North of Pearisburg

Shoes and boots in a tree at Neel's Gap

From Sarah via a phone conversation with Jay on 5/20/11:

He is 'only' 35 miles north of Pearisburg.  "Thirty-five miles in two days doesn't sound like an 'only' to me," I

protested.  "Well, I did hike 20 miles today, but I did a short day yesterday because my shoes have been hurting me," Jay replied.

When Jay started the trail, he was wearing heavier tennis shoes, to keep him warm through the spring storms.  Since Damascus, he has been wearing lighter shoes that he bought for summer wear back in March. But after 600 miles in five weeks, his feet have changed shape a bit. So the shoes that were very comfortable in March don't fit him quite right now. He is having to break them in all over again. Fortunately, since they are tennis shoes, another 100 or so miles should get the shoes conformed nicely to his feet again.

Other than shoe issues, he is doing well. Jay says the hikers that he passes now are in smaller groups, he thinks many hikers stopped in Damascus. He is still passing most people, as he is still hiking long hours. It's not so much fun to hang out by himself, so he hikes.

Update 5/25/11 from Helen:
Jay has since gotten good insoles for his new shoes and his feet are feeling much better. Hooray for access to choices in shoes! He is closing in on Buena Vista, VA. He is now about 9-10 days ahead of his posted itinerary.

Update on Jay's Progress

From Helen via emails from Sarah:
Many of you know that the southeast has seen some steady cold rain this past week, and a lot of it was right on top of Jay as he hiked through Virginia. As he reached Pearisburg a couple of days ago he decided to head in to a hotel to get dry and warm for the night. He had recently traded out his winter types of clothing for only warm-weather items as he met us at Damascus Trail Days. I guess that was a bit premature. The local thrift store in Pearisburg was a good place to find a wool sweater and long johns. The woman at the thrift store told him now that he bought those clothes the weather would heat up. Small price to pay for a few days of warmth and sun.

Jay is still about 8 days ahead of his itinerary. He has gone through a barrage of hail, chilled wind, torrential rain, summer heat, and bright sun. Way to go, Jay!

Pictures from Newfound Gap



Jay, Sarah, Mark, Helen at Newfound Gap

 From Helen:
Too many pictures wouldn't quite fit in the post "Feeding Hungry Hikers," so I thought I would add a few good ones from that visit here.



Mark presents Jay with a topographical relief map of
Great Smoky Mountains National Park to carry
with him. Sure, it will fit in his back pocket!





Only 1,972 miles to go.
Sarah and Jay stand by the sign at
Newfound Gap.



Jay on his way up the AT from Newfound Gap.
Beautiful day! Sad parting.

Standing Bear Hostel at Waterville School Road.
Jay and Helen protect their pizza from the friendly dogs.

Damascus Trail Days

From Helen (more pics coming later for this one):
On Friday 5/13 Mark and I picked up Jay and another thu-hiker, Mike, as they came into Laurel Creek and State Route 615 near Wytheville, VA. We brought them down to Damascus, VA for the annual Trail Days celebration. In Damascus there were many terrific speakers sharing their experiences about past thru-hikes. Gene Espy, the second person to complete a thru-hike of the entire AT, was there with the book he wrote about his adventure. He gave a presentation about his hike in 1951 and he autographed copies of his book for people. There were also several films shown, including a film about Katahdin and a film about the Pacific Crest Trail. To see more about the schedule for Trail Days and to see more pictures from the weekend go to http://www.traildays.us/ .

First trip for us was to the Damascus US Post Office for Jay to catch up on mail. We wandered around the vendors and briefly looked at outdoor gear displayed there, and then we walked down to Tent City where many hikers stayed the weekend. A great map of Damascus was provided online, and we oriented ourselves to what was available. Later we got Jay back to our hotel in Abingdon, VA, for a long-awaited shower and reunion with my parents, Ruth and Jack. (See Alpine Motel at http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g30220-d116017-Reviews-Alpine_Motel-Abingdon_Virginia.html)

That evening was spent at a Shoney's seafood buffet, and the next morning's breakfast was at a Huddle House. Jay enjoyed indulging in as much food as his eyes could hold.

Mark and I spent Saturday seeing the parade and vendors in Damascus, while Jay relaxed and did laundry with Jack and Ruth. There are many choices in lightweight backpacking gear now that allows a hiker to carry 30 lbs or less with ease. Every tent and backpack we saw made us wish to be out on the trail more.


Jay and Mike enjoying lunch at the
Appletree Restaurant in Marion, VA


Sunday morning Jack and Ruth and Jay picked up Mike from Damascus and we all went to Jack's old alma mater, Emory and Henry College, for church. We tried to go to Glade Spring for lunch, but that small town had suffered tremendous tornado damage in the storms at the end of April. Most of its restaurants were closed because of damage, and the destruction of homes and trees and other buildings was evident at every turn. We soberly turned toward Marion, VA for a country cooking lunch that allowed Jay and Mike to fuel up before their afternoon back on the trail.

Mark, Mike, Jay, Ruth, Jack getting ready to embark again

We were sad to part from Jay and Mike for now. Jack and Ruth took them back to the trailhead at Laurel Creek. Almost immediately Mark and I started planning our next rendezvous with Jay. Such great adventures lay ahead on the Appalachian Trail!

Walking the Straight and Narrow

From Jay:

As I dropped down from the wintry ridge tops of North Carolina toward the Nantahala River, I was overwhelmed by the profusion of spring colors.  Dogwood, trillium, violet, and columbine blossoms punctuated the vibrant green hues of the shimmering leaves.  Light sparkled off cascading creeks; a cacophony of bird songs filled the air.  The surrounding beauty, and the anticipation of meeting my in-laws in Wesser, NC and seeing my wife soon after, gave rise to unbridled joyfulness.  As a result, I must admit, I frolicked.

Now, when one hears the word ‘frolic’ one may visualize some young animal, say a colt, bounding and prancing in the morning sunlight.  However, when the word is applied to a late-middle-aged, somewhat over-weight, balding male hiker the result is somewhat less endearing.  For me frolicking is mostly a state of mind; however my frolic does manifest itself in a slight bounce in the step which, although hardly noticeable, does result in a distinct jiggle in the paunch.  So . . . trudging merrily along, paunch ajiggle, I was unaware that the vibrations emanating from my midriff would be detected by the wicked one.

Red and yellow trillium

“Hmmm, I detect a disturbance in the force . . .”  Gazing into her crystal ball, the wicked witch of the AT spies the loping imbecile.  “Ah Ha!  It’s that snob from the west, and he’s . . . FROLICKING!  Disgusting!  I’ll nix that frolic in the bud.  Bring in the poison ivy!  Ah, Ha, ha, ha, ha! . . . Look- he’s stopping to rest, the slacker.  Let’s put some ivy on that tree he’s leaning his pack against – that’s right . . . hip belt, shoulder strap, water bottles . . .Ah, Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Hours later, an itchy rash begins to appear on random parts of my body.  “Oh Noooo!” I think.  It looks and feels just like the poison oak I used to get in California.  This is going to be a bad case.



Poison Ivy vine on tree trunk

I have come to the conclusion that, for several generations, my ancestors lived underground.  During their prolonged stint of spelunking, their skin lost all resistance to sunlight, mosquitoes, bee stings, and any plant substance stronger than syrup.  This also explains my sub par eye-sight and addiction to wandering.  My ancestress must have somehow stumbled out of the family cave system and spent her remaining days myopically searching for the way back . . .  Anyway, I am extremely allergic to poison oak and won’t recover without the assistance of modern medicine.  Assuming the same vulnerability to poison ivy, especially when the worst blisters developed under my pack straps, my hike toward Wesser became, let’s say, more purposeful.

My two days off trail passed with dizzying rapidity.  I remember episodes of zipping about at light speed in metal cages with wheels, interspersed with the consumption of food that wasn’t in wrappers and tasted heavenly.  Somewhere in there my kind in-laws took me in for repairs.  (“Snip, snip here, cut, cut there, put in some brand new hay ...”)   Before I knew it, I found myself back in the forest, trudging north, accompanied by itchy, oozing rashes, but hopeful that my prescription would eventually heal them.  Hiking along, I wished I could identify at least some of the incredible variety of plants I saw – especially the evil one.  As I ascended toward the Smoky Mountains, an apparition parted the fog.  It was a lady.  She wore a tattered outfit which, oddly, seemed to have sprouted several cat tails.

“I reckon you are the Unfortunate One,” she said with a southern drawl.  “I’m Cat Tails, the guardian of the Smokies. You might think of me as the ‘good witch’. I aim to give you, the Unfortunate One, a little common sense as far as plants in these parts are concerned.”

Very healthy Poison Ivy plant

For the next few days this woman pointed out poison ivy plants as we passed by. At lower elevations they lined the trail side in profusion. Their little triplets of droopy leaves seemed to reach out, straining to brush my legs as I passed.

“That looks like poison ivy, but it has five leaves, so it’s really Virgina Creeper,” she would say, or “Those leaves are too pointy, so that plant’s a maple.”

“If you brush against a plant, Unfortunate One, look back and see what it was.  If it was poison ivy, then rub yourself with a Jewelweed and then rinse yourself off in the nearest spring.” “Can you show me a Jewelweed?” I whimpered. “Naw, they ain’t leafed out yet.  And they only grow at lower elevation, near water.”  The apparition continued to appear here and there as I walked through the Smokies, reiterating her earlier botany lessons. 



Apparition - out of
spitting distance range

As I slowly healed, I began to notice that she was quite attractive.  Walking along, cat tails swinging gracefully, she must have read my mind.  “Even if we was hitched, you wouldn’t get within spitting distance of me, sporting that rash!”

“I’m sorry,” I whined.  “But say, isn’t there something you can give me that will prevent poison ivy in case I screw up again? . . . No, I’m not wearing those ruby hiking boots – they must weigh 20 pounds!” “Hmph!  Suit yerself, you ungrateful trail leper,” she quipped, and vanished for good.



Tulip Poplar in bloom - safe greenery to touch!



I concluded that the anti-poison ivy strategy most appropriate for a thru-hiker is to walk the straight and narrow – or avoid touching any greenery on the trail sides.  Some wear protective gaiters, but I find they give me heat rash in warm weather.  I know . . . I really need to find that cave system!

Hills, Hollers, and Stories

Sarah at Fontana Dam

From Sarah:

Jay has already mentioned how the AT tends to follow ridge-lines, up and over mountains, then down between to gaps, stamps, or swags.  Our first night together, we camped on a ridge line just before Stecoah Gap, and woke to a deep red sunrise between slate-blue clouds on one side of the ridge and a huge three-quarter moon setting on the other side.  Talk about a beauty spot!  On our third day, as the morning rain blew itself out, I could look back and see clouds pouring over the gaps as I hiked above them on the ridge.

            On Wednesday we climbed Shuckstack Mtn.  “What do you suppose a ‘shuckstack’ is, anyway?” Jay asked as we were looking at our day’s itinerary. 

            “I reckon it has to do with corn shucks.  Maybe the mountain is in the shape of a corn ‘stook’, where all the plants are piled in a pyramid” I suggested.  Sure enough, after a couple of hours of hiking, we spied an appropriately pyramid-shaped, steep-sided little peak ahead and above us.  The trail curled between two ridges, then rounded the outer edge of Shuckstack, slowly ascending, and acting as if it had no intention of getting to the top any time soon.  “Maybe this isn’t Shuckstack yet”, I said dubiously.  “Or maybe we won’t hit the top of it.  This trail looks like it will just go around, behind, and beyond the mountain.”  But, just as I said this, the trail started gaining some serious elevation with lovely switchbacks, and before I knew it we were standing on top, out of breath from exertion and breathless from the view.  An old abandoned fire tower still stood at the very peak, and we quickly dropped packs and scrambled up for a 360º unimpeded view of Fontana Lake, misty blue ridges, and miles of wilderness.



Sarah climbing up the fire tower

            On our way down, as I stepped off the trail and behind a tree for a little privacy, I discovered another reason for the name ‘shuckstack’.  The whole side of the mountain was made of flattened, concave rocks, piled higgledy-piggledy, ready to tip and slide at the slightest pressure, just like a huge pile of corn shucks at the end of a shucking party.  Not the easiest place to do a bit of private business, and it gave me a renewed appreciation for the firm footing of the trail.

            On Friday, we woke to a little rain and a LOT of mist.  Pyro told me he was “walking the clouds”.  I thought that was a good description of walking along a narrow ridgeline, featureless fog within spitting distance, and all sights and sounds muffled to pianissimo.  With not much to look at, I retreated into my imagination, and began telling myself all the Grandfather Tales I could remember from my childhood.  I told myself tales unique to the southern Appalachians, such as “Mule Eggs” – where a mountain farmer gets the best of a city slicker;  “Only a Fair Day’s Huntin” – a boasting tall tale of geese, trout, and deer; “Wicked John and the Devil” – a tale explaining what foxfire is when it isn’t; and “Snakebit Hoe Handle” – a tall tale with a small ending.  Then I told myself stories that were mountain renditions of European fairytales, such as “Cat Tails” – a Cinderella who wins the day through hard work, a kind heart, an intimate knowledge of her surroundings, and a bit of judicious lying.  There was also “White Bear Whittington” – a rather earthy rendition of Beauty and the Beast.  If Disney had been from the southern Appalachians, his movies might have been a good bit different!



Sarah and Jay inside fire tower

           Those tales took me to a flat ridge near Clingmans Dome, the highest point on the AT, at 6,643 feet.  Since I couldn’t see more than 15 feet ahead of me, when a southbound day hiker materialized out of the mist, I cheerfully asked him if I was nearly to the top.  He looked at me with a panic-stricken expression and exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, no!  You’ve got a killer of a hill in front of you!”  Well, that was a little daunting to hear, but I figured I might as well tell myself another story.  Just about then I ran into Jay and Blair, who had been waiting for me.  I delightedly began telling them “To Market” – a story of a married couple whose love and trust helped them triumph over the wiles of sharp bargain hunters and scoffing neighbors.  There is nothing more enchanting to a storyteller than a captive audience, and I thoroughly enjoyed my climb up the ‘killer of a hill’ to the top of Clingmans Dome.  Blair was very polite and said he enjoyed the story, too.  Jay has heard several of these stories before.



Sarah fell asleep on the car ride
down the mountain

            The end of my 70 miles through the Appalachians came all too soon, and I slept most of the plane ride home.  My time on the AT with Jay was bewitching, and I look forward to more this summer.



Thru-Hikers of the AT



Jay and Blair eat Krystal burgers brought by Mark and Helen

From Sarah:

Jay and I were hiking at the height of the thru-hiker season on the AT from Wesser through the Smokies.  Although each shelter was no longer a tent city, as in Georgia, there were still a couple dozen hikers to meet each day, especially while in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park where staying at a shelter is mandatory.  Ninety percent of the hikers were young males, between the ages of 18 and 25.  We met one pair of sisters, two women each hiking alone, and two women each hiking with a partner.  Including me, that totaled seven women out of 40 or so hikers.  All the hikers were very nice, and most were eager to talk when we met. 



Pyro displays a delicious
salami and tortilla dinner



            Most hikers on the AT take on a ‘trail name’.  The first one we met was Tin Man, so named because he had open-heart surgery two years ago.  Another memorable name was Pyro, because he could reliably build a fire even with wet and green wood.  TicTac could have been called ‘Mouse Bane’, for she was known for carrying mousetraps in her pack, and skewering any mice she caught at the shelters.  Blair, a recently retired gentleman, was our most constant hiking partner, as he and I had paces almost perfectly matching.  The wide variety of people on the AT added to the fun as much as the diverse flora and fauna.