Jan 7, 2001
Hiawassee, Georgia
I’m sitting in a Laundromat in Hiawassee, Ga., making a laughingly vain attempt to get the funk out of my clothes. Having not seen a washing machine in more than a week, all my clothes, not to mention myself, were in dire need of a thorough cleaning.
I don’t know much about Hiawassee other than: It’s located in north Georgia; the entire town seemingly shuts down on Sundays; and most importantly – it’s about 67 miles from Springer Mountain and the end of my journey.
The weather the past few days has been beautiful, with highs at times reaching 40 degrees. I knew my sense of temperature was gone when, while seeing my thermometer read 25 degrees the other morning, I was thinking, “Today’s going to be a scorcher.”
One thing this trip has taught me is that everything is just a matter of perspective and attitude. If I can feel my fingers and toes, then everything’s cool. (God that’s a horrible pun, but again, I’m just going to roll with it.)
Right now I’m wearing my last pair of semi-clean but very dark socks. My theory is that they’ll act as little heat sinks on my feet, soaking up and storing all those blessed BTUs for the coming days. Only time will tell how much this dubious plan will work.
Another thing I’ve learned out here on the tundra of the AT is the awesome power of man’s ability to reset and adapt to the Harshness of his environment. Case in point: One night a few weeks ago, a few hikers and I were talking about the sometimes gruesome reality of having to leave the relative warmth of your sleeping bag to go to the bathroom (Bathrooms? How about the woods?) in the middle of the night.
The only way I can describe this most horrible event is analogous to going back through the birth process again, leaving the warmth and security of your sleeping bag to go out into the shockingly cold, cruel world. Indeed, when it’s 5 degrees outside and the wind is howling, it is truly like getting a. smack on the butt. Many, many nights I’ve stayed in my bag for what seemed like hours in self-denial that my bladder was the size of a basketball, yet unable to will myself out of my sleeping bag. “Should I stay or should I go now?” I think, “If I stay, there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep, even while gritting my teeth until I have a headache. If I go, I will surely freeze” I bounced around a few ideas.
- Stop drinking water – no bathroom needed. Upside: Get to stay in sleeping .bag. Downside: Death by dehydration.
- Get fitted with catheter and associated ankle bag. Upside: Get to stay in bag. Downside: Line to bag may freeze, causing blockage and severe discomfort; unbalanced walking from only having a bladder bag on one ankle.
- Purchase one extra water bottle. Urinate in bottle as necessary at night. Upside: Get to stay in bag. Downside: Emptying bottle in morning; mistaking said bottle for drinking water in middle of night, leading to foul breath or worse.
I met two hearty souls yesterday at a shelter. They had started their own thruhikes heading northbound on New Year’s Day. I gave them such scholarly, sage advice as, “Dude, don’t sweat this hike. Just take your time and be flexible.” Also, “Hey man, you’ve got to get off the trail and hit the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Shoney’s in Franklin. It rocks.”
It’s interesting to see some folks going through the same doubts, questions and considerations at the beginning of their journeys as I did. This whole trip has been one long learning experience, not only about the nuts and bolts of functioning on the trail, but more importantly and more valuable, about myself. I’ll elaborate on this later when I’m finished, but for me the journey on “the trail between the ears” has been as meaningful if not more so than the trail itself.
I finally crossed my last state border into Georgia yesterday. It wasn’t much of a crossing, just a small sign tacked to a tree near Bly Gap. No brass band. No fireworks. Regis Philbin wasn’t even there to interview me. None of that was necessary, though. Just the rush of coming across that line after many months of effort was reward enough. I hope I didn’t wake any bears with my hollering.
Honestly, it did feel great. I sort of visualized in my mind that I might be sort of bummed out at the prospect of this signal of the trip coming closer to finality, but that hasn’t come to pass. Like all things, this journey too must come to an end, at least in the physical sense.
Emotionally, I almost feel the journey is just beginning, like a huge door of possibilities I’ve always held within myself has just opened. It intrigues me to actually see and acknowledge that thought. As I’ve said, being out here has given me copious amounts of time to think, to feel and to breathe in life and become much more aware of myself and my place in the universe.
The snow that once completely covered the hills is starting to recede a bit. Below 3,500 feet, I’m actually walking on bare ground for the most part. I’ve become much more aware of which side of the mountain the trail crosses. On the side with a southern exposure, much of the snow and ice has almost completely melted away, while the more northerly exposures have seen little change. This makes it a little difficult to estimate how long a given mile will take to cover, but most of the time erring to the more conservative time usually pans out.
My worst-case scenario puts me at the end of the trail about 4 or 5 days from now. I almost cringe to even say that, but if this little stretch of warmer weather holds, everything should work out fine. Or as a buddy of mine I’ve met out here (Companero) and I say, “No matter what happens, it’s going to work out.”
The rain that was forecasted has come in with a vengeance. It should clear out by tomorrow afternoon though. All this rain will either:
- Help melt some more of the snow off, making hiking easier.
- Freeze solid at night, resulting in me doing a 65-mile ice skating race a la Eric Heiden.
The only certainty is that I will be very, very damp for the next couple of days. Wet possibly, but damp certainly.
This section of trail is blessed with several outstanding views. In particular, the summits at Wayah Bald, Albert Mountain and Standing Indian Mountain were spectacular. My favorite, though, was probably from the observation tower at Wesser Bald. In and of itself, the view was impressive, but I happened to hike across the top just at sunset to the most remarkable display of colors I’ve seen in a long, long time. The deep reds, vibrant oranges, and many shades of purple came together in an intense mixture that seemed to shimmer and melt into each other. Very cool. Very cool indeed.
I took several photographs, but a picture can’t capture that perfect moment in time. After watching the sun go down, I still had five miles to cover. These miles seemed to fly by. The temperature started to fall in its familiar pattern. The wind stayed calm, so much so that every footstep in snow magnified in intensity. I could feel the beating of my heart my lungs filing with air, and every part of my body felt so incredibly alive.
Hiking late in the day like that often brings me such moments. Dawn and dusk have been my favorite times of the day to hike, although the prospect of leaving my sleeping bag before the sun comes up doesn’t seem likely to happen again anytime soon.
Well, the laundry’s done and so am I. I just about smell April fresh for the moment. One advantage of being out here when It s cold is that the cold keeps the funk down. Mind you – not all funk is bad funk. George Clinton sees to that, but James Brown got there first
Anyway, I’m going to hike to the Mexican restaurant in town now and pound down something like 100,000 calories, if I can. Sounds like a plan.
Take care,
-Johnny Swank
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