Trail Stories

Disclaimer: Shawn and Curt are experienced hikers. Even though their adventures sound fun, do not attempt them yourself. If you can't resist, Curt and Shawn provide guide services, but fees are very expensive. Send e-mail for estimates. Special rates to attractive ladies or those with valuable hiking equipment. Please send pictures of yourself or your equipment before deciding to drive to Tennessee. <sniff>

Table of Contents

The Porter's Creek Manway

Early Snow on Mt Cammerer ...or The Near Murder of Curt

Curt's Version of the Mt Cammerer Hike

The Quest for Hensley Settlement

Rock City's "Enchanted Flagstone Trail"Weird!

Reunion Crashing on Independence Day

Wild Hog In The Woods NEW!

More trail stories coming soon...

The Porter's Creek Manway is a passageway from the backcountry campsite on Porter's Creek to the Appalachian Trail. It was maintained at one time by the Smoky Mountain Hiking Club, but now its only caretakers are those daring souls brave enough to attempt it. The manway gains 3,000 feet in just over a mile. Passage is difficult in warm, dry weather and impossible during times of heavy rain or during the winter months. Very few hikers know of the manway's existence. There's no mention of it in any official trail guide or on any map.

Part 1 The Adventure

To quote from a local hiker's trail narrative, "No one should ever attempt to climb and then descend the Porter's Creek Manway. It isn't possible, don't do it." That being said, Curt and I resolved that we'd do it or go to hell tryin'. I never thought there'd be so much snow and ice in hell. It's not such a bad place; it's just that you can't get back to the car!

It was 48 degrees when we left the Greenbriar parking area and headed up Porter's Creek toward backcountry campsite 31. Perfect hiking weather, we bragged. We'd camped at 31 once before, about 6 years ago. I remembered well the dinner of wild trout and corn-on the-cob, but I had completely forgotten how steep that little trail was. The campsite was 3.7 miles from the trail-head, and according to the map, that's where the Porter's Creek trail ended. But we knew better. Anxious to do battle with the infamous manway, we almost ran up that section of the trail. In less than 90 minutes we were at 31 and getting compass bearings for the assault.

Before leaving the trail, I checked the temperature. Curt keeps a thermometer snapped to the back of his backpack. It had fallen to 42 degrees. Not so bad, I thought, at least we'll not have to worry with snow and ice. We stuffed our jackets into our packs and forged ahead. It was relatively easy to follow the course at first. Previous adventurers had been kind enough to mark the way with rock cairns, little piles of round flat creek rocks, which were visible about every twenty yards along the way. Thirty minutes later, after several cold creek crossings I checked the thermometer again, 36 degrees. I considered putting my jacket back on, Curt put on his gloves.

The high mountain winds had taken their toll here, and there were many trees down. I was negotiating a large fallen tulip tree when my feet slipped out from under me and I fell. I remember thinking that I didn't have far to fall so it couldn't be too bad but then, PAIN! A previous hiker had cut a limb which was jutting out sideways on the tree. The left side of my head and ear banged against it as I fell. "Are you all right?" Curt asked, as I lay motionless. I finally realized he was talking to me and responded truthfully, "I don't know." I hate that feeling you get when you're assessing the extent of your injury and not really sure if you're really hurt or not. I put my hand over my ear and it felt warm and sticky. The Porter's Creek Manway had drawn first blood.

Fortunately the cut wasn't severe, the knock on the head was the worst of it; I was just a bit addled. Curt pulled out his first-aid kit and cut a bandage while I used a glove to stop the bleeding. Even though the cut wasn't bad, I still wound up with blood all over the left side of my neck and light colored shirt. Curt kept asking me not to wipe it off so he could get a picture. I cursed and thew rocks at him, but he still got his darn shot.

After another 200 yards of climbing over and around fallen trees, we approached a small clearing, and we could see the mountain ahead of us. We'd been joking all morning about how steep the climb would be, pointing to particularly daunting cliffs and ridges and joking that it couldn't be that bad. But we were absolutely silenced when we finally saw rising in front of us the main ridge of the Smokies. As the clouds cleared, we saw our destination--still 2,000 nearly vertical feet up rose the rocky outcropping known as "Charlies Bunion." This area of the park is very remote, and it was the first time either of us had seen the Bunion from below. It was both amazingly beautiful and downright intimidating. We'd been up there once before; the AT transverses the ridge there, so we knew where we were going. The question was how we were going to get there.

The temperature had fallen to 33 degrees, and we were starting to see snow in places the sun never reached. We bundled back up into our jackets. We'd now reached the headwaters of Porter's Creek, and the passage was just a dry creek bed. We had to climb hand over hand up the steep creek bed in places. Fallen trees with tangled branches blocked our path about every twenty feet. We were climbing slowly, only at a rate of about 100 yards per hour, and it didn't seem like that ridgetop was getting any lower. Now over 5,000 feet high, the ground was covered with snow which was melting some and creating water flow over the slick rocks in the creek. It was really more of a perpetual waterfall at this point. After another 100 yards or so, the water was frozen so we were scrambling up icy, snow-covered rocks. A few feet in elevation drastically changes the temperature and weather in this section of the Appalachian Mountains.

At about this point we started getting concerned about the trip down. I think we were both thinking about it, but neither of us wanted to voice our concerns. The thermometer showed 30 degrees. After another 100 feet of "2 steps-forward, 1 step back" climbing, we knew we were in trouble. The icy rock ledges were so slick and dangerous there was just no where to go but up. And from the looks of things, it was still a long way to the AT. We clung perilously to the rocks and limbs knowing that one slip could bring disaster. We alternated the lead because whoever went first had to cut hand and foot holds into the ice. Progress was very slow and tiring. We'd stopped seeing the reassuring rock cairns and couldn't even be sure we were going the right way. But as committed as we were, there was no turning back.

Like on our Mt. Cammerer hike two weekends ago, the fog had frozen to the branches here. The high mountain winds caused the icicles to freeze sideways on the branches. It was both beautiful and deadly. Sometimes the sun shone through the clouds and the trees were bright white against the starkly blue sky. But the lovely white frosting also made the limbs impossible to hold onto. We continued, inch by inch, farther up the cliff. I had to remove my gloves in order to get better hand holds, and my fingers were raw and bleeding. Curt had just taken the lead, and I was wondering if we'd ever reach the top when I heard him exclaim, "Welcome to the Appalachian Trail!"

The AT follows the hogsback here that is the crest of the Smokies' primary ridge. It also forms the dividing line between Tennessee and North Carolina. At this point, the ridge crest is just wide enough for the trail and then just barely. The contrasts between the North and South faces of the mountain were amazing. It was January--cold and icy on the side where we'd just come up--but the South slope was autumn-warm and sunny. The trail divided the seasons perfectly with some trees alongside both white with snow and ice, and bright orange in autumn's splendor. We collapsed, exhausted in the middle of the trail, neither of us willing to face the question before us: "Now what?"

Part 2

The Rescue

"Now what?" indeed. No way we could go back down the way we'd come up and live. We checked the map and found we had two options. Option one was the Boulevard Trail, which began about three miles from where we were, and then goes down into a deep valley, before climbing about six miles up to LeConte Lodge, and then it was another fifteen miles down to the Porter's Creek trailhead--a total of 24 miles. Option 2 was to hike out to Newfound Gap, where US Hwy 441 crosses the mountains between Gatlinburg and Cherokee, NC. That was about five miles from where we were. It was 2:30 p.m. and only 3 hours 'till dark. Option 1 was deemed unsurvivable so we decided to head for Newfound Gap and try to hitch a ride to Gatlinburg.

It was a very pleasant five miles except that Curt had strained some little-used muscles climbing and was moaning the whole time. I was thoroughly enjoying it because it's usually me who gets the trail injuries. The view from Charlie's Bunyon was fantastic; we could see all the way to Cumberland Gap. We talked about how pretty the trees looked with their bright white frosting. Curt told me the frozen fog on the trees was called "hoarfrost." I liked that term and committed it to memory. We stopped to talk to a group of students from the University of Georgia. They asked us where we'd been, so we bragged about our climb. I noticed they were sort of looking at me funny, but I just chalked it up to that sort of mountain man envy I've become accustomed to.

We arrived at the Newfound Gap parking area about 4:30, and I noticed a guy in a wrecker jumping off a stranded motorist, so I figured we were saved. I walked up to him and asked if he was heading back. "Which way you goin'," he stammered. I told him Gatlinburg, and he said he was going to Cherokee and hurried back to his truck. I also noticed a couple of other tourists scurrying for their cars. About that time I started getting that creepy feeling on the back of my neck that tells me folks are staring, so I decided to take a quick self-inventory. I checked my reflection in the nearest car window, and when I did, I immediately started chuckling deliriously. The left side of my head, ear, neck, shirt, and gloves were stained red with blood. My jeans were covered in mud. Curt wasn't in much better shape. Now I knew the origin of my imagined envious stares from those students and the reason we were being avoided by the tourists. I put on my jacket in hopes of hiding some of the gore, but alas, no way anyone was gonna give these two bloody, muddy, beardy, stick-wielding, vagrants a ride. I sat down on the cold and lonely rock wall beside the parking area and watched the cars whiz past. The sign said, "Gatlinburg 15." We started walking.

The roadside made for easy hiking, except for dodging cars. We had to stay on the inside of the guard-rail because there was no outside. I've driven across the mountains here many times, but it sure looks different on foot. As a kid, I always looked forward to riding through the tunnels while blowing the car horn. Yesterday they were deathtraps. We hiked around as many as we could. A couple of times we took short-cuts across creeks and down short cliffs. It was always tempting to cut through the woods because, at times, we could see the road down below. But no matter how close it looked, it was almost always impossible to get there. It was now getting dark so we deemed it best to try and stay on the pavement..

Our plan didn't last long though. We'd passed the Alum Cave parking area and continuing down, soon had to figure a way through the dark woods to avoid where the road makes that postcard loop over, around, and then through a tunnel. We had just emerged from the dark forest and were coming up on the Chimneys Trailhead, when a spotlight caught us between the eyes and an authoritative female voice called out, "Hold it guys, let's see some ID." Well, Curt hadn't brought his wallet, and knowing what we looked like, I didn't figure there was any way out of going to jail. But at that point I didn't care. We were rescued! I knew we could get out of jail and at least we'd be off the mountain and somewhere warm. The ranger accused us of digging plants, something that is apparently a big problem in the park. Somehow Curt talked her out of arresting us and convinced her to believe our story. I'd been holding out my hands for the handcuffs all the while. After she was convinced, we started to notice that old familiar mountain-man envy showing through in her voice, and she started asking us all about our hiking experiences. She offered a ride so we helped her take her dirty gym clothes out of the backseat of the cruiser. I remember thinking how much better they smelled than Curt. The ride down was pleasant. Curt told trail stories, and I chipped in with tales of sleep disorders before Helen dropped us off with a warm, pretty smile at the Kentucky Fried Chicken in Gatlinburg.

Next challenge.... Now what do we do? We were still 25 miles from the car. We flipped a coin, and I lost so I got out my phone card and called Amanda. She absolutely refused to pick us up because it was X-Files night. "Come on, don't be that way," I pleaded and begged, hoping Curt couldn't hear me. I finally persuaded her with promises of truffles from Ol' Smoky Candy Kitchen. Help was on the way, but we still had a two-hour wait until she'd arrive. I suggested Applebees so we trekked muddy and bloodily through downtown Gatlinburg.

This turned out to be the best part of the trip. The stares we were getting from the tour-ons was worth all the previous misery. I laughed at the designer hiking boots the overweight New Yorkers were sporting. They tripped over their laces getting out of our way as we hiked boldly though Tennessee's tinsel town. We spotted an underdressed blonde standing on the corner, and I asked Curt if that was the girl who'd embarrased him by suggesting he "go for it" a couple of weekends earlier when he was driving through town in his truck. He thought it might be so I summoned up my best mountain man smile as we walked past. The look she gave us was as cold as the icy wind on the mountaintop.

The beer and nachos at Applebees was a welcomed respite. We apologized for our appearance and asked for a table on the left. I went to the men's room and washed the blood off my face. We discussed the last time we'd sat there before heading on toward the edge of town. Gatlinburg is all ablaze with Christmas lights this time of year, and it was really weird hiking beneath the twinkling reindeer, snowflakes, and dolphins after the day we'd had. We even got to hike through a block-long tunnel of about 50,000 lights. While we were in the tunnel, a load of girls in a BMW slowed, shouted, and honked the horn. "Yep," I sniffed to Curt, "I guess mountain men are appreciated no matter what the environment." Later when Amanda picked us up, that little incident went a long way toward soothing our egos which were sorely bruised from being rescued by two women on the Porter's Creek "Manway."

Early Snow on Mt Cammerer or ... The Near Murder of Curt

"Oh, it can't be farther than ten or twelve miles." Those were the words of my trail-partner and never-again-to-be-navigator this morning. We'd discussed the possibilities and narrowed our choices down to two trails. We've missed the section of the Appalachian Trail between Newfound Gap and Clingmans Dome because of its close proximity to the road. The Clingmans Dome road was closed because of snow so it seemed like a good time to knock out that seven or so miles, and besides, I was tired from hiking the previous day and didn't really want to do a long trail. But Curt had another suggestion. He wanted to make the round trip up the Low Gap trail to the AT and then across Mt. Cammerer to the Lower Mt. Cammerer trail. "How far is that?" I asked. That's when he said it. I should have known, but he sounded authoritative and talked like he'd studied the map. "Okay, Curt," I responded. I always suspected my last words would be "watch-iss!" But I know now that they'll be "Ok Curt."

I've been up the Low Gap trail several times. The name is very misleading; it's one of the steepest in the park with an elevation gain of just over 3,000 feet. But I wanted to "get high" elevation wise in order to see the early snow . It was almost 50 degrees at the Cosby Campground parking lot, and I was considering ditching my long-johns about half-way up the trail. But we rounded the North side of a ridge and an arctic blast hit us in the face that had us both zipping up our coats.

The snow began at about 4,000 feet and got steadily deeper as we gained elevation. By the time we reached the AT, there was about 6 inches and the trees were covered with ice. We made the left turn onto the AT and began the climb up Mt. Cammerer (pronounced like Camaro but with a growl at the end). As we climbed, the ice and snow got deeper. It was amazingly beautiful. The misty rain had frozen to the tree limbs, but the stiff breeze had blown the ice sideways. Every branch was covered with several inches of sideways white icicles. The fog was much thicker now and visibility was very low.

The temperature was above freezing and the ice was crashing down all around us. I've never heard the forest so noisy. It looked like we were in a blizzard since all the snow and ice was blowing around as it fell. Curt brought his tripod, and we took up a full roll of film in about thirty minutes. I was fine until a frozen razor-blade took off a piece of my ear. The trail was steeper here and the footing was bad. We hadn't thought to bring cramp-ons. Somewhere about this time I pulled a groin muscle. I didn't notice it because I was nursing my ear and cursing myself for not wearing my "studly felt hat," especially since Curt had a new brimmed waterproof hat that was just suited for this weather.

Curt noticed me dragging a little. I told him about the muscle and, to his credit, he DID offer to turn back at that point. But I figured we were already over half-way, so there was no sense in not continuing. Boy, was I wrong. It wasn't long before the falling ice began to get dangerous. We started hiking more quickly, thinking that a moving target would be less likely stabbed by the flying daggers.

It was a surreal world, so amazingly different from home only thirty or so miles away. The fog, ice, and snow combined for near white-out conditions and tree limbs were starting to come down with the ice. The noise was deafening. The fallen limbs lay across the trail and made travel even more difficult but still we pushed on. It wasn't long before we were in the heath balds which crest Mt. Cammerer and out of danger.

We took our last picture at the AT sign on the summit and started the descent. We were now on the south side of the mountain and there was snow but no ice or wind. The temperature was warmer here, so the melting snow dripped on us like rain. We were soaked both from that and sweat. We had the trail all to ourselves, and from the looks of things there hadn't been much traffic on the trail in a while. It was time for lunch. I was considering waiting until we got back because I knew it couldn't be but a mile or so and there wasn't a dry place to sit. I was hurting pretty badly from the pulled muscle and was anxious to get back to the dry, warm truck. I knew we had to leave the AT for the Lower Mt. Cammerer trail but wondered why it was taking so long to get there.

This is when Curt almost died. No, it wasn't the ice-daggers, or frost-bite, or hypothermia. It was because I almost killed him. We'd already hiked over ten miles and I was hurting worse with every step. I was sure we were almost through when we approached the Lower Mt. Cammerer trail sign. Curt looked at me and grinned while pointing to the mileage on the sign: "Cosby Campground 7.8 miles." Aarghhh! About this time he bent over to take lunch out of his back-pack. I'd seen enough kung-fu movies to know that a well-placed blow from a hiking stick to the back of the neck could be fatal. I raised my stick but just couldn't do it--not because I didn't want to. It's just that Curt had worn his good Kelty external pack, and I knew if I killed him I'd have to carry it out. I hate to see good equipment go to waste, but I couldn't carry his pack and mine too. Reluctantly, I let him live.

Fortunately for my legs, it was a fairly level eight miles. In fact it was a beautiful trail. Picture Mt Cammerer as a giant cupcake plopped upside down. This trail winds around its ridges and valleys like the paper on the cupcake and each valley boasted pretty little creeks and waterfalls. I wish I could have enjoyed it more, but I was fighting a mental battle with the pain in my legs. I intentionally aggravated Curt as much as possible by complaining about the distance and trying to psych him out. "Just 7.5 more miles." I announced at the five-mile point. By the expression on his face, I thought it worked so I continued on about every tenth of a mile, "just 7.4, 7.3, 7.2." Unfortunately it psyched me, too. I thought we'd never finish that trail!

We finally reached the parking lot right at sunset. I've hiked longer trails before, but never harder. The elevation, snow, ice, pulled-muscle, and the mental stress of planning a place to bury Curt's body had taken their toll and I was exhausted. We stopped at a nearby store and loaded up on refreshments. Ahh, nothing like an RC cola and a Moon Pie to soothe a damaged body (and psyche). But I swear, next weekend, I'm picking the trail!

Curt's Version

I don't normally allow people to read my trail journal, but in this case I'll make an exception. Since Shawn described the first half of our hike in great detail, I'll skip to the last half. Given Shawn's mental and physical state at the time, I understand his inability to describe the scene as it deserves.

Trail Log 11-9-97 Mt. Cammerer via Low Gap/Appalachian Trail/Lwr Mt Cammerer Trails

Cosby Campground 9:45 a.m.

<Snip>

Juncture of Lower Mt. Cammerer trail and AT 1:45 p.m. (Mile 9)

Lunch time! I remove my pack and rummage for pork by-products. A very damp and discouraged Shawn limps up beside me. I point to the trail marker and offer encouragement, "See! Over halfway home!" Shawn stares blankly at the sign for a moment and then explodes into a raging fit. I remove my poncho and spread it on the ground. Shawn circles the little clearing, screaming like a maniac. I peel some eggs. He's winded now, but continues to thrash branches and kick leaves. I check my watch. Shawn's tirades rarely last over five minutes, and this may be a record. Finally, after nearly nine minutes, the forest goes silent. Shawn totters in place for a couple seconds and then crumples in a heap on the forest floor. I use the Bull Stick and pry him onto the poncho. I mash an egg and feed him. I admit to being a bit concerned; this is the first time in recent memory he has collapsed before the twelve-mile mark.

I wander off trail a mile or two to allow Shawn a much needed rest. On my return I nudge him with the toe of my boot, "Let's get moving, mountain man. We're almost home."

Campsite 35 3:00 p.m. (Mile 12)

Campsite 35 is deserted. Seems a shame too. At this elevation the Tulip Poplars and Mountain Maples are still in full autumn glory. The entire forest glows in yellow tinted light. Beautiful.

Shawn is struggling along like Quasimodo with a hernia. He walks in grim silence, holding his groin in a double-fisted death grip. At least he has stopped his incessant whimpering.

Unnamed stream 4:10 p.m. (Mile 14)

Nice spot for a break. I drink straight from the stream and can't believe how cold it is. Snow melt? A few late wildflowers are still struggling to bloom.

Shawn has fallen down again. This time it looks as if he may really be dead. I top off my water bottle and investigate. "Shawn?? Are you dead??" No answer. I poke his ribs with the Bull Stick. A low mumbled sound escapes his clenched teeth..."stop it.....u...thunkin...bith..." I kneel beside him." "Speak up, man. I can barely hear you." "Leaf me...leff me...die..go..no..futher...I die now...go!" Poor Shawn. I laugh to lighten the moment and then offer encouragement. "You idiot, I can almost see the truck from here!"

Cosby Valley Overlook 4:45 p.m. (Mile 15)

The small sign reads: Overlook- 200 yards.

I look at the sign and then back to Shawn. "Want to take a look??" Shawn hears me no more. He wobbles on by, his face an empty blank. He sees nothing. His body is on auto pilot. I watch as he disappears down the trail. I know from past experience that unless he comes to a cliff or river, he'll not likely kill himself. I turn and hurry up the side trail.

From my perch on the sandstone boulder, I can see the past and future. I look up the slopes of Mt. Cammerer and see January: snow, ice and frozen mist. Below me, Cosby Valley, still awash in the colors of October. I regret having to leave, but I worry Shawn may come to a stream and drown.

Cosby Campground 5:25 p.m. (Mile 17)

I lift Shawn into the truck seat and secure his safety belt. It's been a long trip, and I'm proud of him. He does better and better each time. I'll make a hiker out of him yet...

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