Appalachian Trail Stories

Remembering Tillie

By Tina Scharf

In 2001 my husband (“Lucky”) and I were thru-hiking the A.T. We were flip-floppers, starting at Duncannon, Pennsylvania and hiking South. Many Trail-tales make hiking the A.T. sound idyllic and like non-stop fun. Few recount troubled times when one wonders whether one should continue. Almost from the beginning of the hike I suffered from plantar fasciitis (a painful inflammatory condition of the heel). Worse than the foot pain, though, was that I felt I was rushing along, not able to stop to look at things or rest because of the huge distance we had to cover. I am a biologist, and my usual modus operandi in the woods is to stop at every birdcall, rustle and unfamiliar plant. Also, since we were thru-hiking, I couldn’t afford the weight of nature guides. I had a list of southern songbirds on a piece of paper, but that was the extent of the reference material I carried. I found this lack of information frustrating.

We made an unplanned overnight stop in Pearisburg, Virginia so I could rest and consider my options. With me in a dismayed and confused condition, we hiked south 10 miles and detoured to the Wood’s Hole Hostel for the night where Tillie Wood greeted us warmly, as she did thousands of other hikers. She made everyone feel welcomed and at home. We set up the tent and then settled on the front porch of that wonderful chestnut-log cabin. Because Tillie was a naturalist, she had a multitude of nature guides. I spent an idyllic afternoon poring through them and asking her questions about the flora and fauna I had seen. She had an encyclopedic knowledge of the Virginian woods, and was delighted to share it. I felt totally renewed and ready to discover more. I remember thinking, “This is what I want this trip to be about.”

The next day we stopped at a shelter where I was able to sit restfully while observing a pair of great-crested flycatchers building a nest at the top of a dead tree. They would land right by the shelter to pick up leaves, often making their jubilant “wheep” call as they worked. The following morning we stopped for breakfast at a diner and I walked away with a milkshake in my water bottle. We then stopped at a museum that celebrated the history of the Scots-Irish settlements in that region, which was fascinating. That night we ate pizza with a bunch of merry hikers and took hot showers at the Partner Shelter. Low and behold - I was having fun. My attitude about thru-hiking did a 180, and I was delighted by everything I saw and did.

Tillie pretty much single-handedly changed my outlook and set me back on the Trail, renewed and ready to continue. For years we have kept a postcard of her cabin on our refrigerator to remind us of that wonderful afternoon with that very special woman in her lovely home. Tillie will remain forever dear to our hearts. 

A Rainy Night in Georgia

by Phillip Jordan

According to C. Kenneth Dodd Jr. in his book North American Box Turtles: A Natural History, box turtles do not nest synchronously. However, he states that many females may choose to nest on one particularly favorable night as a result of similar environmental conditions.

On June 28, 2007, I witnessed one of these nights on Springer Mountain. The moon was almost full and the temperature was warm. There had been a good rain earlier that day which left the humidity high, and by sunset it was raining again. These conditions were found suitable by many of Springer Mountain’s eastern box turtles and they soon began to nest. According to Dodd, the rain is a primary factor that triggers the nesting.

It was not surprising to me that the turtles would choose such a night to nest. I had done some population studies on water snakes when I was in college and I knew very well how reptiles and amphibians became much more active on rainy nights. What surprised me was the location that they selected as their nesting area.

I had spent the day hiking on the Appalachian Trail out of the Three Forks and Springer Mountain area. I encountered the first box turtle in a patch of roadside weeds where the A.T. crosses Forest Service road 58 at 5:30 p.m.  The turtle made no attempt to withdraw into its shell so I was able to get some good close-ups of it. 

As I drove east toward Winding Stair Gap I saw another box turtle sitting on the north side of the road. I took a turn onto Forest Service road 42 and saw three more box turtles on this road before I reached the Springer Mountain parking lot. One was on the south side and the other two were on the north. It had begun to rain as I passed these turtles so I did not stop to photograph them.

A few yards after passing the Springer Mountain lot I saw yet another turtle. This one had a small mound of dirt directly behind it and appeared to be digging so I stopped to investigate. The turtle paid no attention to me and continued to dig into the hard packed soil. It must have been digging for a good while as its hole was already 4 to 6-inches deep. I photographed this turtle using a 300 milimeter lens to avoid disturbing it. 

As I continued down this road toward Doublehead Gap, I saw six more box turtles. They were evenly spaced, approximately one every three fourths of a mile. The last turtle was within sight of the paved road at Doublehead Gap. All of these turtles were not more than 12 inches from the edge of the road. They seemed to prefer the sandy area away from the main ruts. Two of them were digging into the hard packed sand. The other four turtles were just sitting with their legs and head extended. None withdrew into their shells as I passed by nor seemed to be bothered when I began photographing them from a few yards away.  I was not able to photograph all six because of the rain.

Dodd notes that, “Dirt roads in relatively untraveled areas might provide good nest sites for the box turtle, and the sandy open nature of these sites may appear optimal to the female turtle, but whether successful hatchings could occur here is another matter.” This experience has led me to wonder if box turtles use the Appalachian Trail for nesting simply because it provides some of the only open ground in much of the area it traverses.

From what I observed on June 28^th, Springer Mountain seems to have a healthy population of Eastern Box Turtles. However, their choice to nest in the road could cause problems in the future. Dodd estimates that “ages of more than fifty years seem readily attainable by Box Turtles.” The turtles I saw that night could have been born in the road many years ago when the road had very little traffic. But traffic has certainly increased on these roads since I first traveled them twenty-five years ago. Furthermore, it is probably traveled the most during the summer, when hatchlings and nests are present. 

I plan to help the turtles by staying in the middle of the Forest Service roads during the summer and early fall no matter how rough the ruts are. I also plan to watch very carefully for tiny turtles crossing the Trail and road. 

Phillip Jordan is a professional nature photographer who continues to generously contribute his exceptional images to the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. He lives in Monticello, Georgia.

Outdoor Classroom

By Katie Davis

In the early 80s, we squished into the family car and retraced the same roads that my parents had been traveling for many years from the rolling farm land of middle Georgia to the peaks of the mountains. My parents met in college in the late 1960s, where they were studying differing degrees of biological sciences.  Being raised in rural Georgia on respective family farms, their natural interests were in agriculture and wild-life.  Among the peaks of the Appalachians, Mom and Dad used their knowledge to create an outdoor classroom for their three daughters; combining science with visual reinforcement.

While treading past vegetation on a day-hike, they led us in games of name that tree or that plant.  Such fun activities were veiled attempts to get their girls to correctly identify plant species.  As our knowledge grew from vegetation to wildlife, my parents expanded the lessons to meteorology.  They taught us the signs of inclement weather and the importance of advanced knowledge when traversing the wilderness.  After every Trail section, we had learned something new about our environment and had gained a hunger to protect our classroom.

Some lessons were easygoing, but others ingrained camping rules, such as “pack it in, pack it out,” “tread lightly,” and “follow the posted restrictions.”  The goal of the lecture-type strategy was to instill in us environmental protection and stewardship.  They insisted that following the simple procedures would be the key to conserving the trails and mountains that were a second home to us. 

As it can happen in the woods, unexpected events would lead to new topics.  Upon thorough planning and preparation, my family ventured to overnight on the summit of Blood Mountain.  After a fun evening of roasting marshmallows and telling campfire tales, the rain began to drizzle down.  Soon, it came in torrents, flooding our camping area.  After several hours of chilly temperatures and sleeplessness, we abandoned our gear and backtracked by flashlight and lightening strike the miles to the road and to safety.  Dragging us back up the AT the following morning to retrieve our gear, Dad explained the changes that one vast thunderstorm can cause.  His lecture was highlighted by the fallen trees and the loosened rocks and soil that were so previously sturdy.  My parents found every angle to inspire our minds.

As we aged, our family trips became less frequent, so we developed ways to inspire ourselves. 

My mother, a first-grade teacher in our hometown community, uses her love for nature and biology to inspire a new generation.  She disagrees that her pupils are too immature to understand the blend of nature and science.  Since it worked with her own children, she defends her point with conviction.
At the beginning of each school year, she and Dad cut saplings for each student to use as their own hiking stick.  Before reading time, the children grab their sticks, and they parade around the small campus to a spot in the woods, where benches provide an outdoor classroom.  As she leads her class, Mom tells eager ears “Trail stories,” like when we were caught in the rain or how many snakes she’s encountered.  Sometimes the stories they read in the woods are about nature and sometimes they are about imaginary places.  Either way, Mom feels an outdoor lesson inspires a young mind. Her students have learned about Blood Mountain and its Native American past.  They recite “streams to the rivers and rivers to the sea” lines, and some declare that they have begun hiking with their own families.

She has a wish that one little pupil will become environmental scientist or advocate and that one day one might through-hike the AT.  The current fragile political state of the A.T. reminds me how imperative it is to invoke the pleasure of natural science into the next generation, because they will be our advocates and our law makers.  As the fragile borders of the A.T. are threatened by property development and as funding for Trail maintenance loses footing, I am reminded through my mother that our youth is the future.

The Only Thing Lost Was One Cooking Pot

By Thurman Ireland, Clyde and Craig Patterson

Everyone was miserable after five days of rain.  Water splattered on my face through the single-wall tent. The downpour inundated our minds and permeated our souls making us homesick.  Puddles seeped through the tent floor soaking my down bag and foam pad.  My father’s tent was several yards closer to the river’s edge.  He dreamed of drowning in his sleep, only to awaken to more wind and rain.  Hurricane Agnes was bearing down on Pennsylvania’s Appalachian Mountains.

The year was 1972.  I was a twelve-year-old Boy Scout in Troop 39 at Garfield Methodist Church in Pepper Pike, Ohio.   Forty-two scouts and seven adults boarded a bus to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania for a 50-mile hike on the Appalachian Trail.  Our scoutmaster and his wife graciously hauled their tent-trailer to Crazy Horse Campground near Gettysburg to setup our base camp.

With the sun streaming through the trees, we began hiking at a trailhead near Boiling Springs.  The deer, squirrels, chipmunks, and hawks watched our every move.  As the pots and pans rattled up the trail, we sang lyrics ranging from “The Other Day I Met a Bear” to “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine”.  On top of a rocky overlook, blue skies afforded a magnificent view of Pennsylvania’s farmland.

The next morning low-lying clouds sailed in from the southeast beginning an arduous week of rain.  Our clothes quickly soaked through in the deluge.  The Trail became a washboard of wet rocks and uneven footing.  Rain dripped from our hats as we secured our ponchos around our backpacks.

We hiked 6 to 10 miles per day at different speeds resulting in an accordion of hikers that spread out and regrouped for lunch and dinner.  Stone fireplaces served as shelters to fight off hypothermia.  Hatchets were used to split waterlogged wood for dry kindling.  Our boots and socks were dried by the hot coals as we dodged the smoke during cooking and cleaning.

By the end of the week, the creeks were overflowing their banks and flash flooding was rampant.  We were camped at Raccoon Run shelter by a fast moving river.  We dutifully cooked dinner, but felt disoriented from the constant exposure.  Our feet and hands were wrinkled and pale and our postcards were smeared with wet ink.

With no relief in sight, our scoutmaster met with the hosts of a Church Camp to bargain for emergency relief.  Fortunately, barracks with bunk beds were available for our evacuation. The adults quickly woke us to get us out of harms way.  Many of the younger scouts were crying from the cold hypothermic conditions.
 
We left our tents in the dark and formed a single file line in the driving rain.  The older scouts directed us down a jeep trail to the Church Camp.  Everyone helped each other wade through the floodwaters. At one point, I remember sinking to my waist in cold water before reaching higher ground. The camaraderie of the escape made food and dry beds that much more enjoyable as we reverted back to our intolerable behavior.
 
The next morning, our abandoned tents were on an island cutoff by two rivers about six feet wide and waist deep.  As our scoutmaster attempted to reach our gear, his legs were swept out from under him.  Another adult grabbed his outstretched arm saving him from peril.
 
Our crew at base camp was rescued by the Red Cross and put up in a motel.  The front page of the Gettysburg Times featured a picture of Troop 39’s submerged tent trailer.  The only thing lost during the whole ordeal was one cooking pot.  Unfortunately, our scheduled tours of Gettysburg and Hershey’s Chocolate Factory were cancelled due to flooding.

The aftermath of Hurricane Agnes provided sobering statistics.  Pennsylvania was declared a disaster area with 48 deaths and $2.3 billion in damages.  We had endured 18 inches of torrential rain on June 23 and 24, 1972.  210,000 people were forced to evacuate... including 42 scouts from Troop 39 at the Raccoon Run Shelter on the Appalachian Trail.
 
Postlude:
Craig Patterson of Melbourne, KY wrote this article after finding a trip diary that his 84 year old father Clyde wrote in 1972.  Sadly, Troop 39 scoutmaster Thurman Ireland died on October 30, 2006 at Age 83 after providing the title and trip details for this article.  
 

A Jersey Girl's Tale of Backpacking

By Lisa Meagher

When I first met Josh he told me one of his hobbies was backpacking. Being a Jersey girl, and now a Washingtonian, I didn’t understand what that meant exactly, as I tend to lump backpacking, camping and hiking all in one category. Those are “country” hobbies, and different from “hanging out at the mall” or “going down the shore.”

He soon explained to me that hiking was walking in the woods, camping was staying overnight in the woods, and backpacking was combining the two. Wow, I wanted to do it.  I’m a no-frills kind of girl, I don’t wear makeup; it takes me 10 minutes to get ready in the morning. I like a good workout. Backpacking and me sounded like the perfect fit.

We left for Shenandoah National Park at about 7 a.m. on a Saturday. Here we were, carrying everything we’ll need for three days on our backs.  There was something very barbaric about the whole thing.

We hiked up a large hill in the very beginning, then stopped for lunch near a stream. Josh had bought a “Sweetwater” toy, which pumps water out of a water supply and into a bottle. You put in a few magical drops of potion and voila, you can drink the water. This was fascinating to me, but I made Josh drink the water first every time, for fear that perhaps the water would kill me the moment it hit my lips.

After lunch, we had to decide which trail to take. We looked at our trail maps and Josh left it up to me. Hey, let’s do the harder, steeper one, right? I mean, we’re out here to get a good workout, not to lounge around. So we set out for Rockytop Mountain.

The beginning stretch was desolate of wildlife, full of rocks and plopped us down right in the sun. Great, not only is it 85 degrees in the sun, but I have an extra 25 pounds on my back. It’s like I’m carrying a small child. I turned to Josh after 10 minutes and said, “Is it me or are we walking through a desert in hell?”

Along the way we saw some blueberry bushes. Josh picked up some of the berries in his hand and ate them. “Josh! You need to wash those berries before you eat them!” I was appalled. Who doesn’t wash fruit before eating it? You don’t know where it’s been!

“Josh, what is that? Bear poop? Oh wow! A bear walked by here.” I got so excited to see this dark brown mass with berries in it. What was beginning to happen to me?
While we’re on the topic, how do you go to the bathroom? You go in the woods. You dig a hole, 3 to 6 inches deep, you go and you bury your “duty.” I had to do this on the trip and let me tell you, it’s not like my comfy toilet seat at home. It is quite an art to master. A squirrel ran by me once and I was a bit embarrassed that he saw me on the toilet. The least he could have done was look the other way.

We kept hiking uphill and it seemed like forever until we found the intersecting trail where we planned to pitch our tent, eat dinner and get some z’s.

We hadn’t realized how much water we consumed on the hike because of the heat. By the time we were getting food ready for dinner, we realized that we only had about two bottles left. We needed six cups to make dinner. 

I measure out the appropriate amount of water and hand it to Josh. He pours the water in the bowl, which is placed on the stove. The bowl proceeds to topple over after about two minutes of boiling. My heart is in my stomach. The nearest water source is three miles away.

I can barely feel my butt because it is excruciatingly sore from hiking today, so there’s no way we’re going to hike and get more water. The tent is already set up. I felt like I was in an episode of “Survivor.” We ate our dinner with very little water to spare. We were ravenous and let me tell you, that spaghetti and meatballs was the best meal I’ve ever had. 

After dinner, Josh put our food in a bag and hung it on a branch. “Josh, why don’t we put the food in our tent, just in case we get hungry later tonight?”

 “Because Lisa, a bear would smell it and come in our tent to try and get it.” 

Enough said.

I tried calling my mom before we went to bed. Wouldn’t you know? No service. All I want to do is call my mom and tell her I’m out here, roughing it. She’d tell me how brave I was for being out there. She’d also make me put Josh on the phone and tell him that if he let a bear eat me, she’d never let him forget it.

It’s time to go to bed. I lay for an hour trying to get to sleep, but every minute I’d turn to Josh and say, “What was that noise?  Do you think that was a bear?” He was very patient.

Soon, it began to rain. And then it began to thunder and lightning. It was pretty frightening. What would happen if lightning struck a tree and it fell on our tent? What would happen if a bear ate Josh? These were all the questions I was asking myself −out loud.

At around 4 a.m., Josh had decided to get the pots out of our bags and put them outside to collect rain.

When we woke up the pots were full of water. Josh is my hero. We can have oatmeal for breakfast.

We get dressed for our hike, which will lead us to the campground. Josh concludes that I’ve had enough of the Great Outdoors for one night. I agree.

We hiked to the campground, took a nap and relaxed the rest of the night. We woke early the next day and hiked 5 miles back to the car. By the end of the trip, I had seen about six deer, many birds, and discovered some “cool” bugs that I had never seen before.

Am I really a city chick? Can I not deal without having my cell phone, shower and other everyday amenities? I’ve always prided myself on being that tomboy who loves the outdoors and a good physical challenge. Though, perhaps a good indicator of my urban-ness was when I got excited in the Eastern Mountain Sports store because they had a waterproof jacket in my favorite color.

We didn’t shower all three days. Although, I pride myself on not showering every day, backpacking and not showering is something entirely different. My hair was greasy, wet and so oily that I could make it stand up straight by itself for about three minutes.

I checked my voicemail on the way home. “Ha ha,” I told Josh. “Julie is laughing at me because I went camping for the weekend.” Later, my friend Marion comment that her idea of camping was a stay at “The Holiday Inn.”

“Lisa,” Josh said. “Your friends are so urban.”

But wow, that shower felt really good.

Jersey-born Lisa Meagher resided in the Washington, D.C area for 7 years. She is currently traveling the U.S. in search of a new home. An important factor in her choice will be easy access to the outdoors so she can continue backpacking.