It’s hard if not impossible to recreate a feeling, to relive a memory.
Years pass, life changes, you become different. You can go back, but you can never really go back.
I had been in this place before and it wasn’t good.
Newfound Gap. November 1994.
I hurriedly emerged from the woods that late afternoon, three days and 31 miles after starting my solo north to south attempt to traverse the Smoky Mountains on the Appalachian Trail starting at Davenport Gap and ending at Fontana Dam.
In a mental fog, I had now abandoned my backpack and all of my gear before suddenly and unexpectedly teaming up with an AT thru-hiker in what quickly turned into a race against time.
The wind whipped and US 441 was now glazed with snow and ice. 15 miles downhill to Gatlinburg. A stranger’s life hung in the balance.
We ran.
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Today was different. 29 years had passed and it was late July. A big rain storm had come through the day before but the forecast for this Friday was good. Perfect for hiking, in fact … mid 70s and low humidity.
Had I continued my hike all of those years ago, my next stops along the Appalachian Trail on that trip would have been Mount Collins and then Clingmans Dome, which at 6,643 feet is the highest summit in both the Smoky Mountains and the state of Tennessee.
I passed through Cherokee, North Carolina and arrived before daybreak at the large and mostly empty Newfound Gap parking lot. I shut off the lights to my rental Toyota Tacoma so as not to disturb the inhabitants of a tent set up in a grassy area just 50 feet away.
Today’s hike would be an out-and-back. 7.9 miles each way with about 3,000 feet in total elevation gain. I would have to hike over the intermediate and unremarkable Mount Collins twice. I mentally allotted 8 hours for the round trip.
The day’s first light brought with it human activity. The nearby tent campers – a man and a woman – emerged and stretched their arms as I exited my rental pickup truck and prepared my backpack for the ascent to the top of Tennessee.
Nearly three decades had passed since that day way back in 1994 as I now set foot once again on the Smoky Mountains portion of the Appalachian Trail.
It felt right.
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Sometimes it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly where a certain thing went all wrong. And sometimes it’s quite easy.
In this case, the latter is true.
The first two days of my November 1994 attempt to traverse the Smokies had gone according to plan. My backpack was stuffed with camping gear and MREs, probably weighing in at close to 60 pounds. The Smokies aren’t easy, with many PUDs (pointless up and downs) but I was 25 years old and in my physical prime.
“I got this,” I told myself … and the miles passed by slowly and steadily.
The AT at that time of year in that era was mostly deserted and other than two Appalachian Trail thru hikers going the same direction as me, I pretty much had the trail to myself. I got friendly with the two men, however, and we had conversations every time we leap-frogged past one another. They were nearing the end of their long hike from Katahdin in Maine to Springer Mountain, Georgia. It made my trek feel pretty minor by comparison.
At the end of the second afternoon, the weather started to turn and I set up camp a couple of hours earlier than I’d planned so I would not be forced to pitch my tent in the wind and rain.
What followed in the coming hours would forever change my feelings about Ronnie Milsap’s classic melody “Smoky Mountain Rain.”
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The memory of the entire affair flooded my thoughts as I started my July 2023 hike, picking up in the exact spot where I’d left the trail back then.
In the intervening decades, I’d amassed a resume of nearly 400 unique US mountain summits, including all 50 US state highpoints. I had ascended Clingmans Dome by mountain bike on the paved summit road back in 2004.
But as the old mountain saying goes, “I’m not interested in your successes, I want to hear about the times you didn’t make it.”
I had flown from New York two days prior to attend the 2023 annual state highpointers “Konvention” with this year’s event being held in Helen, Georgia.
On my first full day on the ground, I had hiked Georgia state highpoint Brasstown Bald via the Jack’s Knob Trail before returning to the Unicoi Lodge to meet some fellow state highpointers, whom I’d previously only known in an online capacity.
I was having a good time. The trip was proving to be a perfect mix of hiking and socialization.
And now Clingmans Dome. It was about a two hour drive from the Lodge in Helen to Newfound Gap and I obediently followed my new Garmin GPS as it took me along some questionable Georgia back roads before emerging onto US 441 for the rest of the trip.
I would rate the ensuing hike of Clingmans Dome as very pleasant and I did not see another hiker for my entire solo ascent of the mountain. The trail was wet and the rocks a little slick from the previous day’s rain.
After about 90 minutes of hiking, I slipped on a wet rock that also happened to have sharp edges. As I plunged face-first downwards, I instinctively put my left hand out, thus preventing me from what would have been a pretty nasty injury to the face.
As it was, I gashed my left palm in a couple of places and had to administer some trailside first aid on myself before continuing. No biggie but I now had blood in the game.
Hike on.
Shortly thereafter, a black bear approached from the opposite direction, using the trail just as I was doing.
We both stopped about 100 feet apart and looked at each other. Fellow mammals out for a walk.
“Why hello bear,” I said in the nicest voice ever.
No reaction.
I then slowly reached for my iPhone to snap a photo but the bear turned and ran at the exact moment I hit that white button. Its spirit would not be captured today.
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From the safety of the indoors, it’s the hard to fully judge the intensity of a rain and wind storm.
But when you’re out in it, you feel it. I’m not sure which was more intense that night in November 1994. The wind or the rain. One rattled my tent all night long while the other pelted it non-stop.
The storm was relentless and made sleep nearly impossible. For hours on end, the rain made no indication that it would let up soon, if ever.
Morning came and the gully washer continued. I knew I was within just a few miles of the Ice Water Springs Shelter and I decided to go for it. Once there, I could warm up a bit and dry out my gear.
But what should have been a hike of less than two hours dragged on for close to four in the tough conditions so it was noon before I arrived at the shelter.
And then the cold came as the rain ended. Temperatures plummeted. 10 degrees quickly but then 20 and now 30. Water turned to ice.
Things had turned bad.
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When you pave a road to the summit of a major state highpoint and then place a massive summit structure on the top, people tend to show up.
And so as I neared the pinnacle of Tennessee, the solitude I’d enjoyed for my entire hike upwards evaporated like mountain dew suddenly exposed to bright sunlight.
A pleasant woman wearing a Hawaii jersey and with an accent I couldn’t quite identify was the first to approach me as her young child played with her significant other nearby.
“Aloha,” I said.
“How long was your hike?”
“I came up from Newfound Gap.”
“But how long did it take? How many minutes?”
“I started at 6:30 AM.”
“Oh.”
Laughter all around.
And when I say there were a lot of people up there, I mean there were a lot of people. Like a mall just before Christmas.
Some complained about the lack of views due to cloud cover, others complained that the short trail walk from the parking lot was too far. But many were enjoying themselves and happily took selfies and family photos. It was an interesting mix.
I engaged in conversation with two people about nearby Mount Mitchell and showed some photos from a hike I’d done to North Carolina’s highpoint just a few months earlier.
Other than that, I felt like an oddball with my sweaty hiking clothes, gauze-covered hand and large backpack. The stares burned into me.
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There was no one else at Ice Water Springs Shelter that day as I climbed into my zero-rated sleeping bag and tried to warm up.
I was soaked and my sleeping bag had lost some insulating power due to dampness of its own. I’d done a pretty decent job of keeping it as dry as I could … but when it’s raining that hard, it’s tough.
Hours passed and there was nothing dry enough to try to burn for heat. My teeth chattered and my mind slowed despite being fully encased, or entombed, in my bag.
I still had enough wits about me to recognize the start of hypothermia. The US 441 crossing was just a couple of miles away and I needed to move my body to generate warmth. There was no way I was going to survive the night if I stayed put.
So I simply got up and started walking.
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Not too long after I’d begun my descent of Clingmans Dome, the sun came out in full force. If I’d started my hike an hour later, I probably would have been treated to some stellar views from atop Tennessee.
But I wasn’t upset. Just enjoying the day.
Unlike the hike upwards, I did encounter some folks during the trip down. There are multiple spots along the summit road where you can quickly connect to the Appalachian Trail so it’s not necessary to start at Newfound Gap unless, of course, that’s what you want to do.
I stopped and ate lunch. Subway to be exact. The hours passed.
I arrived back to a bustling Newfound Gap parking lot by mid-afternoon feeling tired but no worse for the wear.
Now about that Konvention.
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I was only about a half of a mile from Ice Water Springs Shelter heading towards US 441 when one of the thru-hikers excitedly approached from behind.
He and his partner had just come across a man laying motionless in the middle of the Appalachian Trail, muttering incoherently and covered with ice.
His partner had covered both himself and the man in his own sleeping bag to preserve and produce warmth and keep him alive while he – and now me – ran ahead for help.
It was the boost of adrenaline I probably needed in my own mental fog.
After about 8 miles of jogging down US 441, we came upon a Great Smoky Mountains National Park Ranger and the wheels of rescue were set into motion.
I was given a lift to downtown Gatlinburg, where I found a warm bed and warm food at a local motel, my own hike now ended.
When I returned the next day to retrieve my gear from Ice Water Springs Shelter, I found another Ranger and asked how the rescue had turned out.
Of course, the man had died. I already knew that deep down, but I still appreciated getting confirmation. I would never find out his name or anything about him.
Having already regained possession of my GMC Sierra pickup truck from Davenport Gap, I started the long drive back to New York.
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My hiking agenda for this latest mountain trip 29 years later was now complete and I turned my full attention to the Konvention I’d come to attend.
The next day’s schedule was packed with meetings and group activities leading up to the final banquet at 6 PM.
I showed up for all of it and quietly enjoyed every bit, talking with some folks when spoken to but really just studying the scene. During the heart of my state highpointing career, I was always very businesslike in my approach to reaching the 50 summits. Never really took the time or made the effort to get involved on the Club level. But now here I was, older and different.
The final meeting – the official Club board meeting – ended around 5 PM that Saturday and I headed back to my room to change into a western themed button down shirt I’d recently obtained at the Country Music Hall of Fame. I also had a couple of glasses of wine to relax myself for a social event. Not generally my forte.
I entered the banquet hall and found an empty seat just as the festivities were getting started.
Things happened kind of fast from there but one thing I’ve learned in life is that when you’re presented with an open door, you walk through it. Every time.
So when I suddenly and unexpectedly found myself as the focal point of a discussion about becoming the official host of the 2024 Konvention in South Dakota, I didn’t resist.
Before I knew it, I had a microphone in my hand and was talking about my recently deceased father and our trip to the Dakotas in 2006. I received a standing ovation. In life, everybody deserves at least one of those.
Black Elk Peak, here I come.
Mark’s Mountain Travels 