Down South of South
Today’s storytelling took place at the southern end of the park at the Oconaluftee Visitor’s Center. On a porch! With rocking chairs! About ten steps from my car! AND I’d reach a larger audience because most people don’t hike when they come to the Smokies; they stop at the visitor’s center and then never leave their cars again. Full of youthful vigor, I set up my station and starting chatting up visitors. Well… trying to. See, based on the looks I was getting from visitors, it was abundantly clear that I was just taking up valuable outdoor picnic space that rightfully belonged to them and their broods.
I am still figuring out this whole public art thing. There is a time and a place for theater but as someone who genuinely believes that the time is not 8pm and the place is not a windowless black box that you have to pay to get into, am I destined to a) irritate more people than I connect with, or b) move to miserable Asheville where they already hate everything but will participate anyway?
Today, however, was not about quantity but quality. I had about half as many story shares today as I have had on the trails and most of today’s audiences comprised of just one person . As someone genuinely more comfortable one-on-one than in groups, this was a blessing. I felt a little like I was failing in my job as AiR to talk to so few people and I felt guilty for enjoying the fail, but by the end of the day I had no regrets. In these one-on-ones a woman told me about how her father and his brothers had traveled to the Smokies before she was born but they’d had no money so they’d stop at gas stations and pour whatever gas was left in the u-bend of the gas hoses into their car to keep going. Her father had taken her and her siblings to the Smokies all their lives and this year there were 20 family members traveling together. This was their first trip without her Dad; he passed away earlier this year.
Another woman was Cherokee and tracing her ancestry at the reservation here in North Carolina, the reservation in Oklahoma where she grew up, and all along the Trail of Tears. The last group of the day, a grandmother and her two grandchildren, were on the first day of their first vacation together. They hadn’t had any world shattering moments yet but they told me all about Goats of a Roof, a roadside attraction that is literally just goats on a rooftop. I may not have reached the masses today but I was massively touched and entertained.
I’m lucky to have had a day like this. Human beings are astounding creatures and I had more time to get to know them today than on any other storytelling day. I came to the Smokies thinking I would get away from humans for a while to reset my internal rhythm but I seem to be spending quite a bit of time with other people this month and finding my faith in humanity rather effectively restored in the process. Who knew?
All the same, I was glad to have arranged to spend a night by myself on an overnight hike in the backcountry. Backcountry hiking, for those who prefer life at sea level, is hiking that you can’t drive to. You have to pack up all of your supplies for the duration of your stay and leave no trace of your stay when you leave. I stopped by the Backcountry Hiking Office to pick up the frame pack Brian had so generously agreed to lend me for the occasion. When I arrived Nick was talking to a potential camper:
Guest: “Well, where can I go where there won’t be a lot of people?”
Nick: “Fourth of July weekend? A public library.”
Gryffindor for the win. This is why I like people. Nick and Brian confirmed that I would be the only one at my campsite tonight and Brian handed me an extra map, just in case. Either he knows me that well after three weeks or I just have that aura of someone who gets lost a lot. At least now he has a vested interest in me coming back alive lest he never get his pack back.
As I drove out to the trail head I passed a puppy on the side of the road. If you’ve heard anything about my recent trip to Iceland or basically any time at all that I spend with my friend Carrie, you know where this is going. I stopped the car, the puppy rushed over to me, and we started looking for the puppy’s home. Fortunately, it didn’t take long. A guy working near by was able to point me in the right direction and I felt only a twinge of sadness as the puppy (I named him Golden Eye) ran down the street after my car. I may have stopped once more to pet him… But he was home, and that’s what matters.
I arrived at the trailhead sans puppy and, remembering my conversation with Mountain Jesus last weekend, I ran through my pre-hike check list:
Backpack: check
Sleeping bag: check
Sleeping mat: check
Sweatshirt: …
Good to go! I set off for my first hike in the southern part of the park! The trail was only three miles in but it was hot and humid and carrying all that gear most definitely got my heart rate up. My sleeping bag, unlike mountain jesus’, is not made of unicorn hair, it is made of wet, woven cement.
I hiked in through some swoon worthy komorebi, and set up camp. I put my rainfly over the tent lest Lee, my fastidious NYC hiking companion, sense my impetuosity and roll over dead in his office chair. Safety measures in place, I immediately set off to jump in the river. My campsite was right next to a river but I wanted to see the land so I hiked up a bit further until I found a good swimming hole. I drank from the cascades and allowed my body to go numb in the water. The light filtered through the trees, a little fish jumped, and thunder rumbled in the distance.
No sooner had I tied my bootlaces than it started to rain. I. Love. Rain. I love mountains. I love rain ON mountains. I laughed myself silly on the hike back as I stopped to look at mushrooms and snails, the fog rolling in through the peaks, and to stare up at the raindrops falling through the pine trees while allowing myself to get thoroughly, totally, unequivocally drenched.
Back at my little tent home I ate dinner of peanut butter and rice cakes and hung the remaining food from the bear lines. It was getting dark and as I turned back to my tent and saw a glow through the trees. First I thought it was a flashlight and even though I knew I was the only hiker at this site tonight there may be through hikers passing by on their way to another site. Shit, I thought, I have to put clothes on. But then it flashed again. And again. They were fireflies. Synchronous fireflies. So much for a three week lifespan! Just like my first night here, they had come out after the rain and there I was, naked and alone in the woods, river rushing off to one side, fireflies lighting up the little clearing on the other. I looked up at the sky just as a shooting star passed over.
I may have been miles away from other people but I was not alone. I thought about the stories I’d been told at Oconaluftee today and suddenly I knew what I would leave the park for the part of this residency that requires that I make something that stays in the park. I pulled back my rainfly and fell asleep to the lights of the fireflies and the rush of the river flowing over the cascades of Raven Fork, perfectly at peace.
