5/26: Curry Creek to Bearwallow Gap

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• Miles 738.9-752.0 (13.1 mi.)
• Total ascent: 2116’; descent: 1512’

All sorts of plaques, signs, and historical markers dot the AT. A handwritten laminated sign we encountered today identified an area 50 feet in diameter that was once a collier’s pit. 

In the “pit,” from the late 19th century through the early 20th, charcoal was made from hardwood trees. The location was chosen for nearby furnaces used to smelt and forge metals. Still visible was a rock border and jet-black dirt, on top of which people had camped and built new fires. Eventually, the pit was put out of business by anthracite coal, a plentiful and energy-rich but very dirty fuel. 

We also encountered educational signs for drivers of the Blue Ridge Parkway, which we crossed a few times today, about the Appalachian Trail. The signs were surreal in how basic they were. 

It’s hard not to learn some of the lore of the AT as a thru-hiker. We stayed in a room in Hot Springs where the first thru-hiker, Earl Schaeffer, had. Baltimore Jack, a lifelong trail enthusiast and larger-than-life hiker, died just blocks from our hotel in Franklin. Many of the shelters are named after early forest supervisors and area pioneers. “Grandma Gatewood’s Walk” details the thru-hike of the first women, a tough-as-nails farmer’ wife, to complete one. 

Lore is nice to think about mid-trail, when the newness has worn off and the miles have set in. “Meeting” the many personalities and builders of the trail helps me to understand the choices and sacrifices that made the trail what it is and where it is. It makes the trail feel more like a tour than merely a hike. 

The Blue Ridge Parkway would be a similar tour but a much different experience, I realized today. Many drivers bring sports cars and luxury motorcycles with which to hug curves and feel that rush of speed (even until 9 p.m., which seems dangerous on a mountain road with no shoulder). 

At one crossing of the Parkway, two particularly nice vehicles, a Porche 911 and a Corvette, pulled over. The drivers were both older men, each with a wife of similar age and stature looking slightly pale in the passenger seat. They’d parked for the view, but their parking spot was right next to a trash can that another hiker, Drafty, wanted to access. 

We struck up a conversation, first to be polite but then because the older couples genuinely wanted to talk. One of them mentioned their neighbor was hiking the trail this year, and another announced she had just learned the term “trail magic.” None seemed momentarily interested in the magnificent machines they had probably planned their trip around. 

I’d say “the grass is always greener” at this part, if I wanted that life, but I imagine I do not. Both men were dressed like they had a luncheon to be at later in the afternoon. They may have chosen the activity because it was such a quick, relatively speaking, way to get away to the mountains. 

Tonight, we’re staying around 1,000 feet north of a Virginia state road that intersects with the Blue Ridge Parkway–just far enough to be invisible to anyone on it. Seasonal springs are beginning to dry up, and the shelter ahead has no water, so tonight’s camping decision was made by the nearby flowing creek (it does run by and under the road, but beggars can’t be choosers). 

Around us, water suspended in the treetops keeps falling, making a sound like leaves rustling about. We were certain it was a bear when a night hiker came through. One disadvantage of the sites we have to ourselves is that they seem less scary to a curious bear. 

Before my imagination gets any more ideas, as it loves to do, I am going to turn in. Tomorrow’s target is 15+ miles,  so I can’t afford to be bear-anoid all night. 

The fear locus of my brain does not get to drive. Fear is a good co-pilot, but it will wreck the car if given the wheel.