Into the Woods: Smoky Mountain Backpacking, Part 1

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.” Robert Frost may not have been referring to the Smoky Mountains when he wrote that line, but it was all I could think about as our group of eight entered the Appalachian Trail at Newfound Gap in Great Smoky Mountains National Park on a clear September afternoon.

“Women in the Wilderness” was the name of our adventure, a two-night backpacking trip for seven paying guests and our guide from the award-winning nature guide service, A Walk in the Woods. The company’s mission is to raise environmental awareness through “direct, fun, positive experiences with nature.” As a person considering a thru-hike of the AT and sometimes wondering why, I needed a dose of that.

I had found “Women in the Wilderness” on Facebook within a day of arriving home from a week of day-hiking the AT. Someone had cancelled after this Smoky Mountain trip was full, and the opening seemed meant for me. I signed up to gain more practice, but also to soak up some positive vibes about the wilderness. Anyone who doesn’t feel that way will have a hard time in the woods, because Mother Nature isn’t one to hold back on the challenges.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park covers 816 square miles. Its more than 500,000 acres are almost equally divided between Tennessee and North Carolina. Much of the park is back country, full of creeks and trees, wildlife, and trails both primitive and maintained. It is an amazing ecosystem, bursting with unique plant life and loads of animals. Scientists estimate the park is home to 100,000 different organisms.

I drove to Gatlinburg, Tennessee on a Thursday, arriving at a hotel I’d chosen on the Internet. In real life it was a disappointment, years beyond its heyday. One of the two lamps didn’t have a switch. The furniture was outdated, and no one would have stolen the TV; only Hercules Unchained could have lifted it. I was suspicious of the bedding, preferring to curl up in my sleeping bag on top of the covers. But at least I wasn’t bothered and my room had a lovely balcony overlooking a creek. The next morning after a freebie breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I made the short drive to A Walk in the Woods.

We met each other and our guide on a sun-washed deck outside Gatlinburg. Most of the women taking this trip were renting their gear, so the preliminaries included our guide fitting each one with a pack and handing out tents, sleeping bags, and sleeping pads. I’d brought my own backpack filled with gear. One item was still in the trunk of my car: the $46 can of bear deterrent spray with its special holster I’d bought to quell my panic regarding the scariest of wild animals. I’d read it somewhere: "We pack what we fear."

“I have bear spray,” I said to our guide. Will I need it?”

“No.”

Gulp.

About 1,500 black bears reside in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. They are known to avoid humans, and visitors who hope to see them are often disappointed. I was a different kind of visitor, hoping to be spared the tiniest glimpse of fur during our three-day adventure. With that in mind, I addressed one of my challenges--focusing on the positive--as our orientation continued.

To be continued…

The Nerve Center

When I committed to hiking the 2,000-plus miles of the Appalachian Trail in 2015, my mind flew apart like a scattering of birds. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with things to do. Never mind that I had spent a year collecting and reading books about the AT, buying gear, and signing up for “practice experiences” in the woods. I felt the weight of the preparation that was still to come.

Planning the hike would be logistically complicated until I hit the trail and began to live simply, because I also had to manage what I was leaving behind. The first order of business was to organize my growing collection of backpacking gear, books, and clothing. The items were stashed in different locations around the house, making me nuts when the time came to go hiking. I would forget something every time. Once it was my water supply—not a good thing to leave at home.

I needed a nerve center!

As opposed to a place to work up my nerve, this nerve center would be a location in my home for all of my hiking paraphernalia, where I could see what I had in order to fill my packs intelligently as I prepared for every practice hike and then the Big Hike. (I know, don’t capitalize for emphasis.)

I chose my linen closet, a double-wide with sliding doors. Several years earlier I’d had it customized to hold not just my sheets, towels, and table linens, but also a variety of suitcases. It has one narrow section for hanging clothes and the rest is divided by shelves. The space would be perfect for my two packs, their contents, my hiking clothes, and my books.

I wanted to see all of my gear and my full range of clean outfits at once. The goal was efficiency. I could dress quickly and learn to load my backpack consistently so that my movements would become automatic on the trail. A pack is a complex piece of equipment when you consider its inner cavities, pockets, loops, and network of straps. It has to hold everything you need for a hike, yet be light enough to carry mile after mile. Loading one is both science and art.

So, out came my bedding, towels, place mats, and luggage, to find another home; into the closet went my hiking gear, books, and outdoor clothing. I have a shelf for my tent, one for my sleep system, another for footwear. There are spaces for stuff sacks, trekking poles, laundry, and smaller items--socks, whistle, bug net, emergency blanket, matches, and so on. My hiking books are in one place.

I’d recommend this system to anyone. There is one little hitch. I haven’t yet found a new home for my extra curtains, comforters, scatter rugs, shower curtain rings…

Carpet Cleaning

Housework requires a jump-start at times, for instance in the dead of winter when productivity can seem impossible. My friend Betty K. had a four-season excuse for household tasks she didn’t want to do: “Who sees it?”

People do see dirty carpeting; just watch HGTV. No House Hunter lets a square foot escape a snide remark. So, when my brother offered to shampoo my carpets while I was on a trip, he didn’t have to ask twice. In my absence Joe was able to work at his own pace undisturbed, and the carpets had time to dry--undisturbed.

Joe repeated his offer a few months ago, with the difference that this time the job would be easier, just a touch-up. Most of my carpeting had remained pristine through the holidays and even during the harshness of January.

“Even with all the company you had?” Joe joked. I rarely host anything.

After I’d fortified him with a cup of coffee, he readied his cleaning equipment. “Let’s make this as easy as possible, I said. “You don’t need to do everything. Let me show you my path.”

“You don’t need to. It’s a shining beacon.”

I walk most often on the carpeted areas between the kitchen and my office, bedroom, and bathroom. If anybody wanted to trace my daily movements, it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes.

Joe started in the hall between the bedroom and master bath. Off that hall was my walk-in closet. I didn’t want him to overdo it, so I said, “You don’t have to do the entire closet. Just go down the middle, where I tend to stand. It smells like feet.”

“Have you considered slippers?”

I tried to stay out of the way, but it wasn’t long before I had to peek. “This is what killed me the last time,” Joe said as I rounded the corner and stifled a scream. The section he had cleaned looked like “attack of the black spiders.” The wet carpet was dotted with dark shapes the size of quarters that seemed to be advancing.

“That’s what the shampooer pulled out of your carpet. It’s dirt,” he said. I was glad to know that instead of an army of evil arachnids, I was looking at wet dust bunnies. “When I did your floors the first time,” Joe said, “it took me an hour just to pick them up.”

“Skip the stairs this time,” I said a few minutes later in spite of the trail of coffee stains leading up the steps to my office. “Maybe you could just shampoo the landing.”

“I can’t stop now,” Joe said. “Now that I’ve seen it, I have to clean it. Do you use a pogo stick when you carry your coffee upstairs?”

When he was done, he called me into the bathroom to see the murky water he was about to discard. It reminded me of the chemical spill that polluted the Elk River in West Virginia in January 2014.

“When I was still working as a school custodian,” he said, “I always showed the teacher the dirty water afterward. ‘What does it look like?’ I would ask, and they knew I wanted them to compare it to coffee: was it black or “with cream”?

He didn’t ask me, but “black with spiders” is what came to mind for the water. The carpet was pure cream. 

Into the Woods: Day-Hiking the AT in West Virginia

Conclusion

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Had I actually slept eight hours? Yes!

As usual, I’d nodded off a few times during the previous night’s program, a movie about the Appalachian Trail, but who wouldn’t after seeing the AT in person for six hours?

Today, for our West Virginia hike, we had two choices. One was shorter than the other, and I wondered if the first alternative hike of the week had been offered in consideration of our sorry state after three days of hiking. The weather report promised another wet day, but I would not take the alternative hike. How could I skip hiking in my home state, even drenched to the skin? If it rains, you hike.

Only four miles of the Appalachian Trail pass through West Virginia. In order to extend the hike to 6.5 miles, we would begin in Loudon Heights, in northern Virginia. The hike would end in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, home of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy.

The temperature that morning was in the 60s. As we approached our starting point in the vans, the mountaintops were fogged in; we might have been in the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina. I had dressed appropriately for the temperature, but I didn’t want to hike alone in foggy conditions. Would I ever stop being afraid?

As it turned out, the fog was not an issue, but rain dripped all day. I wore my rain pants and jacket and protected my pack with its bright yellow rain cover. Underfoot the ground was slippery. Remember the little boy in The Sixth Sense who said, “I see dead people”? My version was “I see mud.” We had to sidestep the large puddles and respect the roots and rocks.

Our guide for the day stopped often to point out historical sites in the woods. He explained how coal had been converted to coke there in years past. He showed us the foundations of homes built in the valleys and now long gone. In order to do so, he would stop and wait until the entire group had gathered around him, a contrast to previous days when each person hiked at his or her own pace. I liked it.

My comfort level increased on this hike; in fact, it was my favorite hike. I didn’t even mind the rain.

Our guide split up the men and women for a group nature break in the woods. The men disappeared around a curve, and we women went behind a boulder to pee. “Watch out for snakes,” one called. “They like to hide in rocks.” Thanks for the warning, I thought, but at that point I couldn’t run if one jumped out at me.

The cliffs above Harpers Ferry gave us a wonderful view of the town, located at the convergence of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers. Harpers Ferry is also a national park. We walked toward it on a long bridge, and I thought the people speeding by in trucks and cars might feel sorry for us, trudging along in the rain, but they’d be wrong.

We ended our hike by eating lunch on the porch of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy sheltered from the rain. Perhaps the weather was to blame for a slow day in the shops, but we did our part. I bought two gifts, one a wooden sign for my brother’s apartment: “It’s 5 O’clock Somewhere.” A similarly named chapter in his memoir, Mr. Joe, describes the little boy’s wait for his father every evening.

Our dinner was a farewell banquet. For our evening program we were leaving the premises to hear a group of local musicians. I knew I had to fortify myself against sleep, so I had a cup of coffee. I was still awake at midnight.

We attended a concert at O'Hurley's General Store in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. A group of musicians play there on Thursday nights in a big room with chairs set up so that people can come and listen. That night there were 11 musicians. The performance was amazing: Every one of those musicians could sing and play at least two instruments. I discovered that Irish music moves me. I wouldn’t have needed the caffeine.

Our group had been exchanging contact information and saying good-bye. After a tour of Antietam Battlefield the next morning, we left for home.

One day when I was on the computer I saw a post on Facebook from a company called A Walk in the Woods. It seemed a place had unexpectedly opened for a weekend backpacking trip in the Smokies in September. I took it.

Into the Woods: Day-Hiking the AT in Virginia

Fourth in a series

May 28, 2014

4:35 a.m.: Not again.

After a trip to the toilet I decided to lie down, turn out the light, and try to fall back to sleep. It was simply too early to be awake. There in my single bed, covered by blankets and NOT climbing a mountain, I thought to myself over and over, like a mantra: I’m here, not there.

Life at the conference center was fun. I was glad I had signed up with this group. Everyone was friendly, and four other women had come alone. By midweek I was getting to know all of my companions, enjoying the meals, and trying like heck to appreciate the evening programs. Last night’s subject had been edible plants. I made it to the end, but don’t ask me what to eat or avoid in the forest.

5:15: As it had the previous morning, my mind drifted to livelier thoughts, for instance, the red marks on the insides of my legs around the sock line. They were back after yesterday’s hike, and the left one looked to be forming a circular pattern. Was this the bulls-eye that signals...I couldn’t remember what; was it Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever? No. The shape was a sign of Lyme Disease, though I had seen no ticks. If I had, I would have used my Tick Key to remove them.

When it rains, you hike. Today was that day; we had expected thunderstorms on our Maryland hike, but they had come later in the day. According to last night’s posting of the weather, the chance of precipitation during our Virginia hike would be 70 percent.

Today’s little jaunt in the woods was described on our information sheet as a “Strenuous Hike.” If they thought Monday’s was easy and Tuesday’s was moderate, we were in for a workout. I didn’t want to psych myself out sitting there on the edge of my bed in my fleece pajamas, but that ship had sailed.

The section of the AT chosen for our Virginia hike was a portion of the “roller coaster,” so named for its undulating elevations. We would cross four mountains for a distance of 7.3 miles. The terrain was described on the sheet as “Very Rocky.”

Try “merciless.” We were still in the van when one hiker read that description aloud from a book. He was referring to one of the mountains we would climb. How can you reconcile “merciless” with “Snicker’s Gap”? That was our starting point. We would end the hike in the afternoon at a road, VA 605.

A few members of our group left the rest behind every day. I would never be in that elite cluster. I was good at walking, but I tuckered out going up the mountains and had to rest. I decided to hang back with a slower group for the day. The hike became grueling, but my companion of the moment and I were feeling proud of ourselves because we were doing all right at age 68. When a guide caught up to us on a mountainside, he told us he was 73. Need I specify that both of them then passed me? That must have been the merciless mountain; at least, it proved so for me.

It did rain. At times all we could hear were the raindrops and the points of our trekking poles hitting the surface. We encountered rocks and more rocks, no surprise, and forded a few creeks. At the deepest one, a group that had gone far ahead of us waited to help us over. I didn’t fall all day, but I slipped a couple times and landed funny on my feet. Still no blisters from my trusty boots.

For the last hour and half, I hiked with a different companion through the rain. The temperature was in the 80s, and once I put on my rain shell my sweat output was worse than usual. The insides of my sleeves were slick with it. When I got back, I would have to turn the jacket inside out to dry it.

My friend and I reconciled our hiking styles—she had trouble on the downhill slopes--by staying within sight of one another, but at times it was like hiking alone. The sky was overcast and the forest, soaking wet. I thought every black shape I saw ahead was a bear, but I kept my thoughts to myself after telling her I thought I saw one of our white vans up ahead and it turned out to be a boulder.

Wildlife spotted: a black caterpillar on a stone; a butterfly

Tip: If you carry a water bladder, consider also carrying a bottle of water to drink at lunch. Drinking from the bladder is difficult once you remove your pack to eat.

Toward the end of the day, I peed just off the Trail. My friend said, “Go ahead. I’ll walk just a little ways ahead.” No one came along and nothing bit me from behind.

“Vanity is the first to go,” I said.

I heard her answer from down the trail: “Modesty is the second.”

By the end of the day, my hiking outfit was so sweaty and the pants so muddy that there was no hope of washing them in the sink as I had done with my previous outfits. Those clothes would require lots of Spray & Wash at home.

I was glad to emerge from the Trail and see our vans parked beside VA 605. Everyone else cheered as we made our way to the road. To top it off, treats were laid out, and guess what they were: Snickers!

Next: Hiking in West Virginia

Into the Woods: Day-Hiking the AT in Maryland

Third in a series

May 27, 3:00 a.m.

I knew I was awake; my mind was racing all over the place. Could I get back to sleep? Only hours before, I had been nodding off in a presentation. I’d hated to do it, but I got up and left before I fell completely asleep. Now I longed for that sleep.

I curled up on my side, listening to the pre-dawn quiet. The latest weather prediction, a 40- to 60-percent chance of thunderstorms, meant rethinking the contents of my pack. I would put the rain cover on it before we started out. That should keep the pack dry. I would need to take my rain jacket and pants, my all-season gloves, my SmartWool® sweater, and my emergency blanket. The books say you can get hypothermia by being wet in any season.

I didn’t want to be alone when the thunderstorms came. I wanted a guide nearby to tell me what to do. What I knew about hiking in a storm was all from reading: Drop anything metal, meaning your walking sticks. Even though mine have cork handles, I thought, they’re hitting the ground. Don’t be in the open if you can help it. Don’t head for a cave or a grove of trees. What’s left? Crouch down low and balance on the balls of your feet. If you’re in a group, spread out to reduce the chances of more than one person being struck by lightning. Oh, fabulous, my own lightning bolt.

I needed to calm my mind. Thinking of thunder and lightning on top of some bald would not put me to sleep. I thought of the thru-hiker I had sat next to at lunch the previous day. He told us he begins hiking each day at 3:00 a.m. with his headlamp to guide him. He would be setting out about now.

I lay in the dark, aware of the irony that would play out later on the Trail. If I were in the forest instead of here in my room, I would be wishing for this bed and the toilet a few steps away. I’d be longing to stop walking. Well, now was my chance. I was warm and safe. Before I faced the day in the woods, I wanted to appreciate my trauma-free surroundings.

At 3:50 I gave up on sleep and made my first cup of coffee. With the lights on, I took a physical inventory. My feet seemed all right: no blisters or hot spots. The strange red marks on the insides of my legs up to my sock line had faded overnight. My calf muscles were sore, and I had pulled something in my right thigh or groin during our Pennsylvania hike when I turned to hold back a branch for someone and lost my balance. I didn’t fall, but that brief body twist had made its mark. I hoped I could take two Tylenol and “walk it out” on the Trail. I didn’t want to be a whiner, even joking.

The Appalachian Trail in Maryland looks a lot like the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania: lots of rocks, some mud, and miles of green. The surrounding area was attractive and well maintained, something I had noticed immediately upon driving into Maryland. There was no road clutter; in fact, by the time I saw a sign for a gas station, I wondered if it was a mirage. Of all my impressions, this took the cake: I was surprised to be driving over mountains! Hello. Appalachian Trail? Four states?

For our second day on the AT, we would be hiking from Washington Monument to Crampton’s Gap. At 9.7 miles, it would be our longest hike of the week.  Described in our handout as “Moderate,” the hike was sure to present a challenge, because yesterday’s hike had been described as an “Easier hike.” Easier than what? Oh. Easier than the next three hikes.

Washington Monument is a rugged stone tower located at the top of a mountain in Washington Monument State Park. It was erected in 1927, the first completed monument dedicated to the memory of our first president. Maryland is steeped in history, particularly that of the Civil War. Crampton’s Gap, where our hike would conclude, was the site of another skirmish between Union and Confederate soldiers. Our conference center was just a few miles from Antietam Battlefield, scene of the bloodiest single day in American military history.

We hiked over three mountains and crossed a few gaps and knolls in between. I think we ate lunch at Rocky Run Shelter, around the halfway point, but all I remember is the fat log I had to sit on because the other seats were taken.

Wildlife spotted: A few minutes after I sat down, another hiker said, “Oh, there’s a caterpillar…ON YOU.” The thing was two or three inches long.

Tip: Watch where you sit.

Later we thought we were going to get caught in the rain, so my hiking partner and I stopped and got out our raincoats, which meant taking off our packs to put them on. I had my pack covered as well. It barely rained, and then the sun came out. Our ounce of prevention may have saved us from the storms, the way carrying an umbrella will sometimes do in town. To avoid the trouble of taking it off, I continued to hike in my raincoat and sweated like a pig. I’ve rarely had to worry about perspiration, but on that trip I sweated with the best of them. Just a preview of life on the AT.

I tried my bug net in the woods of Maryland. Made of fine netting treated with insect repellent, it fit over my head and hat.

Tip: Remember to lift your bug net off your face before you blow your nose.

I hiked alone for a while, not the most comfortable of arrangements for those of us dreading a wildlife encounter, but pace dictates our hiking partners or lack thereof. I slipped in the mud and fell onto my left side, hitting my shoulder. No one saw me, but the other side of that coin is that if I had been seriously hurt I would have had to wait for help. Luckily I was fine, except for being muddy and having a scraped knee.

Wildlife spotted: a spotted frog

The weather was great and the scenery beautiful. The hike ended at 3:00 p.m. when we emerged from the woods to meet the vans. It had been 12 hours exactly since my first thought of the morning, and I was beat.

Someone asked me at dinner, “Are you still thinking of hiking the AT?” We were cleaned up from the sweaty day, and the big rains had come after we were off the Trail. I’d heard the rain banging on the window of my room while I was lying down, but I was too tired to see if it was leaking in.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling like last year’s meat. “I don’t know. After today, I’m not sure I could do it.”

“Oh, you absolutely could do it!” my table-mate said, and her husband was nodding in agreement.

“Look at me,” I said. “I’m a zombie.”

“You’re not alone. The trail beats everyone up for the first few days.”

I was thrilled to realize that I wasn’t a zombie from hiking; I was a zombie from waking up at 2:45 a.m. I didn’t have to give up hope.

Next: Hiking the “roller coaster” of Virginia

Into the Woods: Day-Hiking the AT in Pennsylvania

Second in a series

May 26, 2014

The Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania is known for its abundance of rocks. When I’d read that in book after book, I had pictured a long valley with the mountains wide apart, the way they were in my hometown of Glen Ferris, West Virginia, with the Kanawha River running between them. In my mind, the floor of this long valley would be littered with rocks and little else. Some would be boulders; others would be the size of footballs or what one hiker called babyheads: rocks the size of a baby’s head. But the section we hiked in Pennsylvania wasn’t the way I’d imagined it. That was the reason I had wanted to hike the AT in four states: to see it for myself.

Our group of twenty-plus assembled outside the conference center at 8:30 a.m. After an hour-long van ride, we stopped for a nature break at the Caledonia State Park visitor center and then were driven to a trailhead in the park, where we met our guides for the day. I would not see most of them again until lunch, a result of our group becoming spread out during the hike.

To me, hiking from Caledonia State Park to the town of Pine Grove Furnace was like walking in a creek bed for eight and one-half miles. The Trail led us up and down mountains where the rocks were slick and the ground was muddy. Wet tree roots curled in our path like snakes. Training yourself to be alert for wildlife, take in the scenery, and look for white blazes on the trees while watching your feet is a good skill set to develop on the trail. Most of us carried trekking poles to aid our walking.

Along our stretch, the AT ranged from two or three feet wide to the size of a two-lane road. The forest was unbelievably green. Sometimes the vegetation in the woods was so thick that we would have missed a bear in the bushes ten feet away. At other times, we could look off to either side and see the tree line past fields dense with ferns. We passed sections more reminiscent of autumn than late spring, thanks to thousands of fallen leaves.

We didn’t have to worry about getting left or lost. The last guide in the group was called the sweep, and his job was to make sure everyone made it to the end. If we had to go into the woods, we were instructed to leave our pack beside the trail so the sweep would know to wait. Fortunately for my goal of avoiding critters, I did not have to answer nature’s call off the trail.

Wildlife spotted: None

The official halfway point of the Appalachian Trail is marked by a sign. I would have liked to have my picture taken there, but I couldn’t reach my camera without removing my backpack.

Tip: The side pockets on a backpack are still behind you.

I didn’t want to take the time, as ours was a fast-moving group. Besides that, I would have had to explain to everyone who saw the photo that, in fact, I had not hiked halfway from Georgia to Maine.

The thing about hiking is the relentless nature of it. After the first four miles my pack felt heavy. My boots felt heavy, and I had begun to stumble. We were going from Point A to Point B, and I felt the need to maintain a certain pace. The climbs were hard, however, and I was forced to stop and allow others to pass. Supposedly thru-hikers get their “hiking legs” about three weeks into the trip, and that wasn’t going to happen to me after a half-day.

We stopped at mile 4.5 for lunch at Tom’s Run Shelter, which also boasted a roofed picnic area, flat spots for tent camping, and a privy. It was the first shelter I’d ever seen. It was made of wood, raised a few feet off the ground. Tom’s Run, located in a valley, is one of the better shelters on the Trail, according to a NOBO (northbound) thru-hiker we met.

Several young thru-hikers joined us for lunch. I sat by the bearded guy in black who had politely passed me on the Trail. Thru-hikers have a reputation for strong odors, the result of hiking for days in the same clothing, but his tuna fish smelled stronger than he did. He had left Springer Mountain toward the end of March and hoped to make Katahdin by the 4^th of July. Most hikers are only halfway there after three months.

At lunch I had a chance to examine one of my trekking poles. The lower lock wasn’t holding, and that had caused a section to collapse repeatedly while I was walking—not a good thing when you’re using the pole for support. I figured out a screw had loosened and used the screwdriver head on my new knife to tighten it, but I did not have time to check the remaining three screws until the hike was over. I told you this was a fast group.

Pine Grove Furnace is a pretty town and home to a hostel, a general store, and the Appalachian Trail Museum. The store is known for the half-gallon challenge, in which thru-hikers try to eat a half-gallon of ice cream. I paid no attention to that, interested only in a bench and my delicious cone of Cookies and Cream. The museum display includes a bust of Earl Shaffer, the first man to thru-hike the AT, and  one of Grandma Gatewood, the first woman to do so. Her hiking shoes and one of her homemade duffel bags were in a glass case, along with a collapsible cup and a few other items she had used on the Trail. Emma Gatewood was about my age when she completed that first hike, and I felt a kinship to her.

A couple people fell asleep in the van on the long trip back, but no one complained. I was pooped, but I wasn’t going to be the one to crack.

I shed my sweaty clothes as soon as I got to my room. You would have thought I’d been on the Trail for days; the thought of a shower, a couple Tylenol, some foot powder, and a change of clothing was simply entrancing. I showered and washed my hair after checking myself for ticks (none found). I noticed red marks on my shoulders from my pack, though I had not felt pain or known that the straps were digging into my skin. I changed clothes and hand-washed the ones I’d worn on the hike. If I were backpacking instead of sleeping indoors, what would I do with my wet bra, underpants, shirt, socks, and liners? I knew that one: I wouldn’t wash them in the first place.

Before going to dinner I put on a little makeup. I was going to skip it, but the mirror told me to think again. I had hiked in full makeup, but after my shower I was so tired that I reduced the process to the barest necessities for the remainder of the evening. Vanity was falling away.

I ate like a hiker who’d been on the Trail for two months. The “hiker hunger” I had read about came early, but I was still recovering from my stomach trouble. I had vegetables and tortellini in cream sauce. The other people also had bread, salad, and fruit. The zucchini and summer squash were especially delicious that night, and I went back for seconds and then had peach cobbler for dessert.

We had another program after dinner. I was so sleepy I was afraid I’d nod off and fall out of my chair.

Every evening our program leader posted a weather report for the following day. The latest: 40 to 60% chance of thunderstorms for our second hike. I hoped I could start the second day as energetic and physically ready as I had the first.

Next: Hiking Maryland

Into the Woods: Day-Hiking the Appalachian Trail

May 25, 2014

I left the interstate for the backwoods (or so it seemed) of Maryland on a Sunday afternoon, easing my way along curving two-lane roads surrounded by green. Twice I had to ask directions, the first time flagging down a car going the opposite way and the second time idling outside a yard to call to the owner. Finally I spotted the turn for my destination, a conference center situated on two hundred acres an hour and a half northwest of Washington, D.C.

I had signed up to hike the Appalachian Trail in four states. It was a six-day program designed for 24 of us older people. The activity was rated “Challenging,” but what did that mean? Was it simply an oxymoron? How fit did I have to be in order to hike the Trail in a group of senior citizens?

I had been fascinated with the Appalachian Trail for a year, hooked initially by Wild, Cheryl Strayed’s tale of hiking alone on the Pacific Crest Trail. I’d subsequently collected and read more than 25 books about the AT and had spent a weekend backpacking in the woods of Georgia in a guided group. I’d registered for this group hike in Maryland months ago.

In this instance, “hike” meant that we would day-hike, leaving the conference center every morning at 8:30 to be driven to a different trailhead. We would hike until 3:00 or 4:00 p.m. and be picked up by the vans at the other end. The hikes for the week were from 6.5 to 9.7 miles each.

Our meals were provided, including lunches we packed ourselves from a food selection laid out every morning on one of the round dining tables. Breakfast and dinner were buffet style.

Supper the first night was two kinds of fish, broccoli, mac and cheese, and pumpkin pie for dessert. A salad bar was a staple for those with better constitutions than mine. I’d suffered intense stomach cramps before the trip and had barely eaten in three days.

Every evening after dinner we were treated to a program. The first night it was a talk by a member of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. Before that talk began, we took turns standing in front of the group to introduce ourselves. Each of us put a push pin in a U.S. map to mark our town or city. My group for the week consisted of three couples who signed up together, five single women, and a few couples who did not know one another before their arrival.

Before registering for the trip, I’d wondered about my ability to take on this series of hikes. I wanted badly to experience the Appalachian Trail, so I signed up and then began walking at home. In March I started weekly physical fitness sessions with a trainer. “Get me ready” was my simple plea. She worked on my core strength as well as that in my arms and legs, with less than two months to make me hike-worthy.

Maybe you’ve sized up the other members of a group and compared them to yourself for reassurance. I already knew my co-hikers were nice people, but what was their potential to climb mountains, compared to mine? Some were experienced hikers. I didn’t want to be the one they waited for once we got on the Trail.

You know how this goes. You look at your hike-mates and think, landing on one: If he or she can make it, surely I can. We all do it, but in reality—and in a group as fit as ours--it is difficult to tell another person’s level of stamina. You might be dead wrong, as I was. Every day some of those folks passed me like I was standing still. Okay, I was standing still.

Stay tuned for the next installment: hiking the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania, a state known for rocks, rocks, and more rocks. Our first hike would begin at Caledonia State Park and end at Pine Grove Furnace, a distance of about 8.5 miles.

My First Blog

So Write! is my second blog ever. My first was titled Jane’s India Trip.

In 2008 a colleague and I took a business trip to India. I was an editor; Sally was, and is, a techie. These are simplifications. We, and others, traveled 8,600 miles to approve a product for our company.

We were in India for a total of 16 days, based in Bangalore but traveling to Mysore, Delhi, and Agra. When Sally told me she intended to keep friends and family informed about her trip by posting a blog, I had to ask her what a blog was. Remember when people had to explain that blog was short for weblog? I didn't even know what a weblog was. She, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do.

Sally's idea to write about her experiences excited me, and she offered to help me set up my own blog. In just a few hours, Jane’s India Trip was real and my first entry, “Invitation,” was posted.

I recently thought about my India blog and tried unsuccessfully to find it online. At one point--years ago, before my three computer crashes--I could access it on the Internet even though I’d stopped writing new posts once we were back home.

A few weeks ago Sally came to the rescue again, locating the link, and then I lost it a second time in a morass of old e-mail messages. I had to ask her to send it once more. Now I’m saving it as part of this post, hoping I won’t lose it a third time.

Why do I care so much about accessing that old blog? Sentimental reasons; the trip was an amazing opportunity and a memorable time. Thanks to Sally, I also found out in India how much fun it is to blog. That discovery eventually led to So Write!.

http://janesindiatrip.blogspot.com/

If you’re curious about the impressions and adventures of two Americans in India, you’re welcome to check it out. (Begin at the bottom of the list of posts.) And thanks again to those who read my first blog the first time.

Get Real

It’s hard to write as someone of the opposite sex. I’ve done it. You have to stop and consider every word, every description and thought. Avoiding stereotypes takes on a new dimension.

I’m reading a serial-killer novel right now. The author is a man writing about women who end up murdered. This is a guy who’s written 40 novels, yet something is off when he tells us how the killer gets these women alone.

Three women have encountered the murderer so far, and two thought he was stalking them before they actually met him. Yet he has easily turned each meeting into a dating situation. His looks and clothes are average and his conversation is uninspired. He barely flirts. The women start out uninterested, even annoyed or frightened. But each one magically decides to have a wild time with this near-stranger.

The whole city knows a killer is on the loose; it’s all over the news. Yet there is victim No. 3 studying her companion as they head for private quarters. He looks harmless enough, she thinks to herself—and here is where it goes astray: “Even if he did get a little kinky, she was sure she could handle him. Besides, what was wrong with a little kinky?”

I’m not saying that no woman would ever entertain such thoughts, but when promiscuity is written in a book as a predictable trait of multiple women, and in fact as the sure-fire way for a serial killer to operate, it doesn’t work for this reader.

I hate to spend $9.99 on a book and find out something like this.

Back when my mother and I were visiting my grandmother in a nursing home, we passed the five-hour car trip listening to books on tape. Mom tended to choose detective stories from another era, written before widespread awareness of sexism. She didn’t notice what I did; I was too tuned in and after a while had to tune out.

Here’s another cockeyed take on women from the book I’m reading. They consistently eat like farm hands: eggs and bacon and toast; French toast; and “huge bites” of pizza—not all at once, but still. Sorry, Mr. Writer, not happening.

These things wouldn’t bother me if they were noted as unusual, but universality is implied by the repeated examples. Maybe the author is writing primarily for a male audience. He’s sold plenty of books and has won awards, but I’m grinding through this book. I might finish it, but I’ll skip the other 39.

My brother let me know plenty of times during the writing of Mr. Joe when I had misrepresented him. One time he came walking up to the front door announcing, “I would not say ‘fret’ under penalty of death.” There is nothing wrong with a reality check. It can make us better writers.

The women in this book won’t be marching up to the author’s door to complain; his lack of appropriate dialog took care of that before the murderer ever stepped in.

I’m now reading about the next victim-in-the-making. The killer says to himself as he approaches her: It’s so easy to know what women are thinking. In the story, he’s right; she quickly offers herself up just like the others. And there’s the flaw. The author doesn’t have a clue what women are thinking. 

This post was written in 2013. 

Into the Woods: Rural Ohio (Part 3)

It was just me and my bladder in the tent, holding fast for daylight. My mind did a soft-shoe to the tune of “Me and My Shadow”: “Me…and My Blad…der…” Just when I knew I couldn’t wait all night, I remembered I was still wearing my headlamp and watch. It was 5:00 a.m. I headed for the house and indoor plumbing. Afterward I returned to my tent, and the next time I opened my eyes it was 7:00 and bright outside.

What a glorious morning to be outdoors! It was easy to say now that the sun was shining. Flowers were blooming and the air was clean. After coffee and a light breakfast, I was ready for a hike.

This would be the first time I’d worn my backpack, with the exception of the evening before at the REI store when I was deciding whether to buy it. I’d packed it at home instead of a suitcase, discovering its multiple compartments, straps, loops, and options. Packing the right stuff the right way was a challenge. I took items I didn’t find over the weekend; items I forgot were there; and a confusing array of small articles I didn’t need.

The second challenge I faced with the pack was finding out if I could comfortably wear it on a hike. My friends and I walked up and down the hills behind their house. I felt at home in the woods as we tramped across fallen leaves, stepped over logs, and jumped narrow creek beds. I was happy not to be winded from the elevation or sore from the load I was carrying. After we’d bonded in the middle of the night, my pack and I were simpatico! In Wild, Cheryl Strayed named her pack Monster because she couldn’t lift it. Unless I think of a better name, I’m going to call mine Blue because it is blue.

We crossed a mountaintop in high, yellow grass. The hills were quiet and peaceful. I did not know then that wild turkey season had opened in Ohio, but I did have time to ponder the idea that hunters could be afoot in some adjacent wood. Hiker wisdom warns that at certain times of the year we need to wear an item of clothing in blaze orange, the universal signal of human presence. My tent was orange; that was good, but I had nothing appropriate with me. I had thought about ordering a Buff, a multi-function cloth whose uses include neck scarf and hat, but could not decide on the color. Now I knew: orange.

“Oh! Look at this,” I said later when we’d begun taking down our tents. The instructions for assembling mine were on a tag sewn inside the main stuff bag. How had I missed them before?

This would-be hiker will need a lot more practice in order to be comfortable on the trail. Ultimately we all hike our own hike. I know I must learn to be in the woods alone, and I hope that happens, but nothing beats friends willing to share the experience.   

Into the Woods: Rural Ohio (Part 2)

“Why don’t you camp out with me?” I asked my friend, sending up a little prayer that she would say yes and reduce my fear that “IT” would get me in the night. I knew that she and her husband had a stockpile of tents and sleeping bags in the house.

The formerly sunny strip of mowed grass where we stood was now in shadow, a preview of the total darkness that would soon take both the scenery and my frontier spirit. The curved path from her weekend house ended in a wide swath between a mountain and a stream. It was perfect for pitching a tent, but I had not counted on it being out of sight of the house. I’d packed a whistle, but I realized the chances of anyone hearing it were slim to none.

“It will be like a slumber party,” I said, aiming for perkiness. When she agreed to pitch a tent next to mine, I was buoyant with relief.

“We can have a fire later,” she said, referring to the circle of rocks near the center of the clearing. Chairs had been set around it, extending a promise of warmth to the tent site that was now ours rather than just mine.

I had insisted on assembling my tent during the warm afternoon, primarily because I had not done it before. I’d laid it out flat in my den at home, but my furniture hadn’t left room for the movement required to put it together. Hiking experts advise us to erect a tent so many times that we can do it in the dark and take it down in rain without it getting soaked. I wasn’t there yet.

“Do you have instructions?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “but I watched a video on the Internet.” With a bit of guesswork, we managed to get the footprint in place, the tent up, the rain fly attached, and the sleeping bag and pad inside. Finally I could stop obsessing about the tent.

After dinner we walked the path with flashlights, mine a headlamp. My friend had talked her husband into camping out, and now there were three of us. “You’re blinding me!” he said of my new headlamp, the one with the eye-friendly red-light setting that I could not find no matter how many times I pushed the buttons. Know your gear.

He built a fire, but I missed most of its ambience because I was tired. I had been up a ridiculously long time and looked forward to sleeping through the scariest part of the evening—from about 9:00 p.m. until morning. Their voices receded once I zipped myself into my tent.

Hikers are advised to carry ear plugs for the times they need to share a shelter body-to-body with others. In my case I simply tucked my two hearing aids into the little pocket on my tent wall, and I was immediately alone. Oh.

I had put on my REI Revelcloud cold-weather jacket, my knit beanie, and my long underwear. I slid into my sleeping bag, thrilled to find it warm. I was now stretched out one inch from the ground, and my limbs had never felt so angular. Besides experiencing the discomfort of my own bones, it wasn’t ten minutes before I had to pee. No! I would not climb back out into that chilly night. I’d already felt my nose with my fingers, and it was as cold as the carrot on a snowman.

If I fell asleep at all, I didn’t know it. Mostly I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag. Once in turning, I rolled against something solid outside the tent. Was this “IT”? What was I feeling: Was it a raccoon? A skunk? My friends’ pet dog? None of the above; it was my pack, stored in the vestibule of the tent.

If you think there is no comfort to be found in inanimate objects, I'm here to argue. From that moment on, I knew that my backpack would be my silent companion as I learned to love the outdoors. I would need to give it a name.

Into the Woods: Rural Ohio (Part 1)

It was a tryout experience. I wasn’t just trying out my new backpack, sleeping bag, and tent; I was testing my mettle as a camper and hiker. It was not unlike last year’s group backpacking trip in the mountains of northern Georgia, but this time I had my own gear and was exploring my own state.

In the long view, I saw myself thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail as early as 2015. I’d read 25 books about hiking the AT, and No. 26—a new account of 67-year-old Grandma Gatewood’s historic thru-hike in the 1950s—was on its way. I knew the history of the Trail and the names of towns and shelters all along it. Sometimes I felt like I’d already walked “the roller coaster,” “the green tunnel,” “the presidents,” and all the PUDs (pointless ups and downs) in the 14 states from Georgia to Maine. Through my reading I’d hiked alongside Bill Bryson, Earl Shaffer, Jeff Alt, and the Barefoot Sisters. I’d answered the call of the mountains with “Brownie,” “Badger,” “Skywalker,” ”Odyssa,” and others whose trail names I’d forgotten. They had walked the five million steps to support charities, forget wars, set records, channel grief, make life decisions, or simply appreciate nature.

When I took the short view of my hiking self, I saw a gear junkie fascinated with hiking equipment but inexperienced at using it. I’d lovingly researched every item I’d bought, but until Easter weekend 2014 I had not field-tested most of my purchases, especially the “big three.” A hiker’s comfort, and even her life, can depend on the performance of her tent, backpack, and sleeping bag. Those large investments have to be worth it.

My first “big three” purchase was a Marmot EOS 1 single-person tent I bought online. Seeing a tent before you buy is not a common experience; many brands and types exist, limiting retail floor displays. I caught a sale, and between the tent and its footprint (a separate ground cloth) I saved about $70. When the package came, it was the size of a large computer tower but the contents were light, as advertised.

I found my ideal sleeping bag, a Marmot Ouray, in a store but I’d chosen it long before on the basis of internet research. Being a cold sleeper, I’d placed the highest value on temperature rating. I would not be one of the poor souls I’d read about freezing in the Smoky Mountains! The bag was light, too. Its downfall was volume. I bought a compression sack to squish the bag small enough to fit in its compartment in my pack, but a 20-minute wrestling match with my dream bag convinced me to trade it in for a less voluminous REI Flash.

The backpack I bought was a popular model, the Osprey Ariel 65. It was so popular, in fact, that the color I wanted was unavailable. I hadn’t intended to buy a pack before my outdoor Ohio weekend, but I changed my mind when I discovered that REI had only one left in my size.

My plan was to drive to my friends’ country acreage four counties away, pitch my tent in a flat area away from their house, sleep there overnight while they slept inside, and hike the hills of their property wearing my new backpack. That was a good plan in daylight. However, when the sun began to sink and shadows fell across the valley floor, when the temperature dropped and the trees on the mountains blended into one big blob of darkness, that plan wasn't quite so appealing. I had to wonder what I'd been thinking.

(To be continued…)

Spring Shopping

It’s almost that time again.

What can a woman who has tried on—let’s guess: 300?—bathing suits in her lifetime possibly have to say about the process that’s new? That’s what I asked myself after coming home empty-handed from what most of us know to be a self-esteem-sucking, physically exhausting session wrestling bits of cloth in front of a department store dressing-room mirror in unflattering light.

Some aspects of swimsuit shopping haven’t changed a bit, but others have. The women’s swimwear department of my local Dillard’s is stuffed with colorful tops, bottoms, and cover-ups--everything from bikinis to board shorts for the discerning surfer girl and slimming, skirted one-piece numbers for the more modest or matronly shopper. I figured that if I couldn’t find a bathing suit in there, it didn’t exist.

I already had one suit. It was comfortable, and it covered me in all the right places; time and gravity had made that a necessity. But I was planning a vacation that involved daily swimming. To avoid the agony of stepping into a cold, clammy wad of spandex some morning, I needed a spare. My goal was to suit up as attractively as possible for my age and body type.

I’m a senior citizen, often described as “tall and thin.” As my brother says, being thin seems to equal an automatic pass for some folks. “You’re not getting any sympathy from me,” the clerk said after handing me yet another suit. Maybe not, but insecurities can plague us all when it comes to baring skin, especially as the years go by.

I wasn’t out to catch a wave, so the poster of the young girl in a pink bikini on the inside of the dressing room door didn’t help as I prepared to find the leg openings and wiggle into the latest creations and then peep at myself in the fun-house--I mean department-store—mirror. When I did open my eyes I saw in the reflection a soft body, one that could stand to tighten up around the middle. I saw a form as white as Casper the friendly ghost and slightly scarier. Let’s face it: we’re rarely so exposed as when we go to the pool or beach.

Two hours later my credit card was still in safe mode; nothing I had tried on was just right. It seemed a stretch to blame the hundreds of bathing suits in Dillard’s. After I got home I stripped down to my underwear and looked at myself in my own full-length mirror.

My thinking that day had been: The more of me that’s hidden, the better. And then, standing there, I remembered the time I decided to stop wearing shorts because I noticed spots and wrinkles on my legs. I was all set to buy Capri pants for the rest of my days when a wise friend took issue with that decision: Why should we give up shorts? That’s not the answer to living life. We all have to reach the point at which we accept ourselves.

I looked in the mirror again, and that time I didn’t see Casper. I saw a body that was healthy and whole. It was mine, imperfect but in fine working order. The only legitimate emotion for such a moment is gratitude.

I knew I would return to the store. People in their sixties are like everyone else. We like to swim. We like to sit in the sun or take a ride in a boat or occasionally climb into a hot tub. That’s why bathing suits were invented. 

Wellness One Year In

About a year ago I set out on a path of deliberate wellness. By that I mean that, besides embracing nutrition (see post from April 23, 2013) and exercise, I committed to making medical appointments I had put off and dutifully reporting for various screenings and tests I had been too frightened to schedule. I wouldn’t recommend it for stress relief, but no one needed to tell me it was the smart thing to do.

I began with a “wellness visit” to my physician, followed by lab work (blood analysis) and a series of appointments with specialists. In the last 12 months I’ve had a mammogram, a hearing test, an eye test, a colonoscopy, and screenings by a gynecologist and a dermatologist.

My reports were good, but my nutrition and exercise programs had become inconsistent. I had slowly gained weight over a period of months and couldn’t seem to lose it. With spring on the horizon—yes, yes, superficial reason—I knew I had to jump-start my weight loss.

After reading about the 10-Day Detox Diet, I ordered the best-selling book by Mark Hyman, M.D. I knew that Dr. Hyman’s program would be an extension of my previous forages into nutrition, but I did not realize it also encompassed exercise and relaxation.

The 10-Day Detox diet is meant to address food addiction, reboot the body, and result in reduced insulin levels. Weight loss is an advertised benefit. As I write this, I’m completing the diet a few pounds lighter than when I began it March 6. Here’s the scoop:

Weigh and Measure. The first thing I did every morning was to strip down and weigh myself. I had not stepped on the scale at home in many moons (so to speak), but the weighing was helpful, not traumatic. How else would I see my progress? Ditto the daily measuring, except that my plastic tape measure was v-e-r-y cold against my skin.

Exercise. The second order of the day was 30 minutes of exercise. I chose brisk walking and took the opportunity to try out my mid-weight long underwear from REI, purchased for hiking. It was cold and often still dark when I walked out my front door. The first day I lasted 15 minutes before coming inside to do floor exercises. After that I walked every morning. I loved it. A couple of times I witnessed gorgeous sunrises over our lake. The ducks were black silhouettes as they slept. I did have to pack my pockets with tissues, as my nose and eyes ran constantly in the wind. I learned that I can walk in 36-degree weather much more comfortably than I can in 20-degree weather. Occasionally I would pretend I was on the Appalachian trail, noting that if I were on the AT I would not be going back to my nice, warm house anytime soon.

Food. Yes, finally it’s time to eat! I especially loved my morning shakes. All of the meals except luncheon salads were made from recipes. For the uninitiated, this means that you have to cook before you can eat. With the exception of some recipes that provided leftovers, I spent a great deal of time chopping and mixing and watching bits of asparagus and cauliflower ping off the cabinets or roll across the kitchen floor. Yes, all fresh ingredients; nothing packaged. Let’s just say that I considered getting on the delivery route for a produce truck. I also spent a great deal of time cleaning up after myself. In addition to the food, I took vitamin supplements. One, I ordered online. The picture on the box showed a fine powder to be dissolved in drinking water, but this stuff couldn’t have been broken up with a ray-gun. I ended up putting it in my food and hoping it would melt.

Relaxation. One of the recommended stress-breakers is a bath with certain ingredients (e.g., lavender oil) added to the water. I bought the products but had to give up after two nights and an aching back. My bathtub has to be the worst tub ever made. Who in the h--- would design a tub that prohibits leaning back unless one is a contortionist? Hmmm. Oh, could it be Sa-tan? Same one who designed the U-Scan-It machines at the grocery store.

So there you have it. I’m glad I embraced the 10-Day Detox Diet, and I'll continue the parts of it that worked for me: the weighing and measuring, the morning walks, and many of the recipes. In fact, I’ve ordered Dr. Hyman’s cookbook. I feel good and finally can put my mom jeans in the regular laundry rotation in favor of items I previously could not wear. Yippee!

What am I writing? Besides this, you mean. For the last week and a half, I’ve been journaling my way through the diet. That’s a part of the program, too.