There and Back Again: I think I can, I think I can

The Nantahala Outdoor Center (NOC) apparently doesn't want northbound hikers to leave. After descending the 2,500 feet into the valley, I stopped to sun my clothes on a kayak, mail a package, and eat lunch. It was a relaxing morning, especially after the past three days.

I had strung together two 16 mile days chased by an 18 miler. Why? The first two were because of peer pressure. The last because of the weather. You see, Monday night, sleeping at Siler Bald shelter, I only thought I was safe from the incoming weather, tucked away under the shelter's tin roof. In fact when the rain first started falling, the ding of the droplets off the tin reminded me of home. But once the winds nearly ripped the tin clean off (or so it sounded like), home disappeared quickly amidst racket. More lightning, thunder and wind. Only this time the hail was replaced by buckets of rain. The shelter might as well been situated beneath the giant tipping bucket of water that you'd find at a Great Wolf Lodge. And when you add lots of wind with lots of rain, things get wet, especially in a three-wall shelter.

So I woke up with vague memories of my face being misted throughout the night. The foot box of my sleeping bag was damp. My boots were water logged. And my pack, hanging from a line to keep the mice out, but too close to the edge of the roof, was soaked, along with it's contents. In case you're wondering, pack covers can only do so much, and that is very little in a windy downpour.

So I started Tuesday cold, wet and tired after the two 16 mile days. I was hoping within a hour or two the foggy clouds would clear, being burned off by the sun. Instead the day brought more cold (it hovered in the low 50's), more wind (15-20 mph), and more rain. Everything was wet to start the day and everything just got more wet. So I hiked, and hiked, and hiked some more, stopping in shelters along the way. I hiked not because I wanted to, but because I wanted to stay warm. At the second shelter I even cooked up some soup to help fight off the hypothermia. And then I hiked some more, as the trail began to look more like a stream. When I finally stopped hiking, the rain abated as well. And at 8pm, the sun peeked out for ten wonderful minutes.

So, I sunned my clothes on a kayak once I got to the NOC. And after drying out my gear and filling my belly I was ready for a nap, not more walking. And then I looked at the map. The task that awaited was to climb 3,339 feet over 7.9 miles. It's true, the NOC doesn't want you to leave.

But I left. The beginning wasn't bad: not too steep, and my IT band that I had been nursing the past few days wasn't acting up. There were also flowers in bloom that were just leaves south of the NOC. Life was good.

But as the miles wore on, things got steeper. Straight trails became switchbacks, only to straighten when things got even steeper.

A steep section of trail

Dirt trail became rocky. Smooth trail found the spines of old ridges. Blueberry bushes made me wish they were in season so I could sit down and pick the best berries. And the three gaps that were crossed seemed to only provide enough time to flush the built-up lactic acid and allow a full stride to begin to stretch out the legs.

A view of the NOC from "The Jump-up" at 3,789 feet, still over 1,200 feet shy of the bald

Now if you've read some of my other posts, you would know that I've mentioned climbs before. And if you've read between the lines, you would have heard me softly complaining. But this climb was different. It is slated as the hardest climb south of the White Mountains, and I was tired when I got to the top 4 hours later.

That said, all the work had a handsome reward. As I passed by the Sassafras Gap Shelter for Cheoah Bald to camp, this was my reward:

Sunset on Cheoah Bald