Go Tell It to the Mountain

A friend of mine recently had to turn in early on a Friday night because her Saturday plan called for arriving at a destination in the Smoky Mountains before dawn, spending the day digging trenches and hauling rocks off the Appalachian Trail. This friend of mine has hiked so much of the Smoky, Cumberland and Blue Ridge mountains that were she to be dropped in the darkest backcountry pitch of a western Carolina rainforest, she could safely find her way out trudging backward and blindfolded and not out of breath.

Another friend of mine recently made the mortifying mistake of agreeing to a hike as a second or third date with a man who was an experienced hiker. Let us just say: Friend is not the outdoors type. Long story short, there was an owl suffering some strange toxic seizure that propelled it from its nocturnal patterns into a day-time fit on the trail, and it apparently mistook Friend for a large rodent. Or perhaps recognized her as unfit for mountaineering. And Friend has asthma that can be quite exacerbated by stress, and her inhaler was wedged tight in her backpack amongst various granola confections and water bottles and a contraceptive sponge crammed underneath a blank journal she'd purchased specifically to be inscribed with musings on her budding romance within the spiritual bounty of a nature hike. Well, her date found the inhaler and carried her off the mountain. No word yet on his thoughts vis à vis carrying her across a threshold in the future.

Some people are better equipped for the rigors of nature sport than others. It seems like an easy enough premise, yet so many of us still aspire so unrealistically to join that pantheon of true alpinists. We want to be like those people we admire who were seemingly born to the outdoors and the mountains, who never view a day spent in the woods as a sacrifice, but as something vital to their own nature.

Those of us who view the hike as an adventure, who romanticize the achievement of a climb up Mount LeConte, who, after that once-every-year-or-so hike, soak in a bathtub full of Epsom salts: We're lying to ourselves, man. Either that, or we don't know our place, and yet we steadfastly fail to acknowledge our weakness. We wake at dawn on the rare Saturday, grind the coffee a wee bit blacker than on work days, pull out an old college text on Taoist meditations, and check the contents of that still-looks-like-new Jansport bag we bought at Target so long ago. We might find a few bucks and some coins we left at the bottom of the bag: Change from the Wendy's stop on the drive back from last year's interface with the wonder of nature.

The hike that induced me to re-examine my suitability for mountaineering does not involve a stop at Wendy's, for it occurred during a time when I was vegetarian. I was younger then, in my late 20s, still able to be persuaded that the spirits of the wood beckoned me, Nature Girl, with the shaved legs, reddish highlights and brown lipstick, though I knew better than to put on lipstick before a hike. Goodness! I slathered on clear gloss and down-shifted from black to light brown eyeliner. I dipped my hiking boots in a storm drain still reeking from a recent flood to offset that new-Timberland smell. I sat on the porch of my apartment, munched on a honey bun and watched the sun rise in approval of my turning over of a new leaf The night before, I had baked a batch of vegan brownies (unquestionably, a chocolate atrocity). I packed the vegan brownies in paper towels and freezer bags (more Dow than Tao so far) and slipped a couple of water bottles and a brown bag hosting several cheese, tomato and basil sandwiches.

My party consisted of three real hikers and one other plebe, who at the last minute, in a flash of self-insight, bowed out of the excursion in favor of a quiet day of fishing. The rest of us set out to Mount Cammerer.

Mount Cammerer is situated in Cocke County. It is a very high elevation, and its trail is steep. When I say “steep,” I mean steep. Are you paying attention? I'm saying that bitch is relentless, not for the faint of heart or even the strong of heart. It's for people whose hearts are made out of titanium, who like the feel of their tongues swelling to fill the capacity of their mouth cavities no matter how much water they pour down their throats.

My experience with Mount Cammerer was not a hike. It was a death march I luckily survived. Here's some advice: When a real hiker tells you a trail is “tough,” you'd better think about where an iron lung will fit inside your house before you lace up your boots. I remember the point at which I realized we were only halfway up the seemingly 75-degree incline. My heart did not fail: It broke. Raccoons, skunks, deer, all manner of woodland fauna gazed on my pitiful form. I did not see them, but I sensed their detached interest in my plight, and their utter rejection of me as a guest on their mountain. Out of pride, I held back tears and fought off delirium, but when I spotted a buzzard flying overhead, I toughened up.

I made it. My friends had been sunning themselves near the famed fire tower overlooking the breathtaking expanse of the Smokies for about half an hour by the time I arrived, dragging my legs, hunched, slack-mouthed and drooling, eyes feral with determination. I tried to straighten up and be cool, but those briars and sticks in my hair, and the water I needed just to de-contort my mouth into a half-smile, undermined all pretense of belonging. I sat down, grinned like a deranged asylum inmate out on furlough and devoured my neat little goat cheese sandwich squares and those damned vegan brownies like a starved bear on live salmon.

Every month, I reflect on this experience when my friend the AT volunteer e-mails me an invitation to join her and other fun folks for a day of hiking. I've actually gone along once or twice. I tell her to keep sending me the memos. I'm an optimist!