The BMT Chronicles: Chapter 5

After tending to my blisters, I caught back up with Low Branch and hiked with him for a while. We passed by a non-poisonous black snake that had some faint white markings on it, sunning itself at the edge of the trail. It was as still as a statue, but probably eager for us to stop gawking and move on. Low Branch and I continued on and played a little bit of trail leapfrog. At one point I was out ahead, hiking at a fairly fast clip, when I saw a large fallen tree in the middle of the trail.  As I barreled up on it, something made me snap to awareness and I realized that there was a hornet nest in the hollow of the tree right in front of me, and I was way too close and still headed towards it! I ducked left and tried not to breathe as I winced in nervous anticipation and kept walking. I fully expected to start getting stung as I quickly made my way around the log. Somehow I did not, but it was too close for comfort. There were SO MANY hornets flying in and out of that log. At least, I think they were hornets. Some kind of “bee.” I didn’t want to get close enough to identify them, but I DID want to go back and try and film them with my 200mm zoom, so I did. I stayed a safe distance away, but hung around until I saw Low Branch coming up the trail. I shouted out and startled him, but I wanted to make sure he didn’t walk face first into a swarm of bees.I have a relatively elevated fear of bees, wasps, hornets, and the like. Nothing will make me squeal in an embarrassingly high-pitched fashion faster than thinking I’m about to get stung or to stumble into a nest. I got stung quite a lot as a kid growing up, so I think that probably has something to do with it. I’ve accidentally grabbed nests reaching for balls that got thrown into the weeds, I’ve had wasps stuck inside my shirt, I’ve mowed over yellow jacket nests. When I was still quite young, I even decided it was a good idea to step on a bumble bee in my bare feet. Needless to say, I’ll often quickly scrutinize a hole in the ground on trail before walking over it, just in case I see anything flying in and out of it….

After that incident, Low Branch and I hiked together for a bit, almost until reaching the Tapoco Lodge. The trail passes by the lodge just before it crosses the mighty Cheoah River. It’s reported to be a hiker friendly place and I believe they accept mailed resupply boxes. Low Branch decided he was going to look into staying a night there. I already had plans to stay at Fontana Lodge the next day, where I had mailed a resupply box, so I pushed on.

The trail wound its way through the Tapoco Lodge parking lot to a bridge across the Cheoah, and then US-129 on the other side. There is a short road walk there along US-129, which is a fairly busy, winding mountain road. It is relatively famous for a section called The Tail of the Dragon, which is a long series of sharp s-curves through the mountains. Whenever I hear people mention this section of road, it is almost always to relay tales of accidents or people driving too fast to make the tight turns. It definitely has a reputation in the area, though whether it is justified, I do not know.  I saw a muskrat-like creature run from the rocks beside the river into the middle of the highway, and then quickly back to cover. I was not close enough to tell whether it was a muskrat, beaver, or something else. I did wonder if it was acting on a dare from its other river friends. Patrons of the lodge were sitting on an outdoor patio across the river. It was the perfect setting to have some kind of Muskrat Games. It was time for me to get off the road though, so I didn’t stick around to see if anything further transpired. 

From the highway, the trail re-enters the woods heading north across a small wooden bridge. The trail went straight up and was quite overgrown here. Between Tapoco Lodge and Fontana Lodge was the most overgrown section of the entire BMT, particularly higher up on the mountain before descending to Fontana, but I didn’t know this to be the case yet. I would soon find out the hard way (e.g. the usual way I find things out).  Of course, as soon as I started the steep climb north, I noticed the sky getting ominously dark. It was the kind of dark where you can just tell a thunderstorm is going to happen somewhere. In fact, I could pretty much tell that I was going to get stuck in it, but I clung on to the hope that it might just blow over. Besides, I had nowhere to go other than north, and I wasn’t about to pay for a room at Tapoco Lodge just to get out of a storm, especially when I would stay at Fontana the next day. So I did what I usually do, which is stubbornly push on, a walking glutton for punishment. 

I hiked as quickly as I could. I was carrying a fair amount of water as there was no reported source on that ridge, nor would there be until the next morning just before I arrived at Fontana Lodge. As I climbed higher, the wind whipped up around me and I could start to feel rain drops coming down. I started to move faster now. There was no camping spot on my map in this section – I was just going to have to find a place that would work. The problem is, that can be tough to do when you’re climbing. Usually you have to get to the top before the ground levels out enough to find a place that will support a tent. Unless, of course, you get lucky…. I had one ace in the hole. Thanks to my Guthook map app, I knew there was an old road bed up ahead, and there were comments indicating that it was level enough to camp on. Thunder cracked to the east and I hiked faster, laser focused on getting to that road bed, or finding a place to crash before I got stuck in a downpour.

I reached the old road bed. I looked to the east and realized that I was literally on the spine of this climb up Yellow Creek Mountain, in a small, ledge-like pass. It was basically a short break after the initial “hump” of Yellow Creek Mountain, before continuing up. The road bed crossed over the trail and stopped about 50 feet to the east as it headed up the small pass to what looked like a small clearing, but was now shrouded by slanting rain and oncoming darkness. There was an established campsite just to the east of the trail in the relatively level area at the pass. Unfortunately, the storm was now in full effect. The wind was howling and pushing rain into my face. The clouds were dark. It was on. I didn’t realize the severity of the storm until I hit this point in the trail, namely because the small break in trail formed by the road and the pass allowed me to see it, and what I saw was fascinating. I was heading north on the spine of this mountain, and the mountain itself seemed to be holding the storm in the valley to the east. I was literally standing at the edge of the storm. I was getting pelted with wind and rain, and the campsite was getting blasted, but I looked to my left and not 50 feet to the west, the weather was calm and the sky was much lighter. It was clear what I needed to do.

I walked about 50 feet down the old road bed to the west, past a short portion where the trees had been cut away, presumably for power lines at some point. Once I got back under tree cover, I pitched my tent right on the road. It was clearly an inactive road to nowhere, and even if people still did drive ATVs or trucks up it, they probably wouldn’t be coming up during a storm. It wasn’t the most level spot, but the grade was light and I just positioned my feet downhill. I figured the storm would probably make its way over soon enough, so I made sure to batten down the tent stakes and prepare my little portable home for some wind. I checked the trees around the road before pitching my tent, trying to pick the spot with the least likely chance of being crushed by a falling tree. Then, I just waited. And waited. The storm never came. 50 feet away it was thrashing trees and dumping rain, but I never got more than a light rainfall. It was pretty awesome, not just because I escaped the storm, but the fact that the mountain, just by its own design, had the power to hold back a storm like that. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered if Low Branch would be glad that he stayed at Tapoco. On the one hand, he didn’t get caught out in the storm. On the other, this section of trail was incredibly overgrown. He was going to get soaked coming up tomorrow, rain or not, just by way of having to hike through the wet overgrowth! I knew by the time I made it to Fontana in the morning, I would be waterlogged, but at least I would be able to get dry. Either way, the rain piper was getting paid.

I made haste to get off the road and get hiking the next day, just in the off chance that someone would come driving up on an ATV or something. On my way up the rest of the climb, I passed a cutaway section with a wonderful view of the eastern valley (see the first image in this post), now clear, but with pockets of fog tucked into the mountains. It was like a gorgeous reward for weathering the storm, and exactly why these were called the Smoky Mountains. The trail became more and more overgrown as I hiked farther north. Briars, vines and weeds locked arms, covering the trail, seemingly trying to get me to turn back. I kept pushing through. I literally had to use my trekking poles, body, etc. to push through the bushes and briars. It was borderline bushwhacking at that point, but the trail was still visible.

I came to a lookout point and climbed up a boulder to check out the view. As I stared out at the abyss of fog with some mountains peeking out from the mist, I stretched out my arms and leaned my head back to take it all in. Hiking makes it easy to feel small in the grand scheme of things. My hike, this moment, even my entire life, really mean very little when it’s all said and done. I’m just a speck of dust at a blip in time in the vast universe. Ironically, while I was standing there like a goof with my arms outstretched, I noticed that the only sound I could hear was a symphony of crickets. I’ve learned on these longer journeys that hiking isn’t for finding answers. A hike like this just yields more questions, and if you ask for answers, you’ll likely get crickets in return. However, I do think that long-distance hiking has gotten me closer to asking more of the right questions, even if I am left to navigate their answers on my own. I think there is a lot to be said for that.

The trail drops back down into a lush, green forest on its way down the mountain to Fontana Lodge. Water sources re-appear, the sound of birds and squirrels is joined by the sounds of human life: roads, chainsaws, and machinery. Unlike the Appalachian Trail, and fortunately for me, the Benton MacKaye Trail passes right beside Fontana Lodge. A very short side trail, the tail end of which is complete with wooden railing and steps, drops one right at the entrance to the lodge. After ten days of hiking and sleeping outdoors, I was going to shower and sleep in a real bed. No Knorr rice sides that night! I was going to stuff myself with some solid restaurant food.

Fontana Lodge is great value for the money. They are well set up for hikers, and it has a very authentic lodge motel feel to it, complete with a giant fireplace in the lobby. Ordinarily I might resist the urge to spend money on a night’s stay, but I really wanted to try the lodge since I passed it up during my Appalachian Trail thru-hike. I also really wanted to shower and clean up a bit. I definitely could have gone another week without one, but I was utterly filthy, and my clothes and socks smelled like death warmed over. Actually, that’s probably an insult to death.

I methodically went about cleaning, pre-rinsing my clothes in the tub and setting them aside for the laundromat, laying out my sleeping bag to dry, cleaning my pot and spork, etc. I then cleaned myself, watching the shower turn a reddish-brown color as the elements melted off of my body in waves. My Irish ancestry is initially most evident in my pale skin, so when it looks like I have any kind of tan, I’m probably just covered in dirt, or at least stained by it. 

Finally getting clean felt great. I donned my flip flops, thankful that I had brought them, and walked down to the Wildwood Grill for lunch. I think John McEnroe and Wilson enjoyed being able to get some air and socialize a bit. Their bulbous outlines could probably be spotted from space. I sat outside on the restaurant’s patio. There were a number of other parties there, including a couple of groups of aspiring AT thru-hikers. Once you’ve been on a thru-hike yourself, spotting a thru-hiker is almost as easy as recognizing a close relative. I ordered an appetizer of buffalo sauce cheese curds and a burger with two patties and about five toppings, including bacon, avocado, onions, cheese, and mushrooms. I’m not sure all of those things really go together; rather, I think I was just choosing the toppings based on random cravings that materialized in my head as I looked through the menu options. 

I downed about three root beers while I waited for my appetizer and Frankenstein burger to come out. Service was on country time, which was fine by me. It was a little chilly on the patio, but I had my rain jacket with me, so I was comfortable. The cheese curds arrived first. They were both huge and delicious, but the portion size was for a party of four! Each individual curd itself was roughly the size of a tater tot. Even with my hiker hunger, which I was fully feeling at this point, there was no way I would finish them all. And then my burger came out. It is probably more accurate to say that my tower of meat and sundries between two pieces of bread came out, because this was one of the most enormous burgers I have ever been presented with. I had ordered a double patty, not expecting each one to be the approximate thickness of my Thermarest air mattress. The bacon was thick sliced, country style. The onions were plentiful and the avocado was, well, jammed in there somehow. Needless to say, it was an absolute mess to eat (and you can watch this carnage in Episode 4 of my YouTube series). I got that burger everywhere. I ate it in small fistfuls because it was too big to fit in my mouth. When I took the last bite, I felt like I had achieved something. The only other burger I have had that was a similar size was the “AT Burger” at The Tavern in Hot Springs on my AT thru-hike. The AT Burger is not on their menu, but if you ask for it, they will make you one. People always talk about things being bigger in Texas. I’m pretty sure North Carolina can hold its own.

Of course, not thinking things through, halfway through the burger I had ordered a piece of peanut butter pie. Because of course I need to eat dessert! I can’t have town food without dessert. Now that I was finishing the burger with great pain, I stared at the slice of peanut butter pie with both lust and fear. I wanted it, but could I handle it? I was going to find out. I dove in and made short work of it, polishing it off like a pro. As I finished the last bite though, my eyes rolled back in my head and I felt faint. I sat there for a while, just kind of lightly panting and focusing on breathing. It felt like a small alien was trapped inside the bubble of my stomach, pushing against the walls trying to find a way out. “There’s only one way out buddy, sorry. I’m closing that other exit as I am not about to hurl up my precious calories!” At least that’s what I would have said if I could talk. But I could only stare and wish away what I’d done to myself. My stomach felt like a balloon.

The server came to check on me and I asked for the check. I was a bit clammy and just needed to lie down somewhere for a minute. Maybe in the sun on a rock, like a snake after swallowing a fresh kill, or maybe just in the grass as soon as I got around the corner from the restaurant. But, I noticed that a group of four thru-hikers was still sitting a few tables down, and I had a lot of cheese curds left over, so I rallied and took the plate over there, introduced myself, and offered them the rest of my cheese curds. I chatted with them for a few minutes, then excused myself so that I could crawl off and die.

After a short period of vegetation back in my room, I moseyed down to the laundry with my bag of filthy clothes and started a load. Some of the same AT hikers were at the laundry too, so I chatted with them and got to learn a bit more about their journeys. There was a young female hiker named Speedway also wrestling with her laundry. She was a travel nurse, and was kind enough to spot me two quarters as I fell short on change to finish drying my gear. As I talked with that crew, I occasionally threw a glance down at John McEnroe and Wilson. They were looking pretty disgusting, even by hiker standards. Neither had popped yet, so they were just two jiggly bubbles, one angry and edgy, the other just there to remind me that I wasn’t alone.

After laundry, I picked up my mail drop box and set about organizing my gear and food for the last leg of the trip. I wasn’t really hungry for dinner after eating that gargantuan Frankenstein burger, but at 8:30 or so I went down to Wildwood Grill to have a salad. That’s kind of a first for me. Usually with hiker hunger I rebound really fast. It’s definitely a testament to how huge that burger was. And the cheese curds…and the peanut butter pie…. It felt good to collapse into a nice soft, clean bed that night! Outside my room, the tree frogs spun tales in sing-song froggy fashion, each one trying harder than the next to be heard. Their cheerful chorus ebbed and flowed through the night while I slept like a baby. A very full and content baby. 

I was definitely hungry again by breakfast time, so I assembled my things rather quickly in the morning and headed to the cafe at the main lodge. I ordered a breakfast burrito and coffee, drinking several cups while I listened to a table full of bikers talk about the logistics of their ride and their home values in Georgia. The latter was interesting. It’s not really the kind of thing I imagine bikers talking about. I mean, these guys didn’t look like the Sons of Anarchy or anything. But still, I guess I had this preconceived notion that groups of bikers would talk about steaks and babes and guns and barbecue, or things of that nature. Turns out they talk about interest rates, cash out refi’s, power-tripping HOA officers and general property investment topics. Being an investment geek myself, I kind of wanted to sidle over and join the conversation. Maybe I could open with “So, did any of you purchase your hogs over there with bitcoin?” But I didn’t. My burrito came and I ate.

Breakfast took a while as we were all on country time, so I hustled out of the lodge as soon as I was done. I was headed into the Smokies! This was the final leg of my trip, and a section that I was very excited about. The BMT joined the Appalachian Trail after a while, and it was like I was thru-hiking the AT again, headed towards the Fontana Hilton Shelter. The Fontana shelter is affectionately known as the “Hilton” because it is large, has a nice view, free hot showers, and a bathroom. Hikers can even use a phone to call for a shuttle to take them into Fontana Village (to spend their cash….). This is where I stayed during my AT thru-hike, spending several days there waiting out a snow storm. The last time I was in the Smokies they were covered in snow and ice at higher elevations and brutally cold. This time, I was in shorts and the world was green. This was going to be awesome!

I popped my head into the Fontana Hilton shelter as I passed by. Two aspiring AT thru-hikers were inside. I wished them well on their journeys north, took a lap around the shelter just for memory’s sake, and marched on. The BMT and AT share the same path until the entrance to the Smokies, including the somewhat iconic march past the Fontana visitor center and over Fontana Dam. I enjoyed retracing the steps of my AT hike. Back then, I was filled with trepidation and nervousness. I was still a fairly green thru-hiker at the time. I was also terrified of the weather and the conditions I might experience. I remember meeting this crazy guy Squatch at the shelter, who had been hiking southbound through the winter, or so he claimed. He was pretty obnoxious, but a comical character nonetheless that made my experience more colorful. He told tales of freezing through the Smokies and it being covered in ice. As it would unfold, he wasn’t wrong. But this time on the BMT I had great weather, no trepidation, and nothing but adventure to look forward to. When I got to the park entrance where the AT and BMT diverge again for good, I went over and kissed the AT sign to pay homage, tipped the old Hungry Cat hat toward the trail, and that was it. I walked the other way and entered the park on the BMT, which follows the Lakeshore Trail for quite a while. Not three minutes in, I saw my first bear.