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