Popping bubbles and kneecaps in the Great Smoky Mountains

I am a glutton for difficulties and great views.

I couldn’t breathe. Each step was an arduous journey in itself. Despite the cool wind stinging my face (constant, relentless), I still had beads of sweat dripping into my eyes like reverse tears. I couldn’t see. I had to stop more times than I would have liked to catch my breath. I had to dig deep inside myself to keep going, knowing I couldn’t give up.

I had to remind myself that this is what I signed up for: that beauty and adventure are worth it, and that doing something truly great comes at a price. Difficulties are commonplace here, and although there were times when I thought I couldn’t take another step, I could and would persevere. I am a glutton for difficulties and great views. What a beautiful and magical place to suffer.

I’ve heard a lot about the Great Smoky Mountains. What I was not prepared for was the blanket of wildflowers that covered my vision and gave my soul a warmth that the cold, bitter wind could not penetrate.

The AT is difficult. Really, very difficult.

I try not to compare the Triple Crown trails too much because each one is different, unique and special in its own way. However, as soon as other hikers find out that I’ve already hiked both the CDT and PCT, they want a comparison. Ultimately, the biggest difference I’ve noticed in the first 200 miles of each trail is how absolutely difficult the Appalachian Trail is in comparison.

The other two trails start in the desert with relatively easy slopes. Obviously, the other trails come with their own set of challenges, be it exposure, long water runs, and whatever, but I still find those miles and miles simpler compared to the enormous difficulty of hiking up and then down multiple mountains all day, every day. The truth is that the AT is a much more difficult trail to navigate, at least so far.

As I climb further and further into the Great Smoky Mountains, I’m only now realizing that it’s one of the most challenging hikes I’ve done since hiking through Colorado on the Continental Divide Trail. The Colorado portion of the CDT is in many ways similar to the AT, only in Colorado the climbs are longer and much, much higher in elevation. Even so, at only about six thousand feet, I was still having a hard time catching my breath, like Wile E. Coyote trying to catch the Roadrunner.

A great place to suffer. It’s worth it.

My first full day in the Smokies came with pain and a swollen knee. I think it was the beginning of an overuse injury caused by the ridiculous amount of high steps we’ve been given by the great people who built the AT. The tint and constant swelling in my knee seemed to increase in intensity in tandem with the increasing difficulty of the trail. Because camping is required in the national park lodges, I had very little say in what kind of mileage I would do. What was supposed to be an easy, relatively uneventful 16 miles turned into an all-day excursion of intense hiking that left me limping late to camp, leaving me with barely enough light to set up my tent before passing out without the strength or willpower to even make dinner.

Despite the harshness of the day, I was happy because in return the mountain gave me a beautiful day with many panoramic views. The mountains sang to me that day, and although I did not applaud the performance, it was one that moved me. It was a day I will never forget and in retrospect it was worth it.

The Smoky Mountains to myself…sort of.

Among the many things I’ve heard about the Smokies, the one constant was that this early in the season I was likely to see (or not see) a lot, as it would probably be at least cloudy and rainy, if not snowing with ice everywhere. This was not the case. The weather was spectacular, with brilliant sunshine all day, every day. It was a little cold, but I preferred it to being socked in the mountains, as is usually the case. Although I was moving a little slower than I would have liked, I still walked a little faster than the other hikers and found myself between groups, or bubbles, as I like to think of them.

I almost felt like I had the Smoky Mountains to myself until I reached the top of Kuwohi (formerly Clingmans Dome). There were a lot of people there, not backpackers, but normal people. There was a news crew, a reporter talking to a camera, and a man recording B-roll footage near the trail. It was a little overwhelming as my heart was pounding and my body was drenched in sweat. It was like I was instantly transported from nature to the heart of Disneyland. Only instead of a giant castle in the middle of the park there was a giant winding ramp and an observation tower.

Like a princess at the top of the tallest tower.

As I walked up the ramp, I remembered that normal people smelled like soap and other chemicals, while I probably smelled like a sun-sweltered dumpster despite the chill of the air. When I reached the top, I could see forever. The ends of the earth felt like they were at my fingertips. After braving the swarms of normal people, I continued back to the solitude and comfort of the Appalachian Trail, toward the junction of a paved road and the parking area at Newfound Gap. It was here that I was transported to the Disney parking lot and more groups of non-wild humans before moving upstream along the trail, weaving my way through the crowds of hikers.

The road was wet and there were stones. The rocks were wet and slippery. The common people walking down had probably never heard of or considered trail etiquette, and I had to stop and wait, sway and weave. I had to maneuver through masses of slow people, and in doing so, I made a mistake and trusted a rock that was a little steeper and slipperier than I had thought, ending up with my feet over my head and a gnarly scrape along my forearm. As my arm bled and itched, I continued to the next shelter, hoping to get a good night’s sleep, wondering if the next day, my last full day in the park, would hit me as hard as the previous time in the Smokies.

The reverse amphitheater and a special performance: the applause rang true.

The next day’s hike was much easier than the rest of the park. I saw very few hikers throughout the day, and although I had very little food left, I was able to cover some distance, nourishing myself with the beauty of the dense pine forest and moss-lined trail. When I arrived at the shelter, with a growling stomach and a tired body, where I would spend my last night in the Great Smoky Mountains, I entered and burst a new hiker bubble.

The shelter, made of stone with smoke coming from the chimney, was located at the bottom of a rhododendron ravine next to a spring. There were hikers wandering around. Scattered among the vegetation on the hillside were many tents, hammocks and people. Normally, when I burst a new bubble, the hikers look at me as if I were an alien being from some distant planet. But I realized that this group was different: warm and welcoming. They were excited by their experience in the mountains, having completed a very difficult section. I was immediately welcomed. A lady immediately offered the space right next to her store. I politely declined and opted to find a more secluded space above the crowd. I stayed with my backpack still on and reminisced with another hiker about how beautiful the hike was for at least five minutes.

After setting up my tent at the top of the ravine, I took my ukulele to the nearest small group of five or six hikers and asked if I could play them a couple songs. They nodded cautiously, apparently not wanting to be rude but also not expecting anything good. I started playing and singing. Situated near the top of the ravine, which acted as a sort of amphitheater, my sound unknowingly filled the entire ravine so that everyone present could easily hear me play. I noticed a couple hugging and holding each other tightly as I began to sing. When I finished, there was applause. The amplification of the area caused more than 20 people to applaud as if it were an entire auditorium. I don’t usually get applause, which I don’t mind. People usually show their appreciation verbally, which is always nice. In that moment, surrounded by smiling faces and warm hearts, I felt a little like a rock star.

The path provides, and so do I.

The next morning, as I headed out of the park, almost out of food and with two whole days until my next resupply, I couldn’t stop thinking about pizza, burgers, and peanut butter. I approached the border of the national park and could see the road. There were tons of cars and one person standing in the road. He said, «Hey, do you want a burger?» My response was simply, «Oh my God, I’m so hungry.» There was magic on the trail. Really good trail magic.

While I was stuffing my face, another hiker I didn’t know arrived and sat next to me. She thanked me for the previous night’s performance and stated that the music, along with the surroundings and golden hour lighting, was a truly special way to cap off her stay in the Great Smoky Mountains. I realized that I wasn’t just walking this path by myself, to complete the arbitrary Triple Crown. I was also walking it for them. I am truly blessed to have the ability to create moments that people will cherish and remember for a while, if not the rest of their lives.

After finishing my plate of food, they urged me to eat more. They told me there was no limit. I told him seriously, «You probably shouldn’t tell me that because I’m really hungry.» His response was to repeat: «There is no limit.» I ate four cheeseburgers, a breakfast burrito, five cookies, a Snickers bar, a banana, and a Rice Krispies treat. They didn’t let me leave before taking takeout. After loading my backpack with many breakfast burritos and full-sized chocolate bars, I began my ascent into the thousandth of a trillion mountains that Appalachia has to offer, with a full stomach, a warm and aching heart. He was truly happy, with a nourished soul. I was reminded that the trail will provide.