as the ranger put it, sleepin' good tonight fer-shore. I start off with a pretty healthy pace, using a deep, cadenced breath.

One thing I really enjoy about these kinds of experiences is the chance to let the mind wander. Work, family, friends, love-life, you name it. As long as the body is occupied, productive, and on autopilot, the mind is free to produce some pretty entertaining thoughts. Muscle memory is cool. I've experienced this while driving, skiing, showering, and marching drum-corps late in the season after the show has been completely memorized. It's a natural high, and it's better than pot. I'll get more into these thoughts in later blogs.

The single-track trail is well maintained and dotted with some impressive features. In one 5-mile peak-bag, mix several steep spots, flat spots, staircases, bridged stream-crossings, plenty of shade provided by lush old-growth forests, and some really cool people. Stir, and serve on a cool, misty Tennessee afternoon, and you've got one happy hiker. Alum Bluff, about half-way up, is the main attraction for most. It's an exposed rock that juts out over the trail about 100 feet up and 200 feet wide. An archway (not sure if it's natural or not) crowds the trail into a dark, murky staircase that tends to scare the children traveling through it. The trail only gets better farther up after most folks have turned around. That's where the payoff is. Near the top is a cropping of small cabins available by reservation to overnighters and weary backpackers.

You wouldn't know it by looking at me, but I think I'm in better shape than when I graduated from school. I hit the peak in 2 hours flat. Thank you, Renegades Contra Line. The summit is 6600 feet high, and although there are mountains even in Los Angeles county that are 3000 feet higher, the views rival them as well as those of the Sierras. I've seen photos, but the reason why the Cherokees originally named these mountains for their "blue smoke" is now very evident. The mist lingers in the troughs between the rolling hills, and squinting over the 50 mile vistas, it looks like a foggy dawn over choppy seas. A big bird flies overhead to greet us heavy-breathed hikers, and my attempts to summon Ona's birding expertise turn up fruitless. Over the next 45 minutes the peak welcomes a group of German Chicagoans, a couple dudes from the other end of Illinois, a rather introverted father and son sharing some quality time, and a threesome of Hindus from Atlanta. One of them worked for Apple in Cupertino the same time I worked for E&Y around the corner. Small world.



I envy the man who dies doing what they love. I hope when I go, I'm traveling really fast or at least I'm in the arms of someone who loves me. This man had both, and I envy him. He died on the trail this afternoon, amidst beautiful surroundings and life-long friends. A heart-attack on mile 3, and he was laid to rest 30 minutes before I hiked by on the way up. Stunned onlookers passed in silence as his friends mourned the body beneath the yellow tarp. I passed on the way down, and noticed a group had gathered in an impromptu wake to learn about the deceased. His friends were middle-aged, fit, purists. This was not a man attempting something for which he was not prepared. I guess it was just his time. One of the keepers of the cabins, Mike, explains that he and his party were regular annual guests. Mike and I walk for a while, sharing travel stories and such before he turns around. He's keeping his legs warm. Soon he'll be carting the man up the hill in a trail gurney with the help of a couple rangers. Tomorrow, he'll be brought down by horseback, as helecopter services are reserved for "living emergencies".

I get to the car in an hour and 40 minutes, thighs burning from the long decent. I feel better today than I have in a long time. I need more of this. Chad returns a call, and we catch up for an hour during my drive. Good thing; I was getting sleepy. I miss the good times he and I shared when we were both in the bay area, but he's the kind of buddy that neither time nor distance affect. Every conversation is as if we had just spoken the day prior. Back at the hotel, a hot bath and a Corona await. The night ends with the sweet sound of Lolita's laugh from 3000 miles away. I'm a lucky man.