Silent Bob, Claire and Strap on Clingmans Dome, 6,643 ft.
(Editor's Note: Chattanoogan Claire Henley started an adventure of a lifetime on the remote Pacific Crest Trail in April. Along the way, she had many adventures and found herself a husband named Big Spoon. Here is her story beginning in March).
The last three days, I backpacked from Fontana Dam to Newfound Gap in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The 40.6-mile stretch on the rigorous Appalachian Trail served as physical training for the PCT, as well as a shakedown trip to thoroughly test my gear.
But the stretch served as another kind of shakedown too. And that was the shakedown of self.
The trail started at the southwest corner of the national park at an elevation of 1,800 ft. From there, the body-beating section soared northeast over half the length of the park, ultimately rising to 6,643 ft. at Clingmans Dome—the highest peak in the Smoky Mountains, and also Tennessee. The trail as a whole experienced an elevation gain of 13,000 ft. and a loss of 10,000 ft. In layman’s terms, this means I hiked straight up then straight down, straight up then straight down, straight up then straight down for three straight days.
On Sunday morning, I parked my Scion at Newfound Gap then hopped in the Dodge Dakota with my dad, who acted as my shuttle. A miscalculation of time and a misread of the park map caused us to reach Fontana Dam by 11:00 a.m. instead of 9:00 as intended. The overcast day and under-construction dam—closed-off to cars—intensified my festering frustration to the point that I nearly called off the trip. However, in my moment of surrender, a group of backpackers accessed the dam via stairs from the Visitor Center, and I determined that no matter what came my way, I would go on this shakedown.
My dad parked and I made haste to strap on my pack and lengthen my trekking poles. I had 16 miles and 3,000 ft. of elevation gain to face before making my first destination at Spence Field Shelter. “Put your game face on and say your name, Mouse,” Dad said to motivate as we walked across the tallest dam in the eastern U.S., rising in concrete splendor to 480 ft. He called me by the trail name he had given me.
As a side note, a “trail name” is the name you’re given on the trail. You must be given the name and cannot give it to yourself because it represents who you are as seen by your fellow hikers. My dad named me Mouse on a Savage Gulf backpacking trip last summer because he said I ran right along with quiet bravery. Others have actually told me I look like a mouse too. Maybe it’s my mouse colored hair or petite stature. Regardless, though the name fit, I didn’t want Mouse to be my trail name on the PCT because I wanted to experience the ritual of being named by someone there.
Not to mention Mouse sounded weak.
At the trailhead, my dad kissed me on the cheek then headed back to the car. With him gone, I was alone and looked up the steep grade of pure rugged trail. The surrounding pale woods creaked with the wind. Gray clouds reflected from Fontana Lake. My digital watch flashed 11:30. I had 40 miles to walk over the next three days, making this hike my longest solo yet.
The last three days, I backpacked from Fontana Dam to Newfound Gap in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The 40.6-mile stretch on the rigorous Appalachian Trail served as physical training for the PCT, as well as a shakedown trip to thoroughly test my gear.
But the stretch served as another kind of shakedown too. And that was the shakedown of self.
The trail started at the southwest corner of the national park at an elevation of 1,800 ft. From there, the body-beating section soared northeast over half the length of the park, ultimately rising to 6,643 ft. at Clingmans Dome—the highest peak in the Smoky Mountains, and also Tennessee. The trail as a whole experienced an elevation gain of 13,000 ft. and a loss of 10,000 ft. In layman’s terms, this means I hiked straight up then straight down, straight up then straight down, straight up then straight down for three straight days.
On Sunday morning, I parked my Scion at Newfound Gap then hopped in the Dodge Dakota with my dad, who acted as my shuttle. A miscalculation of time and a misread of the park map caused us to reach Fontana Dam by 11:00 a.m. instead of 9:00 as intended. The overcast day and under-construction dam—closed-off to cars—intensified my festering frustration to the point that I nearly called off the trip. However, in my moment of surrender, a group of backpackers accessed the dam via stairs from the Visitor Center, and I determined that no matter what came my way, I would go on this shakedown.
My dad parked and I made haste to strap on my pack and lengthen my trekking poles. I had 16 miles and 3,000 ft. of elevation gain to face before making my first destination at Spence Field Shelter. “Put your game face on and say your name, Mouse,” Dad said to motivate as we walked across the tallest dam in the eastern U.S., rising in concrete splendor to 480 ft. He called me by the trail name he had given me.
As a side note, a “trail name” is the name you’re given on the trail. You must be given the name and cannot give it to yourself because it represents who you are as seen by your fellow hikers. My dad named me Mouse on a Savage Gulf backpacking trip last summer because he said I ran right along with quiet bravery. Others have actually told me I look like a mouse too. Maybe it’s my mouse colored hair or petite stature. Regardless, though the name fit, I didn’t want Mouse to be my trail name on the PCT because I wanted to experience the ritual of being named by someone there.
Not to mention Mouse sounded weak.
At the trailhead, my dad kissed me on the cheek then headed back to the car. With him gone, I was alone and looked up the steep grade of pure rugged trail. The surrounding pale woods creaked with the wind. Gray clouds reflected from Fontana Lake. My digital watch flashed 11:30. I had 40 miles to walk over the next three days, making this hike my longest solo yet.
Two miles up, I came upon a young female about my age who had stopped on the side of the narrow path—hands on hips, drawing deep breaths, sweat glistening from her licorice black hair. A heavy pack gripped her football shaped body. She had obviously taken a beating from the relentless uphill climb.
“Hi there,” I said and pulled off next to her for a break.
From our brief encounter I learned the girl was a thru-hiker from Wisconsin with the trail name, Luna. I told her my name was Claire, surprisingly wishing I had used Mouse instead to try out going by another name. We discussed the difficult AT terrain, and when Luna discovered I was only a section hiker, she seemed embarrassed that I caught up to her (as she had been on the trail for over 160 miles) and rapidly changed the subject from hiking to my ensemble.
“Is that what you wear out here?” She asked, referring to my never-before-worn, brighter-than-the-sun, white polyester hiking blouse.
I explained my upcoming plans to hike the PCT and how I needed to test out my gear—clothing included—before heading west. The shirt, I said, was designed for the desert: loose-fitting with air vents to generate breeze, long-sleeved and white to shield against the sun.
With an I-know-something-you-don’t-know look on her weathered face, Luna said, “You’re brave! That shirt is going to get so dirty.” And I think she avoided staring directly at its glow.
No matter. There’s no doubt I looked like a novice in my fresh white blouse, but I needed to feel the way the garment wore with a backpack, since I would likely be wearing it this way for 5 months. I simply wished Luna well and went on my way.
Three miles later, at the summit of the first ascent, I met a group of day hikers who clustered like paparazzi on the exposed rock ridge to take pictures of the famous Smoky views. As I tried to pass the group, a short man with a Billy Goat beard and raspy southern drawl said, “I thought I was hearing Rudolph coming.” He turned his attention to the little red bear bell strapped to my right trekking pole. The bear bell made for my newest piece of gear, bought because the Smoky Mountains house a high concentration of black bears—2 per square mile—that are most active in spring and summer. Being that it was now spring and that I was alone, I bought the bell as a safety feature. And for the first day of using it, I went so far as to think it was my new favorite piece of gear: lightweight, musical, and a friendly warning to bears to leave. By day three, however, I despised that red rattling devil and desired its jingle jangle death. In fact, the bell became such a murderer of peace that I would’ve chosen braving an encounter with a bear over having to endure another clank. And to top things off, the certified Ridgerunner I ran into at mile 10 advised it was too early for bears to be out anyways, and that the bell was dead weight.
How is that for irony?
We count our losses.
I made Spence Field Shelter at 6:30 in the evening just as the rain got bad. Damp, foot sore, and fatigued, I hobbled inside the stone hut to find three other thru-hikers—Silent Bob, Q-Tip, and Scallywag—huddled next to a lit fireplace. Q-Tip and Scallywag were a couple; Silent Bob was on his own. Two more thru hikers, 18-year-old twins Taiko and Daniel, entered a minute later. The lodge—with its efficient layout of wooden bunks, floor space, and rope for hanging packs—accommodated the six of us beautifully. There was even a roof over the front patio for making dinner without getting soaked.
Speaking of dinner, that night I ate Instant Idahoan Potatoes mixed with a packet of tuna. I had never made this meal on my camp stove before, and earlier, by mile 12, I started fantasizing about it, thinking how clever I was to come up with the tasty, high-calorie concoction.
That meal turned out to be one of the more disgusting things I’ve ever put in my mouth. Maybe I didn’t add enough water. Or maybe the tuna spoiled. Or maybe I just had the wrong idea by mixing the two. Whatever the problem, though filling, I fought to keep down every bite.
The rain didn’t let up all night—and it was cold rain, too. I curled up in my long johns and down sleeping bag against the dark corner of the lower bunk. So little I made myself in attempt to keep warm that it actually caused Silent Bob to speak, “There’s more space here if you need it.”
At dawn, I slipped out of bed before the others—stealthy as a mouse so not to wake them. The rain had cleared, and as the sun rose, I retrieved water from the spring, lowered my bear bag from the food-hanging tree, boiled a cup of instant coffee, and read a poem from Luci Shaw’s Listen to the Green.
My fellow hikers woke with the sun in the sky. We inventoried our provisions and reloaded our packs while Q-Tip played a tune from his ukulele. This was a moment of perfection: one of sweet music in the growing light rewarding us for yesterday’s rain.
I got going by 9:00 for a grueling 14-mile day up mountain and mud. Two miles in, I topped out on a mossy meadow that gave way to navy mountain views. Cloud-smoke billowed from every vale, and I heard a voice from behind say, “Spectacular!”
I turned to see a tall woman wearing a hiking skirt that emphasized her sculpted legs. She also wore a smile that outshined the day. “I’m Haha,” the joyful thru-hiker said and extended her arm for a fist bump.
I pounded her fist and nearly told her my name was Mouse, but again used Claire, feeling this time as if I lied.
We stood together among the praiseworthy mountains before Haha headed on, saying, “I’ll see you down the road.”
Six hours later I made Double Springs Shelter, welcomed by Haha, the twins, Silent Bob, and several other thru-hikers. For the rest of the afternoon until night we relaxed on the outdoor wooden benches and shared stories of our lives. It was amazing. In the course of a few hours I got to know these strangers: like how the twins worked for three years on a chicken farm in Arkansas, collecting eggs and washing dishes to save for the AT; and how Haha wrote hiker knowhow articles for an outdoor magazine; and how Silent Bob used to campaign.
They asked what got me into solo backpacking, and I revealed how I hadn’t always been; how up until this past Thanksgiving I was in a serious relationship and very nearly got engaged; how my almost-fiancé asked my dad for my hand in marriage; how we both got scared; and how the next week after receiving my father’s blessing, my almost-fiancé didn’t propose, but told me he wasn’t the one.
* * *
I told the hikers how devastated I was over the event because I had wrapped my identity and all my future plans inside that relationship, so when it came apart, so did I. But I also told them how preparing for the PCT gave me back my sense of self, because it retaught me that I had the power to do all things—with or without a significant other.
“Bold!” Haha exclaimed.
And the others cheered.
The next and final morning of my shakedown trip, I made Clingmans Dome (3 miles away from Double Springs) by sunrise. At the top of the tallest Smoky peak, I met a hiker named Strap—long and slender—on his way to Maine. He asked me my name and I told him Mouse.
“Nice to meet you, Mouse,” Strap said then zipped down the trail through thick rhododendron.
Seven miles later, upon reaching Newfound Gap, I spotted the thru-hikers I met over the last three days gathered by an array of coolers. They waved me over, and as I approached my new friends to wish them Godspeed, the Trail Angel who provided the coolers of fruit, meats, and Gatorade came up to me.
“Are you Mouse?” She asked, touching my grubby hand to escort me to the food.
“I’m Mouse,” I said.
And it was true.
Claire's first book on her adventures while living in Colorado can be ordered here:
http://www.amazon.com/51-Weeks-The-Unfinished-Journey-ebook/dp/B00IWYDLBQ/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394801373&sr=8-1&keywords=51+Weeks
View from the AT