The “Bunkhouse”
The day began innocently enough at 6am with the usual PT/ice routine. Limbered up, I headed out for Clingman’s Dome. Today there was a mountaintop fundraiser to refurbish the alien structure on top of the highest peak in the Smokies and I was scheduled to storytell along the trail to the top.
The first half-hour was uneventful, as in, eventless. The early morning crowd was headed up the trail with blinders on and those who did stop only did so long enough to catch their breath, during which time they were singularly focused on not dying. Fortunately, the hikers who had only had eyes for the peak trickled down in a more social mood.
Clingman’s Dome a big family attraction so I tailored a lot of today’s stories to the kids who were listening, usually letting them add flourishes and pick the character’s names (read: their names). Much like at the Firefly event, the parents could hardly refrain from adding details of their own. It’s pretty awesome to watch adults get so caught up in an adventure story! I like telling stories with kids but it’s only with adults that I can get really weird. Today I only had one group without kids. It consisted of the sister of Susan, the park ranger who offered me sour dough starter, and her childhood best friend. I told them a pretty dark yarn that involved the impending blindness those who will attend the synchronous firefly event in 2017, and some from 2016 who will be rendered outside of their minds in mere days. At the end of the story one of the women asked me exactly what about this group had inspired that particular story. Fair question. The story did include some of the events and details they shared with me but sometimes I just get carried away. I told them that their real life events are simply the jumping off point into the improvised abyss and that stories unfold themselves, we’re just the vessels through which they’re told. Nonetheless, I made a more active effort to personalize the story for the next group.
I stopped at the base of the trail to chat with Shaniqua and Shayla at the end of my jaunt. They gave me a poster of the dome (seen top) and wished me luck as I headed off to Mt. LeConte on my first overnight hike in the Smokies. And boy did I need the luck.
Now, before I get into the trail tale, I have to go back a few days to my e-mail correspondence with a woman named Beth. Beth works in maintenance and she was in possession of the keys to the bunkhouse on top of Mt. LeConte used by trail workers while they do work on Alum Cave Trail this month. The team only works M-Th so Beth said I was welcome to stay there this weekend and I could swing by any time for the keys. She also gave me the phone numbers of two people who could tell me exactly what I should bring with me on my hike. I was unable to reach either of these people but I stopped by Beth’s office on Friday afternoon, she gave me the keys, and I promised to have them back in her hands on Monday morning. She waved me away saying I could get them to her whenever and I left the maintenance yard feeling a renewed appreciation for the generosity and good cheer of the GSM staff.
Even with keys in hand I was still unsure I was going to make it to the bunkhouse. Do you remember last Saturday when I biked Cade’s Cove and hiked Ramsey Cascade’s Trail? So do my legs. You may have noticed that I haven’t posted 0nce about hiking this week. If you know me well, this is cause to check for a pulse. However, as of Saturday night I’ve had a fair bit of pain in my feet and ankles and even put on my walking boot for a few days. But I had a plan. I knew that I wanted to hike Alum Cave Trail- the steepest trail in the park and one of the most scenic- so I made a deal with myself. I would attempt to hike the trail but I would do it on three conditions: 1) I would hike the 10 mile trail over the course of two days, not one, spending a night at the peak to rest and recuperate, 2) I would pack as light as humanly possible and use hiking poles to take as much pressure as possible off of my feet, and 3) I would go on no hikes in the interim week and instead would adamantly adhere to R.I.C.E. and move very cautiously.
And so it was, with shaky ankles and great trepidation, that I set out at 1.40pm to hike the Alum Cave Trail to the top of Mt. LeConte. I wrapped my feet and ankles in ace bandages, put on knee braces, slid my feet into the strapping new hiking boots that my sister and brother-in-law sent me, and took hold of my poles.
The first half-mile of the trail, which was totally flat, took me almost an hour to walk. To fully appreciate the frustration of this, I should tell you that my trail name is Billygoat. You know how Viktor Krum is super awkward on land but on a broomstick he’s a phenom? That’s me on rocky outcrops. I trip over loud noises on furnished floors but I can cover steep, rocky, ground as quickly, elegantly, and sure-footedly as anyone I know. My heart ached to fly up the mountain at top speed but I was true to my self-promise to move as slowly as I needed to to avoid excessive pain.
Alum Cave Trail, which is only open three days a week, was packed, and by the looks on the other hiker’s faces could tell that the only nickname I would be earning today would be Lost Cause. Within an hour, two people had asked me if I was injured and needed help. Some people gave me the kind of vocal encouragement you would give to a hospice patient and still others knit their brows and told me I had a long way to go, as if hoping to dissuade me from continuing on. I was reminded of an exercise we did in class where we observe the way one of our classmates walks and try to replicate it exactly. I will never forget watching my partner move like I move. I was watching someone- me, through the lens of Fred- who held onto them self like a piece could slip off at any moment and shatter against the hard wood floor. I was watching a body that had known injury and pain and could no longer move with abandon. I knew that this look was what the other hikers were responding to.
I stopped, for one of a dozen times, by the base of Arch Rock hoping to massage the sadness out of my heart through my feet. I thought about turning back but the idea of not reaching the top was insufferable.
Contributing to my awkwardness on the mountain today is that this is my first time hiking with poles. This might seem crazy for someone who’s seen as many leg injuries as I have but I like to rely on my quads and glutes to get me through a hike. Still, desperate times. I mostly got tangled up in them at first but having just been on crutches I managed to employ the same strategy and find my stride, albeit a glacial one. I re-bandaged my feet and pressed on.
The mountainside was covered in azaleas and other flowering plants and the hum of honeybees made for a pleasant soundtrack to the afternoon. In the fading afternoon light I passed silent does in a clearing of ferns and curious grey birds with big black eyes. Finally, over five hours after I left my car, the ground began to level out and the sky took on a pinkish quality. I had reached the summit.
At the top of Mt. LeConte is a lodge. There are no roads up here so everyone staying there has hiked up. Llamas deliver supplies and mail thrice a week. The lodge consists of a number of small cabins and a communal dining hall where the small, seasonal staff serves breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I arrived at the lodge at 6pm, just as the dinner bell was ringing. There was no one in the office and the sign directed me to the dining hall for all inquiries. A tall, bearded, Jesus-y looking man took a break from pouring wine for the guests to assist me. I told him that I was with the park service and I was staying at the bunkhouse tonight, would he be so good as to direct me toward it.
“The bunkhouse?” He asked.
“Yes, it’s the one the Alum Cave maintenance workers use during the week.”
“You mean the shelter? It’s about a quarter mile up the trail. You have more stuff that that, right?”
I looked down at the tiny bag at my feet, weighing no more than five pounds. I had with me two cliff bars, a bottle of gatorade, moleskin for blisters, medical tape, a camera, an additional ankle brace, a notebook and pen, sunscreen, a light windbreaker, and a small bag of almonds.
“Nope.” I said.
“You don’t have a sleeping bag?” He asked. “Or a sleep pad?” He looked at my bare arms. “Or a sweatshirt?” Pause. “What are you going to do when it gets cold?”
“Suffer?” I suggested.
I told him about the conditions under which I had embarked on this hike, chiefly that I was recovering from an injury and I didn’t want to burden my joints with extra weight. In speaking these words aloud they began to sound rather ill-conceived. Mountain Jesus’ face told me that he rather agreed but he kindly suggested that I go check out the shelter and if I needed anything else I should come back and he would “hook me up.” At this point I was starving and the lodge only provides warm meals to overnight guests so I sat on a swing outside the main office eating the sack lunch they offer to day hikers. I filled up my empty gatorade bottle at the water pump and hiked up to check out my accommodations for the night. It was immediately apparent why the tall, bearded man at the lodge had been been so dismayed that I was spending the night there with so few provisions.
I looked at the shelter. I looked at the keys in my hand. I looked back at the shelter. There was no door to be seen, let alone a lock. Now, I don’t think I wasn’t making a giant leap in logic when I assumed that the bunkhouse with key entry would have four walls but clearly I have much to learn about the Federal Government. I went around back where there were four, big, silver lockboxes. Saved! I thought, imagining the warm blankets and tasty provisions inside. There may well have been warm blankets and tasty provisions inside but as the padlocks were combination locks, I will never know. I hiked an additional half-mile up the trail before resigning myself to the fact that I had not missed the “bunkhouse.” This was no surprise as the shelter was plastered in posters saying that it was “Closed to everyone but Alum Cave Trail workers due to intense bear activity” and warning hikers that bears sometimes attack humans. Cool.
It was still light out but a) I had promised myself I would not hike this trail in one day, and b) even if I wanted to, I had not brought a headlamp with me and it would be dark long before I reached the bottom, so I headed back to the lodge where my last, best hope had just finished serving dinner.
Mountain Jesus, Christian name Brian, handed me his sleeping bag and a blanket to lay down underneath it as a sleeping pad. “It’s good to 45 degrees so you should be all right tonight.” I wanted to ask if I could also, ironically, have a bag of ice to put on my ankles to take down the swelling but I didn’t want to appear any more naive than I already came off as so I left, hopeful that the cold night air would be enough to sooth them. As I cautiously made my way back up the trail, sleeping bag in hand, I passed a cabin with an open front door. The man in the doorway asked if I was planning to spend the night outside. I said I was. His young son popped his head out to see for himself what such a fool looked like then ducked back inside without saying a word. The man fervently wished me well, which made me feel even more fool-hearty than I already did, and I trekked back up to my hovel away from home. I set down my bag and Brian’s gear and within seconds felt an overwhelming sense of aloneness. I’d been looking forward to being alone on a mountaintop since I found out I was coming to the Smokies but after the anxiety of the day I felt uncharacteristically disinclined to be alone. Thinking that perhaps it was just the droll setting of the glorified lean-to, I walked to a little clearing I’d passed. I sat down on a big log overlooking, among other things, Clingman’s Dome, where I had been just hours before, when I was still a respected member of society.
I was just settling in to do some journaling about my utter inability to play it safe even while actively trying to do so, when a different bearded man came into the clearing. He apologized for interrupting me and I assured him he had not. My desire for company had been granted. Justin also worked at the lodge and had just finished up for the night. We fell into easy conversation about our various travels, what brought us to the Smokies, and what we think about when we think about mountains. I asked Justin, who was less intimidating than Brian (who didn’t once crack a smile during the course of our- in my opinion highly amusing- conversations) if I could beg some ice off of him. He happily assented and we set out once more for the lodge.
The dining room was empty now and all that remained on the tables were a few oil lanterns. Justin took me through to the kitchen which was as comforting a room as I have ever been in. Pots and pans and giant whisks hung on the smooth, wooden walls. Provisions lined the open shelves and from the skylight in the slanted ceiling the last rays of the day and the first stars of the evening shown through.
No sooner had I decided that this was the calmest I’d felt all day than a man entered the kitchen talking like he had a spoken word quota to fill. This was Logan. Logan, in a matter of well-intentioned seconds, broke the lodge’s ice pack in half by smashing it violently against a bench (to break up the ice) and rushed off to his room to get a ziplock bag, offering profuse apologies as he went. I looked to Justin. “He must be lit,” he said, “I’ve never seen him like this before.”
Justin put on a kettle for tea and I wrapped half an ice pack and, upon Logan’s return, a ziplock bag of ice cubes around my ankles, feeling palpable relief. Within minutes most of the staff had gathered in the warm, cozy kitchen. Logan, Jessica and her b/f Russ, who was visiting for the weekend, Daniel, the quiet Christian who hiked up once a week to lead Sunday service on the mountaintop at sunrise, Alex and a dark haired woman who’s name I didn’t catch, and Matt, the tattooed chef who was getting ready to try out a new bread pudding recipe.
Before long the kitchen, cast in the light of an oil lantern and smelling of cinnamon, was abuzz with the familiarity and playfulness of people who are confined to a mountain together from March to November with only Llamas to bring them news of the outside world. Logan, who’s chattiness and buoyancy was attributed to his finding out that a girl he liked liked him back, dominated the conversation at intervals as he wove in and out of the room, unable to stay in one place for more than 20 highly entertaining minutes. During one of these stints he asked what I did and I told about my work here in the park. He promptly embarked on telling his own story, a ghost story about a mad old man in the woods. It was awesome to hear someone else improvise a tale on the spot and he did an excellent job of it until the pressure broke him. Slowly backing up toward the door: “Everybody’s staring at me and I have to come up with something to say. I don’t know how this ends! I’m making it up! I don’t know how you do this, I can’t do this anymore!”
None of our assurances that we were looking at him because he was holding us in gleeful suspense were enough to get him to finish the story, which was probably for the best considering I was spending the night alone in the woods. I could have stayed and couch crashed but basking in the glow of mollified ankles and a heart light with the hospitality and kindness of strangers, I felt manifest destiny pulling me to sleep at the shelter . Anticipating renewed ankle injuries and bear break-ins, Justin walked me up to the shelter with a headlamp to light the way and showed me how to rig my bag up and out of the reach of bears.
The nearly full moon cast a white glow on the un-canopied ground and the woods were silent. After the constancy of the bee drone on the way up and the laughter of the lodge kitchen, it was strange to hear… nothing. I’ve been in plenty of woods at night and I have never encountered a night so quiet as this one. Curious. I felt perfectly content as I arranged the blanket and sleeping bag as Brian bid and slid inside. It was teeth chatteringly cold out but that bag must’ve been made of unicorn hair because even in my tank top and summer hiking pants, I was warm enough to nod off. I woke twice in the night to the chirp of birds with an enviable nighttime routine of napping and chatting and napping some more, and eventually, a third time, from the cold. I’ve accidentally spent enough nights outdoors and in the woods to be intimately acquainted with this kind of cold. It’s not pleasant but you get through it.
In the morning light, I retrieved my bag from it’s nighttime rigging, packed up my belongings, wrapped my feet in ace bandages and the additional ankle brace, and headed back down the trail. I dropped off Brian’s gear with him, said goodbyes to the magnanimous crew of the Mt. LeConte Lodge, and started down the mountain.
I knew that yesterday’s hiking trials were nothing to today’s. Going up a mountain takes some muscle but going down puts stress on the joints. I would sooner have hiked the trail twice uphill than have to go down it once. An hour in, I passed by (read: was passed by) the father and son from the cabin last night. The boy chirped “You made it! I thought they’d find you in a block of ice this morning!” Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid. “He was pretty worried about you last night,” his Dad said. Has this mountain an endless supply of caring strangers?
As I stood looking out over the valley, I heard a guy whoop loudly. The echo resounded through the hills. I opened my mouth to reply in kind but I was seized with fear. I tried to chalk it up to my belief in the Leave No Trace philosophy; that sound leaves an imprint on the land as surely as leaving trash does therefore I had no right to go yelling through the mountains, but this was an excuse. I’d been thinking about the LNT philosophy on the way up the mountain and I’d come to the conclusion that when it comes to basics like using a trail, singing silly songs to myself, and emitting CO2 as I exhale, I have just as much right to be on this mountain as any other creature. Heart pounding, unsure what, if any, sound would come out, I took a deep breath and shouted “HELLO!” into the valley. It was at least an octave higher than my speaking my voice but it echoed throughout the land. The guy down below whooped in reply. I whooped back and continued down the mountain, heart racing and grinning wildly. Just as it is with deep breathing, speaking is easier here than it is up North, for which I am profoundly grateful.
Everyone I passed on the trail shared my good spirits. “Hello! How are you?” I would say. “Absolutely perfect!” They would say. “We have never been better in our lives!” “Incredible! Just incredible!” There is nothing like climbing mountains.
Despite having no time keeping device (I had no need of one on the trail) I had a strong feeling on my way down that I was going to arrive back at my car at the exact time I had left it the day before. Lo and behold, I reached the bottom of the trail at 1.40pm, the exact time- to the minute- that I had left the day before. Sometimes, without any planning at all, things just come together.
