|
|
Musings
of a Thru-Hiker Turtle
Maneuver Sassafras
Gap From Tellico Gap cross Wesser Bald to
Wesser Creek Trail, and then on to Rufus Morgan
Shelter just before Wesser and the Nantahala River, Wright Gap, Grassy
Gap, Swim Bald to Sassafras Gap. Nine
miles before lunch;
five miles
after lunch. According
to the
profile map
it should be an easy downhill stroll into Wesser, seven miles down hill,
and after lunch it will be a steady climb for five miles
to Sassafras Gap shelter. Nantahala
Outdoor Center stocks food, drinks, and ice cream perfect for light lunch.
Light
rain has
been falling since early
morning, I packed my tent away wet adding several pounds of excess water weight
to my total pack weight.
I scouted the campsite one
last time before leaving, the dry spot in the leaves where my tent stood
was the only evidence of my presence;
except for two tea bags that I buried in the old ashes of someone else's
firepit, I
had not littered,
even so
the discarded tea
bags weighed
heavily on my conscious so I promised to redouble my efforts and be even
more diligent policing up after camp. I started out in the mist and moved
easily. Rufus Morgan shelter would
be in sight
soon, my
pace increased with
anticipation so much so that occasionally my footing would give way.
The last seven miles to the Nantahala/Wesser were all down hill, but I
promised myself to take breaks anyway. An hour into
the morning
I started to look for a resting place and noticed all of the greenery.
The trail was lined on both
sides with poison ivy. It was not
possible to step off the trail in any direction without being covered in poison
ivy. Hence, I
continued without break.
The descent
was quick
and well graded. Logs had been carefully placed neatly in the bank to hold the
trail. I noticed that the footing
was beginning to get
slick, and soon I came
across a log that shown interesting skid marks off the end and around a small
tree. The instant it registered that someone
fell and was probably saved by the tree my foot came down firmly on the log.
It pushed out, and with horror I realized
I had lost my balance and my boot was cutting around the tree.
In a sporadic lunge I reached for
the tree. Just as my fingers met the tree, the weight my pack and its
downhill momentum snatched me away, and I began to tumble at first and then
slide. My descent continued
accelerating down the steep slope, on my back, and head first while thrashing
wildly with my arms and legs. Unable
to see over the top
of the pack,
I grabbed blindly at small shrubs and trees as they passed by, several
broke off and others came up by the roots.
The small ones served to
slow my
descent. Finally I grabbed a
sapling in one hand and a shrub in the other and came to rest on a small rock.
Instinctively I leaned to sit up, my center of
gravity shifted, the hand holds gave way, and I was heading down hill
again. This
time I
found a single thin oak, and
watched in apparent slow motion and vivid horror as it smoothly bent under my
weight until it was
stretched nearly parallel
with the
ground. It
held and my downward progress was stopped again. Sitting on the slope,
blood rushing to my head, looking up the
mountain I
could plainly see my
feet above me and the havoc and devastation I caused plowing down the
slope. Remarkably my path had been
nearly straight. My heart was still
racing from the excitement of the fall, and I remained motionless having learned
from my previous
mistake and
waiting for this tree to
give way too. I carefully groped
about with my free hand until I found a relatively
secure rock.
The tree
was starting to give way. This
time I
slowly pivoted on my pack lifting one boot slightly and turning and
planting it firmly in the mud. Slowly
I was able to turn around
so that
my feet were
beneath me. I briefly
considered releasing the hipbelt and sliding out of the shoulder harness, but
the steepness of the slope
would make
it nearly impossible to reshoulder
the pack,
a maneuver
which requires
a hoist
and simultaneous turn and is somewhat awkward on level ground.
At this point I rested long
enough to
check for
injuries. I
could move
my arms and legs without
surprising pain and concluded that there were no major broken bones. I could feel the
cold wet mud on my legs and down my back, but no obvious bleeding.
If I could just manage to roll over without losing control again,
it might
be possible
to crawl back
up the slope on all fours. I
tried to follow the trail from my perch, hoping to see that my descent might
cross the trail on a switchback or
perhaps a gully
or ravine might intersect
the trail farther down and save me from having to climb up the slope.
No luck. I planned my move, inhaled deeply, and
eased over onto my stomach,
and from there
I began the ascent on all
fours. Ultimately I managed a half
squat stance, but I always kept a low center of gravity and had at least three
reference points in
touch with the ground. I
regained the trail just above the tree that marked my fall.
Once standing I carefully moved on placing each step cautiously
and firmly in
the mud avoiding the logs entirely.
My pace was much slower now and my descent controlled.
I washed most of the mud off except for a few major streaks on my gear
and socks at the next creek. Later I reached Rufus Morgan shelter
and stopped for a long awaited break. At
this point I examined my pack and jacket for visible damage.
Fortunately they were only scuffed up and muddy.
Wesser was in spitting distance. I
wandered in to the NOC, looked for food and headed up the road for a better
selection of supplies. It was
only a
mile or two. Once there I
was disappointed by the stock and its age. Much of it was covered in a heavy
layer of dust. On the way out of the
store a raft guide offered
me a ride back to the NOC. I gladly
accepted and heaved my pack into the back of
the vintage vega. He had been a thru-hiker too, but after two weeks snowed in
and finally reaching Wesser his journey ended.
The cold and hunger convinced him that guiding a raft might be a better
way to spend a few months. He
was impressed
with the time and distance I had made.
He started out in March and took six weeks to get to Wesser.
I started in mid-April and
made it
in twelve days.
I thanked him for the ride,
and returned to the NOC store for ice cream, a liter of coke, a chunk of cheese,
and a sandwich. Just outside the honeymooners were
finishing laundry; they
arrived earlier that morning
and offered to share their cabin since they already had one guest that hiked
in with them from rainbow springs. The
Orlando boys came out of the laundry room together and sat down by the pay
phone. As usual
they could
not agree
on whether to stay or to
move out to the next shelter. I spoke with each in turn and moved down to the river near
the picnic area to soak my feet, wash my gear, and eat half a pound of cheese.
After cleaning my gear and finishing
the soft drink, I reluctantly pulled
my socks on,
laced the
boots, hoisted
the pack, and headed off up the hill.
The picnic area by the river had been a nice break, but there seemed to
be a
lot of trash
in the
grass, along
the river
bank, and by the road. A few
days ago I probably would not have noticed.
The guide book and profile map indicated a steady steep five mile climb
to Sassafras Gap. I was confident
that I would make an early camp since the first nine and a half miles were
covered in under
four hours,
of course that was downhill and a bit reckless at times.
The
next five miles were
breathtaking. Each step forced me
to slow down and breathe deeply. No
matter how hard I tried I just could not keep
up a
steady pace. I plodded along for an hour and a half and stopped under a
ledge. The trail crossed
the railroad
tracks by
the river and then zigzagged up along the river gorge.
It climbed steeply offering fine views of
the railroad
and river
gorge along alternate
switchbacks. I leafed
through the guidebook in disbelief as I discovered that I had barely
covered a mile and a half. A
mile or
so later
an elderly couple
passed headed
for the
NOC. They said they passed
other hikers several hours ago, and quite some distance ahead.
Their perception of distance did not seem accurate, but this is typical
with day hikers: the journey uphill
is much longer and more difficult to gauge without a steady pace.
Attempting to
maintain my pace forced me
to stop repeatedly for air. Once
the ridge top was attained the last mile or so was easier, but it was still
uphill. At Sassafras Gap, the shelter was full.
The Florida Flyers, Dick Cates,
and Al had already moved in
and all but AL had already eaten. My
last five miles were longer than anticipated.
I asked about room for one more, and explained that the Orlando
boys might
be coming along soon. Conversation continued as we compared notes on the antics of
the Orlando boys. It was clear
that they
were not
pure thru-hikers since
they did not follow the
trail strictly. Instead they took
any variety of short cuts and diversions. A
true thru-hiker religiously follows
the white blazes
that mark the AT. Since side trails are marked in blue blazes, one who takes
short cuts is known as a
blue-blazer. A more
extreme case
is the yellow-blazer who can be seen following the yellow lines on the highway,
typically hitchhiking in the back of a truck at about forty-five miles per hour.
Scott indicated that there was room for
one more, but that was it. The
others would just have to make due. Scott
was nearly six foot five inches tall and about
two hundred
seventy-five pounds.
As darkness fell
I finished my dishes and
explained how skilled I had become at reading the trail.
I mentioned the log with the
skid marks and said that it was clear to me that someone slipped off the
trail and nearly uprooted a tree. At
this point Scott confessed that he in fact was
not a true white-blazer.
He had
not hiked the entire trail, indeed he admitted, he skided down a fair
portion of the trail on his back starting at the very point that I had
described. Hearing his confession, I was moved to relate my experiences
at the same tree. The incident
became known as the "classic turtle maneuver", down
hill, up side
down, head first, with arms
and legs flailing wildly. Telling
the story was far more pleasurable than living it.
Shortly two of the Orlando boys showed
up with no tent. Scott
informed them there
was no
room. There was no
discussion. Reluctantly they moved
on past the stream and began to make camp.
An hour later
cheers greeted
Sock head
as he arrived
in the black of
night with
the tent. As Dick Cates and
Scott snored through the night, I almost envied the Orlando Boys in their
distant tent. Peace, Slim
|
|
|