​Appalachian Armageddon (Continuation of “Misplaced Wanderers”)

Smoky Mountain Rain

So where was I? Oh I remember now, I was heading down the Schoolhouse Gap Trail up in the Smoky Mountains desperately trying to outrun an impending thunderstorm and failing miserably. I think that’s where I left off last time. Wasn’t it? With a raindrop hitting me smack on top of the head while the thunder rolled off towards Townsend. Yep, that was it.

I have often wondered how weathermen sleep at night. I mean some of this has to be intentional. I had been promised a beautiful day, with no chance of rain, just blue skies with a white puffy cloud here and there, and what did I get? An Appalachian Armageddon is what I got. I mean I have heard of being caught out in the rain before, but this was ridiculous. Within a few seconds, my peaceful trek through the woods turned to chaos with a brass band above, a river below, and a soggy sap who forgot his poncho stuck in the middle. Well, I didn’t exactly forget it. I left it, thinking I wouldn’t need it. You would think, however, that after 64 years a man would know who to trust and who to question. I suppose I’m just a romantic at heart, still believing in miracles.

All whining and enrichment aside though, it was what my Granny would call a frog strangler, and it never seemed to let up. I was able to keep the camera dry but that was it; even my boots were full of water by the time I finally made it down the trail to the parking lot an hour or so later.  There were compensations along the way, though.
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About halfway down the mountain I decided to seek shelter under the lee of a big poplar that overhung the trail. It didn’t offer much protection, but it tried. As I was sitting there on a rock, listening to the rain batter my head and shoulders and questioning my recreational choices, three girls, college-age I would guess, came around the bend just below my position, heading up the mountain. They were soaked to the skin like me, but what caught my attention was the fact that all three were wearing bikinis and tennis shoes; nothing else, just bikinis and tennis shoes. They had no backpacks, no canteens, no maps, no gear whatsoever, just bikinis and tennis shoes.

Now I have been hiking the Smokies for over 45 years, and I have seen some interesting things up in the mountains. I’ve seen black bears a plenty, bobcats, birds of every size and shape, and tree huggers of all ages. I’ve seen white tailed deer and elk. I’ve seen snakes enough to fill a bushel basket and the occasional coyote to boot, but for the life of me I had never seen three girls wearing nothing but bikinis and tennis shoes. At least not to the best of my recollection; and I might be gettin’ a little long in the tooth, but it seems to me that I would recall something like that.

Well, back to the story. Once I determined that these girls weren’t something that my waterlogged imagination had cooked up, I asked them where they were going. Actually I just yelled the question because the rain was coming down pretty hot and heavy at the time. I knew the answer, but I had to ask anyway. They hollered back that they were going to backcountry campsite number nine on the Anthony Creek Trail. Truthfully I was impressed; at least they knew what trail the campsite was on. That was more information than their flip flop wearing forerunners had to offer when I asked them the same question an hour or so before.

Out of curiosity and courtesy, I asked them if they knew the way. They told me that somebody said there was supposed to be a sign up here somewhere. I had to tell them that there wasn’t; but to ease their distress, I took out my trusty old trail map and showed them the way. Worried because of the confused expressions on their faces, I gave them the map and once again showed them which way to go. The map was old anyway, as a matter of fact, the poor thing was more dishrag than map by that time, so it was no big loss.

My suggestion that they turn around and go back to where they started from and try another day fell on deaf ears. Whatever was happening at backcountry campsite number nine on the Anthony Creek Trail appeared to have some gravity to it. So I bid them farewell, said a prayer for their safe travels, and waited for my next adventure. It didn’t take long.

Not being firmly convinced that what I had just experienced wasn’t a Vienna sausage fueled delirium, I recommended to myself that I head on down that mountain just as quickly as my feet could carry me. So fearing for my mental state and hoping to ward off pneumonia, I stepped out into the torrent once again, and headed downstream.

I won’t go into the details of the rest of my trek; it was just endless rain, mud and muck, with a little humiliation thrown in for flavor. I did keep to the shadows the rest of the way down, however, for fear that the odd ephemeral weatherman might see me and gain some sadistic glee from my difficulties.

It isn’t often that a hiker relishes the sound of tires on wet pavement, but in this instance I did. As I rounded that final curve, I heard that distinctive sound and my mind said, “Hallelujah I’m almost home.” Then I looked at my watch and realized I was home thirty-five minutes early; and the rain showed no signs of stopping.

Now to the best of my recollection, backwoods campsite number nine on the Anthony Creek Trail had a shelter or two built so that the Appalachian Trail hikers could have a nice place to sleep the night. Well, the parking lot had no such shelters.

I crossed the highway and said “Hi” to a young family, looking all wet and miserable as they sat on a rock, and then I walked into the woods seeking shelter. I found none. I sat down under the lee of a big old Eastern Hemlock tree that offered little protection and didn’t even try to improve my situation.

I closed my eyes and dreamed of dryer times and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. Mary had anticipated my rapid dissent and arrived about 10 minutes later. Seldom have I seen a more welcome sight.

As I threw my gear in the bed of the truck and waded into the cab, I noticed that the young family on the rock had vanished. In my current state, I had to wonder if they’d been a figment of my overactive imagination, and that starts my next adventure; but that’s for another day.

Well, you might be wondering, why in heaven’s name did the preacher tell that story? Good question. Well, to begin with, I simply wanted to chronicle one of the oddest hikes I have ever experienced. Starting with the old bear, then the flip-flop wanderers, followed by the bikini-clad college girls and finally the sodden surgeon who we haven’t gotten to as of yet, it was one weird walk; but I have noticed a refrain and a reason perhaps that the Lord wanted me to tell you this story. During this hike I had two opportunities to lead seven people to their destination, safely I pray.

I had my trail map which I knew by heart, thank goodness. I had my knowledge, and the Lord put me at the right place at the right time. This might be a stretch, but I wonder how many times you and I have been given such opportunities to lead others to Jesus Christ; and I wonder how often we felt inadequate in our knowledge and perhaps our faith to take the lead. I know I have.

My take away from this story is not unlike my take away from the story of the flip-flop wanderers. It’s a call for you and me to increase our knowledge of the Lord by reading and studying His word, so that when a lost wanderer comes around the bend, we can guide them to the top of the mountain where their Savior awaits.
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Love,
Pastor Tony

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