Unsupported double SCAR attempt
The SCAR (Smokies Challenge Adventure Run) follows the Appalachian Trail through the length of Great Smoky Mountain National Park (72 miles). Back in December I did my first single crossing with my friend Chris (who had himself already completed a solo SCAR--epic!). As with many important decisions I've made in my life, there was never really a discrete point at which I decided to do the double SCAR. This summer I bought I hammock because I saw a great spot in my yard where I could be in the shade from 1 pm onwards. So I like to sit out there and read. And I suppose one day I had the random thought: "I could sleep in this and it would make a really light tent!" And then that led to: "I wonder what other fast and light stuff I could put together?" And that probably led to the question: "And what fast and light endeavor might I undertake?" And the answer to that question was double SCAR. I suppose its the only thing I had in my mind that a) wasn't ridiculously far away (10 hours by car), b) would take me 3-4 days to complete, and c) I was pretty familiar with. So that's as plausible a reconstruction of what led me to attempt a double SCAR as any, I suppose.
So it started to get serious when I went to Moosejaw and was talking with some of the people there about lightweight options for sleeping bags. After considering a trail quilt (which was probably "too much blanket" for me for this attempt, it being summer and wanting to fit everything into my Osprey Stratos 24 [2006 model, more similar to the existing Talon 22]), I settled on a sleeping bag liner and an emergency bivvy that was breathable (which I learned from testing out my rig beforehand was crucial, having erred with first trying a nonbreathable one). I also bought a rain fly for my hammock.
Now, I understand that I could have gone a lot lighter weight in every piece of gear, so far. But like I said, it wasn't a super planned out thing; it just kind of came together in bits. And in any case, I was pretty happy with how the whole sleeping rig worked out. It rained the second night and (until I was driven from my hammock by [what I initially thought was a bear but what turned out to be] a wild boar), I was kept totally dry and warm. So I was really happy with that.
My double SCAR attempt was my first multi day adventure (having done a number of 100s and the single SCAR back in December). As far as I can tell from the discussion board, two people have completed the double SCAR (which is to be done, following Billy Simpson's first completion, in an unsupported, thru-hiker style). I would have been the third to complete it, if I had completed it. (Ahh, that subjunctive conditional.)
But that's all gear talk and number posturing. (Not that gear is unimportant. Spend a few days out on the trail alone and you'll very quickly discover the importance of good gear, used wisely. And you will understand the interest in gear talk.)
Although the gear (and yes, a bit of number posturing--to get an new FKT) is most likely what set me on the undertaking, these things are of instrumental, rather than intrinsic, value. What I sought, I suppose, in undertaking the double SCAR was something intrinsically valuable. For me, this was simply the experience of being out on a multi-day, unsupported run/fast pack through beautiful, remote mountains. So here's what that experience was like.
I dropped off Charlie with my friend Jamie on July 1 and drove 10 hours to Davenport Gap, where I parked and stayed the night in the back of my Subaru Impreza (a tight fit, but I make it work). I arrived at just before dusk and it was lonely there. Or maybe I was lonely. I'm not sure how to tell the difference. I snapped this photo the night before (the same thing Chris had done when he started). I was starting to fear what I was about to undertake. I think a lot of the fear was the unknown--I just didn't know if I would be able to go as far as I needed to go each day with the pack I was carrying. I didn't know what I was capable of in terms of fast packing. But we love that feeling of anticipation tinged with fear (those of us kindred souls who do). Is it somewhat dangerous? Sure, there are bears, after all. Will it be painful? Probably yes. Almost certainly yes. Yes, it will be. Will you be warm enough when you lay down at the end of the day in your ultra light sleeping arrangement--especially given the fact that you know that your body has less ability to thermoregulate after 14+ hours of running? I don't know. So these kinds of questions percolate and give rise to a bit of healthy fear regarding the undertaking.
But that doesn't exactly explain the loneliness. My wife, Shelly, is Leadville, CO for the year. Long term relationships are difficult. And ours is no exception. We both know that she needs to be there for a year for reasons I won't explain here. In any case, it is mutual and we both love each other deeply. So, my point is, I haven't seen her for a while. And she is far away from me. And I'm out here in the boondocks, alone. And all I'm thinking is: I miss Shelly. I thought of all the adventures (literal and metaphorical) we'd taken over our 10 years together. It is such and amazing thing to be able to share adventures with someone you love. One time, just down the road from where I was staying that night in my car, Shelly and I had backpacked up to the top of Mt. Sterling. We camped up there on the summit, having brought along a bear canister for our food, and having strung it up into a tree. I remember Shelly laughing at how big my pack looked when we hiked down in the rain the next day. She took a picture of it. Anyway, I thought about a lot Shelly and how much I missed her. Shelly populated my thoughts through much of the next three days. I believe that sometimes really tough, frightening, or difficult circumstances can reveal to you what you most deeply value. It is as if they remove the veil that sometimes keep up from our own innermost being. I think this is one important reason why people need to have such experiences. For me, these reconnections with myself happen in nature, when undertaking something arduous or scary. These experience shear off the inessential and get to the core of us. I think that John L. Parker puts it best when he is describing the hero of his cult classic, Once a Runner:
I awoke on the morning of July 2 at 4:30 am and got dressed and put on my pack, locked my car and secured the key away safely for when I'd use it again (hopefully) three days later. Then I hit start on my watch and started the initial climb up to the ridge line. I climbed in dark for about an hour before I was finally able to switch off my headlamp. It was just me and my controlled breathing--my ears on high alert for any sounds. As dawn arrived, I found that I was above the clouds and the mood changed from "high alert" to "relaxed." Eventually, I began to pass other hikers on the trail. I was making good time, having done the big climbing miles at 20 min/mile, as the trail began to flatten out, I'd start running sections. The pack felt good; no bounce. The views were beautiful on the ridge whenever there was a clearing. This will give you an even better sense of it. Oh, and there was also lots and lots of evidence of black bears. Here is one of the more runnable sections.
I ran out of water before I got to Ice Water springs shelter and then ended up staying there for a while to rehydrate and recover a bit. By the time I hit Newfound Gap, I was definitely feeling weary and I had the big climb up to Clingman's to go (and then some). After using the restroom, I was able to get a quick text off to Shelly and even to get a reply from her, which boosted my spirits.
The climb up to Clingman's was a slog, but I knew it would be, so it wasn't that bad. I started off with a through hiker and we chatted a bit. I soon left him behind and he wished me luck. It was crowded as I got closer to the top of Clingman's--lots of day hikers. I tried my cell again at the top of Clingman's but got no service. It's funny how we come to rely so fundamentally on these devices that connect us to the "world." In my case, this was first and foremost Shelly, whom I wanted to keep in the loop regarding my progress and from whom I wanted to hear in order to be comforted in this undertaking. I made it to the Double Springs shelter and filled up my water again. There was a big group staying there for the night and I talked briefly with them before taking off. I wanted to make it to Derrick Knob shelter, which would be 49 miles from Davenport (and thus for the day). The guys at the Double Spring shelter were impressed with my mileage already for the day (42) and I still had seven to go. (I would run into some of these people again on my third day.) When I got to the next shelter (Siler's Bald) there was no one staying there and I didn't really want to stay alone. Plus, my goal was the next shelter. But the sun was going down. I didn't really want to be on the trail past dusk. I'd soon come to learn that I should actually be off the trail before dusk.
Here's the lesson I learned about solo through hiking in bear country: Don't do it at dusk without any noise-making device. That is exactly what I DID do and ran into 4 bears as a result. By "ran into" I mean that they were on the trail just ahead of me. This was both awesome and frightening. I clicked my trekking poles together (they make a nice loud click) and yelled some random things like "hello bears! Yes I see you! You best get on home now! I'm coming through bears!" They scurried off the trail immediately. This gave me a lot of confidence. I don't know what I would have done had they just stood there and not moved. Although I have the book knowledge that bears are scared of people, now I have the experience to back it up. They scurry away like any other creature does (except that strange wild turkey--see below). The thing you don't want to happen is to come upon an unsuspecting bear and that is exactly what you might do if you are quietly hiking through a remote part of the Smokies at dusk. So word to the wise: don't do that (unless, of course, you want to encounter a bear). I do not prefer to encounter bears (this is the kind of thing I would "say" to the bears as I was hiking through a section alone at the end of the day--"I do not prefer to encounter you, bear, so hear me! I am coming now! Scamper off!"). And since I do not want to encounter them, I made it my policy to be off the trail well before dark (say like 8 at the latest).
After the couple of bear encounters, I definitely picked up my pace and I made it into Derrick Knob shelter right at 9 pm. It was still light out. I said a quick hello to the group staying there and went and set up my hammock and rain fly. I washed off with some trail wipes I'd purchased at REI and then changed into dry clothes (I was drenched; it was super humid) and then donned my winter hat and Primaloft vest. Yes, it is summer, but I was also worried about getting cold after a really long run, which I know from experience I do. Even in relatively warm weather. So I got that all set up and then came and sat at the campfire the group had set up. They asked where I'd come from and I said "Davenport Gap." "Wait, today? Not today, you didn't?!" So we had a nice little conversation that ultra runners who have acquaintances that aren't ultra runners will be familiar with. They told me I was "on a different level." I basked in their praise for a while and then went off to bed, eating salami and fritos in my hammock before I stowed them in my waterproof, airtight sack which doubled as a pillow.
Interlude 1: On Not Hanging my Food in a Tree. So, yeah, I didn't do that. Maybe I should have. I was certainly a little worried about bears smelling it and finding me in the way of it. But I figured: a) surely they can't smell the stuff through this impermeable sack?! b) I have my trekking pole right by me and I can use it as a weapon (I had it handy for this exact purpose), c) bears, I learned, we scared of me. It would have been a pain for me to put the food up on the bear line (which Derrick Knob has): I was on a tight schedule and I was planning on eating on and off through the night, as needed. I just needed the food with me. In the hammock.
As I drifted off, surprisingly comfortable in my hammock, two packs of dueling coyotes were yelping. I'd never heard anything like it before. It was awesome. I smiled to myself. This first day had gone perfectly. If only it had been predictive of the next two days.
I slept pretty well. Not soundly, of course, but well for the circumstances. I packed up and got ready the next day and ate a granola bar on the move. That was my breakfast. The section from Derrick Knob to Spence Field is, in my opinion, the most difficult section of the trail. The terrain is very technical and there's lots and lots of vert change. For the 6-ish miles of that section I split 2.5 hours and that was pushing at a good clip. I saw another hiker as I got up to Rocky Top ("good 'ol") and got him to take a photo of me. The trail is sparse and not very wide through this section. At Mollies Ridge I ate a bit of lunch (salami, snickers, fritos) and then continued on to Fontana Dam, the southwestern terminus of the AT in GSMNP. I didn't mention yet that there were a number of heavy downpours through the first part of the day. My feet took a beating and as I result I was developing some serious blisters. I tried to remedy this a bit at Fontana. There were two reasons I went across the dam: 1) to see if the store was open and I could find some food I wanted to eat (I did: two orange cream popsicles and a coke) and 2) to see if I could figure out a remedy for my feet (I didn't). I tried to cut some out of my insole, borrowing some scissors from the nice older lady at the desk. But I think I only made it worse. The other convenience of civilization that I utilized as purchasing bottled water and pouring it into my bladder so that I didn't have to filter. The "slick skin of civilization" is so hard to shed when you don't have to!
I knew the hike back up to Mollies Ridge was gonna be tough: 10 miles and lots of climbing. I realized when I was stopped at Fontana (which was like a 90 minute stop) that I was only going to make it back to Mollies Ridge that day, which meant that there was no way I was going to get anywhere close to the FKT. (I really needed to get back to the place I started that day--Derrick Knob--in order to have a shot at the FKT.) So I was resigned to just finishing it out at a more comfortable tempo. I don't know when my stomach had begun to go south on day 2, but by the time I made it back up to Mollies (at around 7:45) I was totally trashed. My feet were thrashed from the wetness and the descending with the heavy pack. I had no energy. I was a bit disoriented and it took me quite a while to set up my hammock and get my sleeping stuff in place. The rain hit (yet again) right as I was finishing putting up the rain fly. I snuggled into my faux sleeping bag, exhausted. But I wasn't able to eat. Instead, I threw up out of the side of my hammock. And then I didn't eat anything the rest of the night.
Interlude 2: On Peeing Out of the Side of Your Hammock. Yes, I did this. And it was awesome. When you're as thrashed as I was at the end of the day, you don't want to get out of your sleeping back and go to the restroom. And that's just one more reason why a hammock is brilliant. You cannot, of course, do this quite so easily in a tent. And if you tried to do it in the shelter, well.... Anyway, this was one of my most favorite innovations of the trip. I am proud of inventing that trick. Using our creativity and imagination to invent things is awesome; it is what makes us human. (Marx thought that and so did Aristotle before him.) Thus, my peeing out of the side of the hammock is a manifestation of my humanness. 😏 I used my new technique both nights and it was awesome.
Beginning of day 3: an even later start than day 2 (7:15 and 6:50, respectively). Stomach is still not all right. Ate a granola bar when starting out. Made sure I walked slowly for a while. I knew I had that arduous section to do again and so I was really just preparing for that. I was no longer going for the FKT, but just wanting to finish. I knew I needed to do about 30 miles each day for the next two days. I had done 32 the day before and the upcoming sections weren't any more difficult, so this wasn't outside the realm of possibility. But things went downhill. First, it rained from the very start of the day, almost constantly. This made the trail conditions much tougher. And it didn't help my already struggling feet. I was moving much more slowly on this day for those reasons. Eventually, I was resigned to just getting to the Mt. Collins shelter, just past Clingman's. This would have given me 25 on the day and left 35 for day 4.
But, I was considering withdrawing. I had been nauseous for quite some time and hadn't been able to take in any calories, which was also slowing me considerably. I had started thinking about exit strategies and had seen a day hiker that I considered asking for help. And at just that moment I looked behind me and up the trail came two trail runners. I asked where they'd come from and they said they'd done a loop. I wanted to keep them in conversation for a bit, but I also didn't want to interfere with their own plans. But they were nice enough to walk with me for a while. In fact, Jason insisted on walking with me for a while, which I am very glad he did.
Interlude 3: Self Reflection on Being Dependent on Others. I don't know why it is hard for me to feel like I'm inconveniencing others, but it is. Irrationally so, sometimes. Like, I'll go out of my way in order to not have to feel that I am doing this. I mean, I'm sure I do it all the time and am unaware of it, but I just don't like to know or feel that I'm doing it. But sometimes you have to let go and accept that, yes, you are going to alter someone else's plans, but that's ok. Because that's life. And people who understand life, understand that these things happen. Something I love about the ultra running community is that there's a shared understanding of the fact that we are limited beings who need others. And that sometimes you're in the giving role and that sometimes you're in the taking role. There's a camaraderie that is built over this shared understanding of ourselves. And I think this is a vitally important thing to understand about ourselves as humans: that we are dependent beings. We are not self made. We rely on others. I believe this realization (one that feminist philosophers--and Alasdair MacIntyre [strange bedfellows?]--have rightly emphasized) is of fundamental ethical importance because it is all to easy to think of ourselves as wholly responsible for what we do and who we are. But we aren't. This connects to a deeply American ethos, as well: the idea that it is somehow up to us to thrive economically and that (the darker side of this thought) if we aren't thriving economically then it must be some individual fault. That is a myth in both senses of the word: something that organizes "our" understanding of the world and something that isn't true. I guess my point is just that these experiences that we (as ultra runners) have of, say, running 100 miles, teach us something that is generally true of life: that lots of it is up to luck and things outside your control. And sometimes you need help. We all need help sometimes. The problem is that it is easy for some people to forget that either because they've conveniently forgotten or not ever realized all the help they have gotten along the way. The experience of dependency that ultra running can afford us is a good antidote to this kind of forgetting.
So, yeah, I started kind of hinting to these two trail runners (Jason and Tyler) that I wasn't doing so well. And then I started throwing up (again). So Jason and Tyler and their wives, who were with them on this outing for Jason's birthday, took me back to their cabin, they fed me, let me take a shower and gave me a place to sleep. Then they drove me back to my car at Davenport Gap the next morning. Totally out of their way. The super awesome bonus is that they were all totally great people and we had some great conversation. I hope to meet up with them again sometime.
Jason's wife, Amber, snapped these photos of me at Clingman's dome, after Jason had graciously carried my pack for me back to the car (I was on the struggle bus for sure) and Tyler had run ahead to let the wives know what was what. Thus, I withdrew at Clingman's, having gone 22 miles for the day.
So no FKT, but an unforgettable experience that I wouldn't trade even for an FKT. Which makes sense since it is the experiences (of dependency, of self discovery, of new friends) rather than the results that hold the intrinsic value for me.
So it started to get serious when I went to Moosejaw and was talking with some of the people there about lightweight options for sleeping bags. After considering a trail quilt (which was probably "too much blanket" for me for this attempt, it being summer and wanting to fit everything into my Osprey Stratos 24 [2006 model, more similar to the existing Talon 22]), I settled on a sleeping bag liner and an emergency bivvy that was breathable (which I learned from testing out my rig beforehand was crucial, having erred with first trying a nonbreathable one). I also bought a rain fly for my hammock.
Now, I understand that I could have gone a lot lighter weight in every piece of gear, so far. But like I said, it wasn't a super planned out thing; it just kind of came together in bits. And in any case, I was pretty happy with how the whole sleeping rig worked out. It rained the second night and (until I was driven from my hammock by [what I initially thought was a bear but what turned out to be] a wild boar), I was kept totally dry and warm. So I was really happy with that.
My double SCAR attempt was my first multi day adventure (having done a number of 100s and the single SCAR back in December). As far as I can tell from the discussion board, two people have completed the double SCAR (which is to be done, following Billy Simpson's first completion, in an unsupported, thru-hiker style). I would have been the third to complete it, if I had completed it. (Ahh, that subjunctive conditional.)
But that's all gear talk and number posturing. (Not that gear is unimportant. Spend a few days out on the trail alone and you'll very quickly discover the importance of good gear, used wisely. And you will understand the interest in gear talk.)
Although the gear (and yes, a bit of number posturing--to get an new FKT) is most likely what set me on the undertaking, these things are of instrumental, rather than intrinsic, value. What I sought, I suppose, in undertaking the double SCAR was something intrinsically valuable. For me, this was simply the experience of being out on a multi-day, unsupported run/fast pack through beautiful, remote mountains. So here's what that experience was like.
I dropped off Charlie with my friend Jamie on July 1 and drove 10 hours to Davenport Gap, where I parked and stayed the night in the back of my Subaru Impreza (a tight fit, but I make it work). I arrived at just before dusk and it was lonely there. Or maybe I was lonely. I'm not sure how to tell the difference. I snapped this photo the night before (the same thing Chris had done when he started). I was starting to fear what I was about to undertake. I think a lot of the fear was the unknown--I just didn't know if I would be able to go as far as I needed to go each day with the pack I was carrying. I didn't know what I was capable of in terms of fast packing. But we love that feeling of anticipation tinged with fear (those of us kindred souls who do). Is it somewhat dangerous? Sure, there are bears, after all. Will it be painful? Probably yes. Almost certainly yes. Yes, it will be. Will you be warm enough when you lay down at the end of the day in your ultra light sleeping arrangement--especially given the fact that you know that your body has less ability to thermoregulate after 14+ hours of running? I don't know. So these kinds of questions percolate and give rise to a bit of healthy fear regarding the undertaking.
But that doesn't exactly explain the loneliness. My wife, Shelly, is Leadville, CO for the year. Long term relationships are difficult. And ours is no exception. We both know that she needs to be there for a year for reasons I won't explain here. In any case, it is mutual and we both love each other deeply. So, my point is, I haven't seen her for a while. And she is far away from me. And I'm out here in the boondocks, alone. And all I'm thinking is: I miss Shelly. I thought of all the adventures (literal and metaphorical) we'd taken over our 10 years together. It is such and amazing thing to be able to share adventures with someone you love. One time, just down the road from where I was staying that night in my car, Shelly and I had backpacked up to the top of Mt. Sterling. We camped up there on the summit, having brought along a bear canister for our food, and having strung it up into a tree. I remember Shelly laughing at how big my pack looked when we hiked down in the rain the next day. She took a picture of it. Anyway, I thought about a lot Shelly and how much I missed her. Shelly populated my thoughts through much of the next three days. I believe that sometimes really tough, frightening, or difficult circumstances can reveal to you what you most deeply value. It is as if they remove the veil that sometimes keep up from our own innermost being. I think this is one important reason why people need to have such experiences. For me, these reconnections with myself happen in nature, when undertaking something arduous or scary. These experience shear off the inessential and get to the core of us. I think that John L. Parker puts it best when he is describing the hero of his cult classic, Once a Runner:
Cassidy knew very well that he could take men, otherwise strong and brave men, to places they had never been before. Places where life and death overlapped in surreal valleys of muscle gloom and heart despair, where one begins to realize once more that nothing really matters at all and that stopping (death?) is all; where all men finally get the slick skin of civilization off and see that soft pink glow inside that tells you – in both cunnilingus and bullet wounds – THAT THERE ARE NO SECRETS.That soft, pink glow inside where there are no secrets. That is a fucking brilliant line. And any ultra runner knows exactly what he's talking about (even though he's talking about a track athlete). Anyway, I realized in a very visceral way that Shelly is at that core of me.
I awoke on the morning of July 2 at 4:30 am and got dressed and put on my pack, locked my car and secured the key away safely for when I'd use it again (hopefully) three days later. Then I hit start on my watch and started the initial climb up to the ridge line. I climbed in dark for about an hour before I was finally able to switch off my headlamp. It was just me and my controlled breathing--my ears on high alert for any sounds. As dawn arrived, I found that I was above the clouds and the mood changed from "high alert" to "relaxed." Eventually, I began to pass other hikers on the trail. I was making good time, having done the big climbing miles at 20 min/mile, as the trail began to flatten out, I'd start running sections. The pack felt good; no bounce. The views were beautiful on the ridge whenever there was a clearing. This will give you an even better sense of it. Oh, and there was also lots and lots of evidence of black bears. Here is one of the more runnable sections.
I ran out of water before I got to Ice Water springs shelter and then ended up staying there for a while to rehydrate and recover a bit. By the time I hit Newfound Gap, I was definitely feeling weary and I had the big climb up to Clingman's to go (and then some). After using the restroom, I was able to get a quick text off to Shelly and even to get a reply from her, which boosted my spirits.
The climb up to Clingman's was a slog, but I knew it would be, so it wasn't that bad. I started off with a through hiker and we chatted a bit. I soon left him behind and he wished me luck. It was crowded as I got closer to the top of Clingman's--lots of day hikers. I tried my cell again at the top of Clingman's but got no service. It's funny how we come to rely so fundamentally on these devices that connect us to the "world." In my case, this was first and foremost Shelly, whom I wanted to keep in the loop regarding my progress and from whom I wanted to hear in order to be comforted in this undertaking. I made it to the Double Springs shelter and filled up my water again. There was a big group staying there for the night and I talked briefly with them before taking off. I wanted to make it to Derrick Knob shelter, which would be 49 miles from Davenport (and thus for the day). The guys at the Double Spring shelter were impressed with my mileage already for the day (42) and I still had seven to go. (I would run into some of these people again on my third day.) When I got to the next shelter (Siler's Bald) there was no one staying there and I didn't really want to stay alone. Plus, my goal was the next shelter. But the sun was going down. I didn't really want to be on the trail past dusk. I'd soon come to learn that I should actually be off the trail before dusk.
Here's the lesson I learned about solo through hiking in bear country: Don't do it at dusk without any noise-making device. That is exactly what I DID do and ran into 4 bears as a result. By "ran into" I mean that they were on the trail just ahead of me. This was both awesome and frightening. I clicked my trekking poles together (they make a nice loud click) and yelled some random things like "hello bears! Yes I see you! You best get on home now! I'm coming through bears!" They scurried off the trail immediately. This gave me a lot of confidence. I don't know what I would have done had they just stood there and not moved. Although I have the book knowledge that bears are scared of people, now I have the experience to back it up. They scurry away like any other creature does (except that strange wild turkey--see below). The thing you don't want to happen is to come upon an unsuspecting bear and that is exactly what you might do if you are quietly hiking through a remote part of the Smokies at dusk. So word to the wise: don't do that (unless, of course, you want to encounter a bear). I do not prefer to encounter bears (this is the kind of thing I would "say" to the bears as I was hiking through a section alone at the end of the day--"I do not prefer to encounter you, bear, so hear me! I am coming now! Scamper off!"). And since I do not want to encounter them, I made it my policy to be off the trail well before dark (say like 8 at the latest).
After the couple of bear encounters, I definitely picked up my pace and I made it into Derrick Knob shelter right at 9 pm. It was still light out. I said a quick hello to the group staying there and went and set up my hammock and rain fly. I washed off with some trail wipes I'd purchased at REI and then changed into dry clothes (I was drenched; it was super humid) and then donned my winter hat and Primaloft vest. Yes, it is summer, but I was also worried about getting cold after a really long run, which I know from experience I do. Even in relatively warm weather. So I got that all set up and then came and sat at the campfire the group had set up. They asked where I'd come from and I said "Davenport Gap." "Wait, today? Not today, you didn't?!" So we had a nice little conversation that ultra runners who have acquaintances that aren't ultra runners will be familiar with. They told me I was "on a different level." I basked in their praise for a while and then went off to bed, eating salami and fritos in my hammock before I stowed them in my waterproof, airtight sack which doubled as a pillow.
Interlude 1: On Not Hanging my Food in a Tree. So, yeah, I didn't do that. Maybe I should have. I was certainly a little worried about bears smelling it and finding me in the way of it. But I figured: a) surely they can't smell the stuff through this impermeable sack?! b) I have my trekking pole right by me and I can use it as a weapon (I had it handy for this exact purpose), c) bears, I learned, we scared of me. It would have been a pain for me to put the food up on the bear line (which Derrick Knob has): I was on a tight schedule and I was planning on eating on and off through the night, as needed. I just needed the food with me. In the hammock.
As I drifted off, surprisingly comfortable in my hammock, two packs of dueling coyotes were yelping. I'd never heard anything like it before. It was awesome. I smiled to myself. This first day had gone perfectly. If only it had been predictive of the next two days.
I slept pretty well. Not soundly, of course, but well for the circumstances. I packed up and got ready the next day and ate a granola bar on the move. That was my breakfast. The section from Derrick Knob to Spence Field is, in my opinion, the most difficult section of the trail. The terrain is very technical and there's lots and lots of vert change. For the 6-ish miles of that section I split 2.5 hours and that was pushing at a good clip. I saw another hiker as I got up to Rocky Top ("good 'ol") and got him to take a photo of me. The trail is sparse and not very wide through this section. At Mollies Ridge I ate a bit of lunch (salami, snickers, fritos) and then continued on to Fontana Dam, the southwestern terminus of the AT in GSMNP. I didn't mention yet that there were a number of heavy downpours through the first part of the day. My feet took a beating and as I result I was developing some serious blisters. I tried to remedy this a bit at Fontana. There were two reasons I went across the dam: 1) to see if the store was open and I could find some food I wanted to eat (I did: two orange cream popsicles and a coke) and 2) to see if I could figure out a remedy for my feet (I didn't). I tried to cut some out of my insole, borrowing some scissors from the nice older lady at the desk. But I think I only made it worse. The other convenience of civilization that I utilized as purchasing bottled water and pouring it into my bladder so that I didn't have to filter. The "slick skin of civilization" is so hard to shed when you don't have to!
I knew the hike back up to Mollies Ridge was gonna be tough: 10 miles and lots of climbing. I realized when I was stopped at Fontana (which was like a 90 minute stop) that I was only going to make it back to Mollies Ridge that day, which meant that there was no way I was going to get anywhere close to the FKT. (I really needed to get back to the place I started that day--Derrick Knob--in order to have a shot at the FKT.) So I was resigned to just finishing it out at a more comfortable tempo. I don't know when my stomach had begun to go south on day 2, but by the time I made it back up to Mollies (at around 7:45) I was totally trashed. My feet were thrashed from the wetness and the descending with the heavy pack. I had no energy. I was a bit disoriented and it took me quite a while to set up my hammock and get my sleeping stuff in place. The rain hit (yet again) right as I was finishing putting up the rain fly. I snuggled into my faux sleeping bag, exhausted. But I wasn't able to eat. Instead, I threw up out of the side of my hammock. And then I didn't eat anything the rest of the night.
Interlude 2: On Peeing Out of the Side of Your Hammock. Yes, I did this. And it was awesome. When you're as thrashed as I was at the end of the day, you don't want to get out of your sleeping back and go to the restroom. And that's just one more reason why a hammock is brilliant. You cannot, of course, do this quite so easily in a tent. And if you tried to do it in the shelter, well.... Anyway, this was one of my most favorite innovations of the trip. I am proud of inventing that trick. Using our creativity and imagination to invent things is awesome; it is what makes us human. (Marx thought that and so did Aristotle before him.) Thus, my peeing out of the side of the hammock is a manifestation of my humanness. 😏 I used my new technique both nights and it was awesome.
Beginning of day 3: an even later start than day 2 (7:15 and 6:50, respectively). Stomach is still not all right. Ate a granola bar when starting out. Made sure I walked slowly for a while. I knew I had that arduous section to do again and so I was really just preparing for that. I was no longer going for the FKT, but just wanting to finish. I knew I needed to do about 30 miles each day for the next two days. I had done 32 the day before and the upcoming sections weren't any more difficult, so this wasn't outside the realm of possibility. But things went downhill. First, it rained from the very start of the day, almost constantly. This made the trail conditions much tougher. And it didn't help my already struggling feet. I was moving much more slowly on this day for those reasons. Eventually, I was resigned to just getting to the Mt. Collins shelter, just past Clingman's. This would have given me 25 on the day and left 35 for day 4.
But, I was considering withdrawing. I had been nauseous for quite some time and hadn't been able to take in any calories, which was also slowing me considerably. I had started thinking about exit strategies and had seen a day hiker that I considered asking for help. And at just that moment I looked behind me and up the trail came two trail runners. I asked where they'd come from and they said they'd done a loop. I wanted to keep them in conversation for a bit, but I also didn't want to interfere with their own plans. But they were nice enough to walk with me for a while. In fact, Jason insisted on walking with me for a while, which I am very glad he did.
Interlude 3: Self Reflection on Being Dependent on Others. I don't know why it is hard for me to feel like I'm inconveniencing others, but it is. Irrationally so, sometimes. Like, I'll go out of my way in order to not have to feel that I am doing this. I mean, I'm sure I do it all the time and am unaware of it, but I just don't like to know or feel that I'm doing it. But sometimes you have to let go and accept that, yes, you are going to alter someone else's plans, but that's ok. Because that's life. And people who understand life, understand that these things happen. Something I love about the ultra running community is that there's a shared understanding of the fact that we are limited beings who need others. And that sometimes you're in the giving role and that sometimes you're in the taking role. There's a camaraderie that is built over this shared understanding of ourselves. And I think this is a vitally important thing to understand about ourselves as humans: that we are dependent beings. We are not self made. We rely on others. I believe this realization (one that feminist philosophers--and Alasdair MacIntyre [strange bedfellows?]--have rightly emphasized) is of fundamental ethical importance because it is all to easy to think of ourselves as wholly responsible for what we do and who we are. But we aren't. This connects to a deeply American ethos, as well: the idea that it is somehow up to us to thrive economically and that (the darker side of this thought) if we aren't thriving economically then it must be some individual fault. That is a myth in both senses of the word: something that organizes "our" understanding of the world and something that isn't true. I guess my point is just that these experiences that we (as ultra runners) have of, say, running 100 miles, teach us something that is generally true of life: that lots of it is up to luck and things outside your control. And sometimes you need help. We all need help sometimes. The problem is that it is easy for some people to forget that either because they've conveniently forgotten or not ever realized all the help they have gotten along the way. The experience of dependency that ultra running can afford us is a good antidote to this kind of forgetting.
So, yeah, I started kind of hinting to these two trail runners (Jason and Tyler) that I wasn't doing so well. And then I started throwing up (again). So Jason and Tyler and their wives, who were with them on this outing for Jason's birthday, took me back to their cabin, they fed me, let me take a shower and gave me a place to sleep. Then they drove me back to my car at Davenport Gap the next morning. Totally out of their way. The super awesome bonus is that they were all totally great people and we had some great conversation. I hope to meet up with them again sometime.
Jason's wife, Amber, snapped these photos of me at Clingman's dome, after Jason had graciously carried my pack for me back to the car (I was on the struggle bus for sure) and Tyler had run ahead to let the wives know what was what. Thus, I withdrew at Clingman's, having gone 22 miles for the day.
So no FKT, but an unforgettable experience that I wouldn't trade even for an FKT. Which makes sense since it is the experiences (of dependency, of self discovery, of new friends) rather than the results that hold the intrinsic value for me.
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