It's all Downhill from Here

Before I write about my four days and three nights in The Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I need to get something off my chest: I didn't see a bear. For all the hype about two bears for every square mile and this season's higher numbers of bear cubs, I expected otherwise, just shy of being welcomed into the park by Smokey the Bear himself. Instead, I saw one pile of bear scat to tease my imagination, and my bear radar never even blipped once.

That's not to say there weren't good memories from the Smokies, but I'm not sure I ever did make a full recovery from bearing my initial bear-less disappointment. There were good memories, to be sure. There were also those that bordered on the bizarre, and others still that I hope to quickly forget.

Day 0

Before even crossing Fontana Dam into the park, my attention was quickly pulled from studying the spectacular amount of cement that is required to hold back a lake with over 10,000 acres of surface area and 238 miles of shoreline. My gaze went from the spectacular to a spectacle, from the dammed lake to a sea of yellow, as fifty-five Mustangs displaying four shades of bright yellow paint thundered into the parking lot.

I went from not seeing one car over the past three days to seeing a swarm of American muscle that you couldn't help but be mesmerized by. And after having the urge to pee, I couldn't wait to get into the park and run away from the Yellow Mustang Registry.

Day 1

I entered the Smokies after a night at The Hike Inn, weathering the deadly tornadoes that swirled on either side of Fontana. The initial uphill hike inside the park led me up to a rickety old firetower.

The angle iron was rusty, some of the wooden steps were rotting, missing bolts, or both, and a wind advisory was still out from last night's storms. The higher I climbed the stronger the wind became and the more the tower shook and swayed. Quite the adventure with quite the view.

From there I went deeper into the heart of the Smokies, with my left foot in Tennessee and my right in North Carolina. I soon found myself where the Spring Beauty could be mistaken for a light dusting of snow resting at the feet of a grove of Buckeye trees. Once I reached the first shelter I took a half-hour break while the temperature dropped a degree a minute, settling near forty degrees. The once snow-like Spring Beauty shut their petals and bowed their heads as they endured the cold; I shut my jacket and bowed my head as I hiked on to stay warm.

Day 2

The next morning I woke up to a quarter-inch of frost, windblown off the sides of stems and limbs. I had slept through the snow and ice that fell overnight, glad to still have my warm sleeping bag. Once I started hiking the wind blew the frost off the branches, the small crystals falling as snow against a cloudless blue sky, and the large flakes of ice falling to the trail as wood chips on a playground. As I hiked up Rocky Top the sun beamed down, glistening off the ice frozen to the surrounding grass. I could barely see a thing, and in a strange way it felt as though I were climbing Mt. Sinai, only at the top there was stone but no tablets.

The other side of Rocky Top gave way to more Spring Beauty with Trout Lily interspersed. However, the serenity of that view was quickly besieged by a group of singing hikers. It was obnoxious, really, as I had no interested in hearing Casey Kasem's Top 40 while on the trail. Unfortunately, the off-key a cappella gang followed me all the way to Clingman's Dome, the highest point on the AT, and farther still to the Mt. Collins Shelter where I had the duty to try and fall asleep to their bellowing. I planned an early start to the morning, and I wished more than ever that I would see my first bear that night.

Day 3

As planned, I woke up and hit the trail early. The morning began entering what seemed like Mirkwood forest. The thick pine blocked out the sun, leaving the forest floor dark and damp, an environment where even a slightly creative mind could imagine evil lurking in the shadows, perhaps even the Giant Spiders that inhabited Mirkwood itself. Thick moss lay covering the ground, dripping from fallen logs, and creeping up unsuspecting trees, adding an eerie green hue to the undergrowth. The trail was muddy and narrow, the going as treacherous as my imagination would allow.

From there the trail emerged once again into swaths of Spring Beauty. Only this time the grove of Buckeyes was replaced by a stand of pines, many of which had long since seen their youth. The eldest of the pine stood as only skeletons of their former selves: stripped of their bark, sun-bleached, and ashen-gray, they still stood proud, preserving the memory of their former prowess, though they no longer clung to life. I wondered if this was part of the natural lifecycle of the pine, a hazard of rooting on a ridge in the Smokies, or a plight brought about by an invasive species of some kind.

Day 4

My last day in the park was a collision of worlds where the Smokies were visited by Thor and his mountain-leveling hammer. Long stretches of trail saw large trees level with the ground, as if Thor got carried away in a game of "king of the mountain" and brazenly swung his hammer, swatting down any tree in his path. Some of these trees rested precariously against others as they leaned over the trail. In the wind they would creak and moan as bark ground against bark, daring any hiker to pass underneath. I warily trekked on, and soon found the northern boundary of the park.

With the Smokies behind me, three things have changed. First, I now hope Shenandoah will provide what the Smokies did not: the bear sighting I desire. Second, I now say that I am hiking to Katahdin and not just hoping to. Sure, hope is still an important part of the journey, but I have a large measure of confidence now too. Third, after cresting Clingman's Dome, the highest point along the Appalachian Trail, I can now say that, "It's all downhill from here."