A Remarkable Station

MST. Chapter 23. Segment 13 (Part 3) & Segment 12

This is my serialized story of hiking the Mountains-to-Sea Trail (MST), a 1,175-mile route that crosses the state of North Carolina. I’m hiking west from Jockey’s Ridge near Nags Head on the Outer Banks of the Atlantic Ocean to Kuwohi (formerly Clingmans Dome) near the Tennessee border in the Great Smoky Mountains. If you’d like to start at the beginning of my story, click here. 

See the Mountains-to-Sea map at the bottom for reference.

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Daylight at the Harmony Hall Plantation and it’s now time for some biscuits—hot biscuits. I have been dreaming of hot biscuits all night. My Mountains-to-Sea directions indicate I will pass a diner within three miles of where I am camped. After freezing half the night, a roadside diner with homemade biscuits and a hot cup of brewed coffee sounds wonderful!

In short order, I pack up, take some pictures of the plantation’s facilities, then hike on to Cain’s Grill, a local diner on Route 53. When I get there, I am surprised at how busy it is, with pickup trucks parked all over the lot. This is a good sign, I decide while crossing the road—I am ready for some hot, homemade biscuits! Inside, a large cluster of men stand near the cash register waiting for their orders. White men, black men, everyone seems to know each other and, given the number of eighteen wheelers transporting crates of poultry and pigs that passed by me already this morning, all have probably come off the local farms or are heading there.

Of course, with the tiny town of Tar Heel just five miles away, I would not be surprised if a good many of these men work at the Smithfield processing plant located there. Smithfield is the largest pork processing plant in the world, and, if that isn’t enough, the entire area comes complete with any number of poultry processing plants as well. Most people in this area, I imagine, either work in one of the processing plants or help supply the pigs and chickens to keep these plants churning out pork cuts and ham hocks or chicken breasts, wings, and leg bones.

But me, I’m dying for hot buttered biscuits. I put my backpack down at the only open booth by the far door and take my place in line at the register. This will take awhile but, I know in my heart-of-hearts, this will be worth it!

By the time I get near the register ten minutes later, I hear a man at the front of the line order six biscuits to go. The heavy set woman behind the counter, the one who appears to have horribly bad feet by the way she sloshes her bulging mid-drift from side-to-side, has no apparent sense of humor.

She tells him, “Honey, we’s got only four left and ain’t makin’ no more.”

He responds, without a pause, “Sadie, I’ll take all four of your biscuits.”

“Oh no!” I mutter behind him.

He turns to me and I tell him I hiked all the way to Cain’s for biscuits—specifically, the last two biscuits they made for the day. He nods at that, but, in realizing he doesn’t know me from adam, doesn’t budge from his order. He pays for Sadie’s final four biscuits and fades into the throng of men waiting near the register.

When it comes to biscuits at Cain’s Grill, I guess, it’s every man for himself.

“Whadaya have?” the woman asks me suddenly.

“Oh, wow, I don’t know,” I reply. “I wanted biscuits.”

“We’s out,” she responds without a smile.

“I guess, then, two orders of toast,” I say, knowing there’s a line behind me, but before realizing they only have white bread at the toaster. I just bought four pieces of white toast—buttered with margarine, no doubt.

“Sausage or eggs,” she says not looking up from the register, like no one escapes here without one or the other.

“Just coffee.” I mumble, thoroughly disappointed in wasting my time and money.

“Honey,” I can just imagine her telling me, now leaning over the counter as she pulls the white bread from its bag, “you’re not from these parts, are ya? Chicken or pork.”

Maybe they’re all thinking that, as I look around at the men in their rough clothes watching me while waiting for their orders. I am aware of not only the workers in line, but also the retirees in the beat up booths staring at me, so many of whom appear to be suffering from obvious health and weight issues. I guess, if you retire around here, you talk about your latest visit to the doctor’s or dentist (or both), all of whom have screwed you up, or, if that subject has been beaten into the ground, you shake your head over those in the county who have just succumbed to their doctor or dentist. I suspect, all of the customers in Cain’s would agree that this topic go hand-in-hand with scrambled egg-and-pork biscuits—unless, of course, you were lucky enough to catch that backpacking geezer who came to Cain’s for one brief moment to eat burnt toast smeared with strawberry jam left on the table in tiny individual packets.

I am out of the diner in no time—no second cup of coffee—and follow a road that boasts in the course of every hour at least thirty trucks passing by with hogs or logs. Sixty trucks later, I am relieved to be at the turn-off to Suggs Mill Pond Game Lands, a 11,200-acre tract for hunting, habitat protection, and endangered wildlife.

The foreboding sound of chain saws and bulldozers in the distance gives me the sense that I am hiking into an area where I shouldn’t be and don’t belong.

Two men in a pickup truck approach me from the main road and stop beside me. The driver rolls down his window and asks me where I am going. When I say, “Clingman’s Dome in the Smokies.” They pause at that, then laugh—clearly, I am a duck out of water. I may be some ‘greenie environmentalist,’ but, technically, I tell myself, as I wait for them to say something, anyone can walk this road. I am not sure what to expect, but, after a pause, the driver responds, “Good luck with that.” and they laugh again.

For a few minutes, though, when I ask them what they do, they talk about the research they’re conducting on invasive plant species and that’s cool. I ask about the logging I hear in the distance and they say they have nothing to do with it, but that the state gives out concessions to remove the loblolly pine. Loblolly and Slash pine were planted by private forestry companies long before the state acquired the land. Now the forestry service is replanting these sites with the historic longleaf pine, once the most dominate species in the eastern part of the state. They say the hope is it will help bring back much of the ecosystem that has been lost.

Soon they give me a thumbs up and drive off toward the game lands, a brown dust cloud hovering over the road.

As I turn into the Suggs Mill Pond entrance and walk toward the sound of chainsaws, while stepping aside as flatbed trucks drive past loaded with newly cut and denuded pine trees, I wonder if I shouldn’t have taken the detour highlighted in the directions for hikers during hunting season or when the forestry service conducts prescribed burns in the area. Such controlled burns are best for the longleaf pine and the pocosin habitat which makes up nearly 50% of the game land’s 11,000 acres. In fact, in addition to the consequences of plantation forestry with loblolly and slash pine, fire suppression has been a major problem changing the face of the protected habitat.

So far, the day has been a bust: no hot biscuits, tons of pig- and “fowl”-smelling trucks, and now, here I am hiking towards the sound of gnarling machines and pine trees splintering the air and thumping on the ground.

Ten minutes later I come to a weighing station for hunters to check their kills and report back to the state. I use the location to eat a power-bar-with-mixed-nuts lunch and sit, my backpack on a blood-stained shelf. I try not to count the logging trucks driving past, but they are the only things moving on the dirt road. If I was a hunter, I suspect deer, bear, water fowl or wild turkeys would be long gone, what with the noise of mauling timber in the distance.

After lunch the Mountains-to-Sea route turns sharply to the right and follows another road that takes me away, finally, from the sounds of the logging operation. I am relieved to be free of the receding noise, but as I walk across open lands, I can’t help but feel I am being watched.

One significant turn to the left two miles down and, finally, I am out of the fields and into an uplands forest of different deciduous species, such as oak, maple, and hickory. I notice a pond through the trees on my left and listen to birds in the canopy. This is more of what I expected in the game lands and welcome the reprieve.

A mile on the shaded lane and it dawns on me that I have not spotted the various markers listed in the printed MST directions. Checking the trail app, I realize, much to my dismay and consternation, I have walked way off the indicated route. I spend an hour trying to figure out where I went wrong. It turns out, rather than turning left into the woods, I should have gone straight, around a closed gate, and follow a little used road through a lowland pocosin forest. It isn’t long before I discover the rain of two days earlier has left this road swamped with large standing pools of water.

Walking around these massive swampy areas is an eye-opening exercise. I find I have to leap back and forth from one side of the road to the other to keep from getting my legs soaked. With a thirty pound pack, picking my way through these bogs slows me down, but I walk out of the swamp by mid-afternoon, somewhat relieved and none the worse for wear. That said, I can only imagine what this hike would be like in the summer, what with mosquitos, ticks, and water moccasins. Clearly, there’s something to be said about hiking the eastern segments of the MST in winter.

Finally I reach the main road and have three miles to go before arriving at the Turnbull Fire Station, my destination for the day. Here I take a second to recognize I have now completed Segment Thirteen of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, and, in walking to Turnbull, I will leave Bladen County behind and begin Segment Twelve’s sixty-six mile hike through the agricultural lands of Cumberland and Sampson Counties.

I especially look forward to meeting Fire Chief Gary Brock who oversees the Turnbull Fire Station. I first contacted Chief Brock two days before my hike. Though he is not listed as a trail angel, the fire station, itself, is highlighted as a potential place to camp. In getting Chief Brock’s permission, I envisioned putting up my tent on the grounds either beside or behind the station.

Earlier in the week, the day before the storm, Chief Brock called me on my cell and pressed me to find shelter other than my tent. He said he even would pick me up and take me to the fire house if I had no where else to go. Due to his call (as well as my wife’s earlier concern), I hike thirty-eight miles to Kelly that first day and reach the motel in White Lake, twenty miles further, the next morning just as the storm hit.

I truly want to thank Chief Brock for his welcoming generosity and his timely warning, but when I arrive at the Turnbull Fire Station, waiting for me in a big easy chair is his assistant, Harold, watching tv. I ask if I can sit down in one of the other easy chairs and take off my shoes. I am delighted to take a break and watch a rerun of Chicago P.D. It turns out, Harold loves this show, knows all the characters, and can recite most of the plots. We even discuss why Chicago’s police women are so pretty.

As the show’s credits scroll down the tv screen, Harold tells me he has the pleasant task of taking me over to the Beaver Dam Fire Station where I will meet Chief Brock and can get a shower, eat, and sleep in a bed.

That sounds wonderful.

“Tomorrow,” Harold says, “Chief Brock will bring you back to Turnbull so you can continue your journey.”

“What about Chicago P.D.?” I ask, putting back on my shoes.

“I doubt Chief Brock ever watches tv.” Harold responds, “but you can ask him…”

Arriving at the Beaver Dam Fire Station, I am immediately introduced to Gary Brock who is busy with two business men. Still, he takes the time to ask me about my week before passing me over to his wife, Eva. Gary is a thin man who appears to be in his late fifties or early sixties. As the chief, he is in charge of both fire stations and has a crew of professional fire fighters who work for him part-time, and a group of trained volunteers at his call, several of whom I also meet at the station.

Gary’s wife, Eva, is of a similar age, thin and wiry, and is a welcoming, vivacious soul, to whom I take to immediately. She, too, is an active firefighter at the station, and, in what appears to be part of her oversight, leads me into the community room where she has cordoned off an area in the far corner. Behind a black screen is a single bed, floor lamp, and side table for me to spend the night. She has laid out sheets, a blanket and towel, and has given me both gift baskets with chocolate, power bars, and fruit as well as an unopened tin of European cookies she and Gary received at Christmas.

Between Harold, Eva and Chief Brock, I must have hiked to heaven.

That night, after my shower (in the men’s room behind the fire trucks), Gary and Eva take me to a busy restaurant/diner for dinner. We talk about running fire stations and the type of fires they deal with in their remote part of the county: brush, cars, houses, game lands—he is prepared to handle it all. I read somewhere there are nearly 1,500 rural fire stations in North Carolina. Like Beaver Dam, these facilities are often community centers as well. The night ends with me crawling into the bed behind the black screen, my tent still in my backpack on the floor near my feet.

The next morning Eva gets up early and makes me pancakes. No biscuits but the pancakes and coffee hit the spot! She has me leave my backpack at the station and hike back to Turnbull. This completes the trail I missed when Harold drove me to Beaver Dam. When I get to Turnbull, I call Chief Brock, but it’s Eva who picks me up. As the MST goes right by the larger station, I continue hiking in the late morning/early afternoon following the route through Roseboro and to Salemburg. Chief Brock calls me to determine where I am and fifteen minutes later, Eva picks me up for a second time to bring me back to the station.

I tell Chief Brock and Eva that they are unbelievable! With their help over the most recent five-day period, I have hiked one hundred and sixteen miles, and have passed a total of four hundred miles on my Mountains-to-Sea journey.

That night, members of Gary and Eva’s family arrive to celebrate Eva’s birthday. I am honored to join them and so grateful for their kind, inclusive hospitality. Listening to their stories centered around the two fire stations, hearing about their lives, and enjoying their tales of other MST hikers is wonderful.

Gary and Eva, their daughter tells me, grew up in southeastern Cumberland County (below Fayetteville), where a lot of their family still lives, and were high school sweethearts. At one point, as young adults, they drove school buses. Later, Gary worked as a mailman and volunteer fireman while she became a school teacher.

Now Eva’s retired and works part-time as a volunteer fire fighter at the station. Some people like to golf, but, for the two of them, the station is their world. Eva tells me, though, Gary also likes to fly on days off. He built a lighter-than-air plane, keeps it at the local airport, and still pilots it.

Their involvement in the Mountains-to-Sea movement has been significant—”I remember,” Gary tells me, “when the MST people came with their maps and worked in our community room.” So much of the trail, I imagine, had to be centered on where hikers could spend the night. “The fire stations, in so many ways,” Eva says, “could be the places where hikers could stay. But,” she says, “many of the other fire chiefs haven’t picked up on this.”

Later, I notice the extent of their involvement in the Mountains-to-Sea Trail is reflected in a plaque and large glass enclosed map given to them from the board of the MST hanging on a wall near the fire station entrance.

That night Eva hands me a notebook and asks me to write about my experience. I read so many marvelous comments before I get to an open page, I can’t help but hope they continue to find joy as trail angels in this station of their lives.

The next day, Karen and Helen, my wife and daughter, drive down from Durham and pick me up—but not before we all are given a full tour of the facilities.

Gary tells me, once he became the fire chief, he started applying for funding with the county and state to obtain fully-outfitted fire trucks, water tankers, and emergency vehicles to address the situations they encounter, and over the years he has been fortunate to obtain six up to date, ready to go vehicles for the two stations. He is especially proud to have a strong crew of people willing to man those vehicles and work as firefighters at the station.

I take a picture of Karen and Helen on a fire truck and Chief Brock takes one of me behind the wheel. Unbelievably, I am like a kid all over again. Eva even provides us with plastic fire hats and other paraphernalia for our next door neighbors who have young children—though, I may keep a hat for myself!

This has been a remarkable conclusion to my week on the Mountains-to-Sea trail—the people I’ve met since Burgaw, the places I stayed, including the museum in Kelly, the storm, the motels, the convenience stores and diners, the hikes through North Carolina’s state parks, game lands, and forests—the entire thing has been almost beyond belief. Now, spending the final day and two nights with Eva and Gary at Beaver Dam, I am truly blessed.

As we drive home, I can’t help but think, given the way things have gone, everything I have experienced, it won’t be long before I’ll be itching to get back on the trail again!

Click here to read the next chapter.

Click here to read the previous chapter.

Map of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. This post focuses on Segment 13b.