The section of trail along the Hiawassee is gorgeous, and I had a beautiful day for it. I ran into several snakes along the trail though, which was a little nerve-wracking. More precisely, they were sitting still in the middle of the trail and did not move. At the time I thought the first one was a copperhead due to its coloring, though looking back at my footage I realize now that it was just a water snake. The second one was also just a water snake of the same variety. These snakes have a very similar color pattern to copperheads, but they lack the venom glands, and if you’re unsure of the head shape, you can look at the eyes. Copperheads have black vertical elliptical pupils. The snakes I saw just had dark, circular pupils. The second snake had an injury on its back. It looked as if something had tried to carry it away, but it had somehow escaped. If interested, you can see this in Episode 3 of my Benton MacKaye Trail thru-hike YouTube series. As I hiked on, a third black snake came shooting out of the bushes and ricocheted off of my trekking pole trying to get away from me. I slowed down significantly, concerned I might accidentally step on a poisonous snake trying to sun itself in the dappled light that was hitting the trail. It had been a cold few days, so like me, they were trying to make the most of the weather. I didn’t see as much of the Hiawasee while walking as a result – I was mostly focused on where my feet were landing.
The trail winds its way along to Coker Creek. It’s not hard to guess what kind of industry is in this part of Tennessee. Coker Creek has a few campsites, but there were enough colorful comments in Guthook about the local presence that I did not intend to stay there. I didn’t see a soul when I passed through, but I was already committed to hiking a bit farther and stealth camping. I was about to head up onto a ridge, so I grabbed a hearty supply of water before starting the climb. There would be no more water until the next day. I struggled to find a spot to stealth camp, and finally had to settle for a spot right off the side of the trail just before Old Tennessee 68. I thought that the road would be quiet as it was just a dirt road, but it was quite bumping! Apparently this road goes to a place called Buck Bald, which is popular with locals. There was also another dirt road feeding into it where the trail crossed. My tent was positioned just such that no one could see me, but every time a car careened down that road and around the bend, it felt like its headlights were going to discover my presence. I was hoping not to have a Ned Beatty moment. My worst nightmare would have been if I’d heard a car stop, park, and then heard drunken voices coming towards me. They’d probably be smashing bottles along the way. They might be firing their six shooters at empty beer cans they would be throwing into the air. This is probably how it would happen.
“Is that a GALL DANG CAT I see over there Jethro?” Bang, Bang! Smash, Smash!
“Naw Cleetus, that’s a HUNGRY cat, and I think that kitty wants to play. Wooooweeee!”
“Yeeeeehaw, squeal squeal.”
Of course, nothing so dramatic transpired. The rain and wind came, and I fell fast asleep.
The morning was again quite crisp, and a day of roller-coaster climbs awaited. One of the things I really liked about the BMT was the amount of ridge hiking. I really enjoy that, as opposed to always passing along the sides of mountains to get to the passes and valleys. There were lots of views through the trees, which is pretty typical for the Appalachians. It’s less common to get fully exposed views, though the BMT had many of those as well.
I climbed and climbed and began to find some fallen treasures. First, I found a pair of perfectly good sunglasses on the ground. I picked them up and put them in the back of my pack. They were trash, if not treasure, at this point. Maybe I would find the owner, and if not, at least the trash was off the mountain. Not too long after, I found a one-liter Smartwater bottle in almost brand new condition right in the middle of the trail. These were hiker tracks! I grabbed the bottle and shoved it in the back of my pack beside the sunglasses.
After a while, I reached the approximate halfway point of the BMT at a peak called Rocky Top. I was already halfway done! I made a little commemorative sign out of sticks, then sat down to have a snack. It was a really windy day, so I couldn’t linger too long as I was getting cold. After Rocky Top, the trail turns off the ridge and heads down along beautiful Brookshire Creek. This would become another of my favorite sections of trail. I had planned to camp at a marked site along Brookshire Creek. There were some comments in Guthook about potential widowmaker dead trees at the site, but I figured I would check it out. Surely they would have fallen by now, right? I believe the term “widowmaker” was actually used in the Guthook comments. Either way, I’ve heard it a thousand times and always thought it odd that single people don’t get hit by falling trees. It’s one of the hazards of getting married that they don’t tell you about. I was only about a quarter mile from the site when I ran into an older-than-me gentleman sitting beside the trail. He was definitely a backpacker, filtering water and having a rest.
“Did you lose anything back there by chance?” I asked, after introducing myself.
“Pair of sunglasses and a water bottle,” he replied.
I grinned and spun around so he could grab them out of the mesh pocket at the back of my pack. It always feels good when you can reunite someone with something they’ve lost on trail, especially higher value items like sunglasses, contact lens cases, water vessels, hand sanitizer, etc.
After chatting for a bit, I marched on, only to discover that the Guthook comments were right – the campsite I had hoped to utilize was definitely not happening. There were dead trees leaning over the site, and there was only one pseudo-level spot anyway, directly beneath said trees. I would have to find a stealth spot as there were no marked campsites anywhere close on the map. I ended up finding a wonderful spot, which had clearly been an established campsite at some point. Maybe it still was. With the BMT it is hard to tell, simply because there are so few backpackers out there. The forest wastes no time in concealing such areas. Either way, it was one of my favorite sites of the trip. I had access to Brookshire Creek for water and ambiance. The surrounding forest was lush and beautiful, with dappled sunlight coming in through the valley like light peeking into a room between loosely-drawn curtains. I made a little fire that evening and enjoyed the rushing sound of the stream and the incredible calm of the forest. It felt magical and restful.
In my tent, I inspected the blister that had started to form on my way into Reliance. It was now a solid bulge on the side of my right big toe. I decided not to pop it. As anyone who has read my journals over the years will know, I’ve tried just about every approach to blister care that is out there, including some really dumb ones. There was the time in Damascus on the AT that I decided to cut all of the skin off of my heel blisters to “let them air out and dry,” leaving them raw and painful. That was pretty stupid, but somehow at the time, in my desperation, it seemed like a good idea. On this trip, I reasoned that, having tried every other form of interference possible, I would just leave this one alone. After all, my body had formed the blister for a reason. If I taped it up, it didn’t hurt while hiking and still fit in my shoe. If it bursts, it bursts, but it would not be by my hand. It was getting pretty bulbous though. Something that large was fitting of a name, so I decided to name it Wilson. I wasn’t seeing many people on the trail. I could use a trail friend. It also sort of looked like a miniature volleyball. Wilson it was. I said good night to Wilson and the rest of the forest and drifted off to sleep.
The next morning I had a few river fords to enjoy. As I came up on the first crossing, I ran into the same hiker whose stuff I had found on trail. He had found a tiny, but workable, stealth spot by the first ford to camp the prior evening. He probably had the same experience of not trusting the campsite with lots of dead trees. I never saw him pass me the evening prior, but apparently he had. Trail Frogger can be a funny thing sometimes. You’ll think you’re in front of someone, only to later catch up to them on trail. After the hike, when I was editing video from that evening, I would actually see him pass quietly behind me in the footage as I was setting up camp. It felt a little like catching Santa Claus coming down the chimney, or like those shows on TV where someone looks back at a recording and sees an image of a ghost that they didn’t see in the moment.
I said hello again and took my shoes off to ford the stream. It was icy cold, but felt kind of good, like an extra cup of coffee served with a light slap. I know the “cool” thing to do is to just walk through streams with shoes on, but I had plenty of time to make my miles, and my feet had been wet enough on this trip. Everyone talks about how trail runners dry out quickly. This is true, in comparison with boots, but the reality is, in the Appalachians, nothing really dries out “quickly.” And when it does, you better believe it won’t smell the same. I already had a wretched-smelling pair of socks perpetually safety pinned to the back of my pack at this point. Two and a half days of straight rain could be summed up simply by their smell, which was detectable from quite a ways away. In the Appalachians, if I have time, a pair of flip flops, and the crossing is not very intense, I’ll probably take my shoes off to keep my socks and shoes as dry as possible, even if they’ve been wet. If I don’t have flip flops, I am more likely to ford in my shoes so as not to risk cutting my feet, but if the bottom looks fairly sandy, I will cross in bare feet. I think Wilson was excited to get to see this one, rather than be confined to my shoe, even if it would be through a veil of bandaging. I think he squealed a little when he felt the icy water permeate the leuko tape and moleskin shrouding his head.
There were one or two more similar fords, and then the trail headed down towards the beautiful Tellico River. I was excited because there is a trout hatchery down a short side trail on the north end of the Tellico River bridge that allows visitors to tour its operations. I really wanted to check this out. When I reached the river, there was a day use area with trash cans, so I disposed of what little trash I had. Unfortunately, while the views of the Tellico were stunning from its parking lot, the trout hatchery was closed to visitors due to the pandemic. Someday I’ll have to go back, or to a similar trout hatchery to satisfy my curiosity. Years ago on a Maine road trip, my wife and I stopped in Damariscotta to see alewife fish ladders that were part of a harvesting operation. The alewives are a saltwater fish that move up through estuaries into freshwater streams to lay their eggs, much like salmon. It was pretty fascinating to see this in action. I got tired just watching them.
The BMT departs the Tellico but passes some of its feeder streams on the way up to Whigg Meadow, a bald where I planned to spend the night if it wasn’t too windy. This section of trail was yet another blue ribbon winner full of wildflowers, lush green moss, and the sound of rushing water. As I climbed higher, however, the trail quickly became less attractive as it joined a gravel road that would take me the rest of the way to the bald. On my way up the road, I passed the first other thru-hiker out of only two I would see on the entire trip, and one of the few backpackers I had seen on the trail at all. Trail name Chudy, he was thru-hiking southbound. I don’t remember the year, but he had thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail a long time ago, at least long before Guthook and a lot of the ultralight gear today’s voyageurs have access to. I chatted with Chudy for a few minutes, excited to meet another thru-hiker, and then we both carried on our merry ways.
I got lucky on Whigg Meadow. The bald is quite exposed, but the wind was really calm that evening. I set up camp in a section of the meadow that was slightly offset from the main meadow area, with a fire ring and some trees around to help reduce the impact of any wind. There is a spring-fed pond on top of the bald just a short hike down from the meadow. I don’t often see ponds on top of balds, so this was interesting in itself. I walked down to check it out and get some water. Afterward, I ate an early dinner by the fire ring, watching a snail slowly navigate his way over a blade of grass. It was about 5pm and had been an early day. I only hiked fourteen miles or so. It was already getting pretty cold, so I put on all my layers, including my wool beanie, grabbed my camera and walked out into the main meadow over to the other side of the bald to watch the sunset.
As I walked along I saw a tall, gaunt young man pull up in a pickup truck and start to walk around the meadow, peering up into trees at its edges with a large pair of binoculars. I waved and then sat down to enjoy the view. There was still quite a bit of light left in the evening, so I just kind of sat there and took it all in. I planned to stay until after sunset, as long as I could remain warm enough. I didn’t have anything else I needed to be doing – one of the joys of a trip like this.
The young man walked over and said hello. He was an ornithology student doing an internship with the Forest Service. That day he was up on the bald trying to finish up what he called a “big day,” which is basically the 24-hour version of a birder’s big year. He was competing with friends from the university to see who could spot the most different kinds of birds in one day. He knew the area well and felt like he could clinch the win there. We had a long, interesting conversation about bird tracking and migration patterns. He told me about how they catch and track birds up on the bald, and we talked about the different types of technologies that existed or were being developed to facilitate bird tracking. It was a real bird nerd out, and I loved it! As we talked and dusk started to arrive, the chimney sweeps were flying low around us – an easy score for his big day.
After my birder friend left, I was alone again with the view to myself. Whigg Meadow was noted as a popular spot with locals, and sometimes partiers, since you can drive right up to it and its incredible views via a forest road, so I was surprised no one else was there. It was utterly silent. But, before I could be too surprised, I heard a commotion behind me and the sloshing sound of ice, and two guys showed up carrying a giant cooler. On their heels was a larger group that turned out to be an extended family. They were getting together after time apart to enjoy a picnic and take a picture with the view in the background. It was nice. They built a fire and I chatted with them for a bit while watching the sunset. They offered me a sandwich and I declined at first, having just eaten and feeling like I didn’t want to interrupt their family time. They mentioned that they had met another thru-hiker earlier who would be showing up. He arrived shortly and went by the trail name Low Branch. When Low Branch accepted a sandwich, I decided to go for it, so we both enjoyed the food and talked with the family for a while. After the family left, Low Branch and I huddled by their fire for a short time before dousing it out. It was cold up there!
When the sun was fully down and we finally walked back to the smaller, more secluded meadow by way of our headlamps, I saw that Low Branch was tarp camping. I knew he was an experienced thru-hiker, but I’m always even more impressed by people who sleep under tarps. I feel like every night under a tarp would be a repeat of Indian Rock Shelter, where the carpenter ants crawled up and down my legs all night. I am told this is not the case, but it does nothing to alleviate my concerns. I am always quite sure that I’ll get a centipede lodged in my inner ear, or wake up to a pile of scorpions in my pants. Surely these things would happen. Surely.
It was a cold night up on the meadow. The first thing I heard when I woke up was the sound of Low Branch’s tarp blowing away. Well, almost anyway. The wind had picked up overnight, but fortunately he caught it at the last minute. That was it for him – he got out of camp fairly early to escape the wind and keep more gear from blowing away. I ate breakfast in my tent before leaving, and by the time I did, the sun was at least starting to add a little warmth to the morning chill.
Not too far into my morning, I passed a random grave site with a plaque. It was the grave of an unidentified man killed during Civil War times by a gang known as the Kirkland Bushwhackers. Apparently this gang, lead by John Kirkland, was made up of Confederate deserters who preyed on the families left behind at their homesteads while the men were away fighting. They were notoriously ruthless, from what I later read. It’s always a little odd to come across graves while hiking, though not uncommon at all. This one was a reminder of the terrible times our nation has seen in the past, hopefully never to be repeated.
The day’s hiking took me up more ridges, and I hiked up a side trail to an amazing viewpoint called The Hangover. It offered unobstructed, panoramic views of the surrounding mountains. The wind was so strong and gusty at the top that I had to hold onto my hat and I kept getting blown off balance. It was definitely worth the short jaunt down the side trail and one of the best views on the BMT. I was grateful that I had good weather for it. The Hangover would not be a fun place in bad weather.
From the viewpoint, the trail started to descend down towards the valley formed by the Cheoah River. I stopped to check on Wilson and another hot spot that was forming on my left heel. Wilson was doing fine and feeling fine, but he had a new friend now. That friend was developing on my left heel like a real champion – confident and determined to win. The blister had already formed and was not small. It had an angry burn to it as if hotly contesting a perceived bad call by a referee, so I decided to name it John McEnroe. It bulged up at me in utter defiance. I could hear it scream at me as I covered it in leuko tape and moleskin. John, meet Wilson. Wilson, John. I hiked on.
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