A traveller on the road to Damascus.

This traveller on the road to Damascus need a little help, and southern hospitality was glad to oblige.

With my slack-pack to Iron Mountain Gap, I was left with 100 miles or so to get to the trail town of Damascus. The intention was to break that up with a hostel or two along the way, intentions don't always come to pass.

My first day with a pack on in a while started very well, nicely rested and with fairly kind terrain, the first 6 miles rolled by and I kept up good speed throughout the morning. After a break for a snack, and to resupply water, that all changed.

Roan Mountain is a big-ish peak, something over 6,250 feet, but nothing we've not seen before at this stage so so need to worry. Unfortunately this peak has one of the meaner assents on the trail to date. It rises like a series of rough hewn walls, each steep and separate enough that you've no idea how far up the mountain you are or how many more there are to go. A draining and disheartening climb, it left me bent double, breathing hard, and without a payoff. (There is a side trail to a lookout, but the condition I was in, short of them adding a ski-lift, I wasn't going up any further than the A.T. took me.)

Just the other side of the peak is the site of a 20's era hotel, little but the hearth remains but a plack to commemorate it shared that it stood astride the North Carolina / Tennessee state line and that it had a line down it's ballroom to highlight this fact. This was important as at the time prohibition was in effect on one side of the room but not the other.

Back on the trail, shrouded in cloud, I began the decent. The weather which would later become the 'centennial' storm that tore up nearby country-side was getting warmed up. Strong winds bent and shook the pines, which luckily gave a good deal of shelter down a tricky, rocky path. Whoever thought a steep ditch filled with sharp rocks would make for a nice path needs some serious re-education. I'm sure it makes the path more durable for all the visitors Roan Mountain receives, but it was hell on the ankles of this through hiker.

The trail lead down into Carvers Gap, and up over some fabulous 'balds', grass covered peaks with commanding views of the surrounding land and the impending storm. Without the cover of the pines, gale-force winds forced me off the path in a number of places, even accurately placing my hiking poles became a challenge. Speaking to a lighter hiker later, they said the felt like a badly tethered kite. The views were gorgeous, but with the worsening weather, I made haste to get to the shelter. (Though I did stop to investigate a somewhat incongruous post box offering 'Goat Info'. Apparently they want to introduce them to the balds to repel a 'Canadian blackberry invasion'. I couldn't make that up.)

Down again into a valley I stayed in a particularly nice shelter. A restored barn named for the 'Overmountain Men', a group of revolutionary war irregulars who, again according to a plack: 'Supplying their own arms, horses and rations, travelled 170 miles over the mountains, without the aid of surgeon or pastor to fight and defeat British loyalists.'

At this point I reminded myself not to mess with the locals as they're clearly of dangerous stock.

The barn had a commanding view of the valley, which thanks to the impending storm was wreathed in magnificent shadow and light.

That night the rain that was threatening all day arrived in buckets. The barn shook violently, but was an excellent place to spend the night. I wouldn't have bet on my, or anyone else's, tent surviving the night.

By morning the storm had blown itself out and we were left surrounded by thick fog.

Over the course of the day, word of the extent of the storm rippled up the trail, with so many of the hikers from relatively near the area I was one of the few without family or friends affected. Moods swayed from subdued to hyper as people made great efforts to find out if their people were all right.

Disconnected from the world it felt odd to be hiking on, but there's not a lot else that could be done.

After a hard climb out of the valley we walked along the ridge line, and when the fog rolled out mid-morning, we were greeted with a washed clean, many greened, valley floor.

The original aim for that night was to make it to a hostel, but the strangely effective word-of-mouth news apparatus got to us that it was closed. Staying in a shelter again that night, a little short of food, I decided to put in a push the next day to get to the hostel in Hampton, 25 miles away.

The terrain changed again. More rock outcroppings were added to the mix, leading to quite a few waterfalls. These are great places to stop and rest. They always have water, are often pretty, and a combination of spray and steep terrain tends to lower the temperature a bit too.

A hard days hike, finishing with 6 miles over the inaccurately named 'Pond Flats' mountain, left me beside Watauga lake, a couple of miles out of town.

Not for the first time this trip, I needed a ride and got one quickly. Since starting the trail, any time my life could be made easier by someone passing by, they've made the effort. Hitching, directions, and advice have all been given happily by everyone I've met.

The people of Georgia, North Carolina and Tennessee, have been unstintingly helpful and kind.

Unfortunately, once I got to town, I found out that their hostel was also closed and that even the upmarket out-of-town accommodation options were booked out. Stifled, I decided to play to my strenghts, and headed to the town bar.

Things them began to fall into place.

After a chat with a guy at the bar I arranged a ride to restock at the gas station and then back to where the trail crossed the road. He was even finishing a Foosball tournament, allowing me time to get dinner and again lower the size of the 'smallest town Tiarnán's ever done Karaoke in'.
(I'm beginning to think Karaoke is naturally occurring in my presence.)

That night I camped beneath the stars, and the 'no overnight camping' sign, at the lake. The night was clear, the stars were bright, while I still desperately wanted a shower, it was a great place to be.

The following morning a combination of the beautiful lakefront view and the incredible condensation in my tent convinced me to dawdle for a while. I read and chatted with other passing hikers for most of the morning, then, as I was about to leave, someone had pizza delivered to the beach.

This, as you might imagine, delayed me further.

After a pepperoni fueled afternoon waddle, I'd made it 10 miles, far down on my target for the day, but still happy.

That night I spent at the Vanderventer Shelter which boasts a rock outcropping with an awesome view.

With views like this one and the one at Overmountain it becomes increasingly difficult to consider yourself to be 'slumming it'.

The morning of sloth and pizza left Damascus beyond my reach the next day, but a 22.7 mile day left us with an easy 10 mile dash into town.

Dash I did, and was showered, fed and watered by 1pm. A short day and the promise of indoor plumbing really lets you pick up some speed, I averaged better than 3mph for that run into town, well above my long distance average.

Damascus is where you find me, I had a rest day today and will venture out again tomorrow.

I've completed 20% or so of the A.T. now, I'm happy with how it's gone so far and ready for my slog up through Virginia.

Virginia makes up over 25% of the trail and the next most likely reason to quit is the 'Virginia Blues', a depression brought on because after the fairly swift changes in states and terrain up until now, it stretches on forever, swallowing hope.

With look and a bit of will I'll get by it.

I intellectually understood the scale of American wilderness, but until I'd climbed to the highest point for 50 miles and looked on endless forest, in my third state, I don't think I really got it.

Thanks for listening.
T.

The latest round of stats:
Around 45lb or 20kg lost.
464.4 miles covered, 1716.6 to go.
3 states finished.