Bilbo's Tale: Crossing Stone Mountain

MST. Chapter 33. Segment 6 (Part 4)

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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A storm is brewing. I can’t help but wonder if this isn’t one more thing to keep me from reaching my true destination. I have four days ahead, and, if I need to fight through an ungodly storm, then so be it. The weather app on my cell is warning that this violent tempest is almost upon me, but still, I must reach the gnarly face of Stone Mountain tonight before I can climb up to the Devil’s Garden Overlook. Once there, I have been told the path I must follow will show itself to me and lead me onward more than three hundred miles deep into the misty mountains.

I don’t know what’s in store for me over the next two days, but by early this evening, I need to be setup, secure, and in my tent. The weather gods or, perhaps, the gruesome trolls of Stone Mountain will begin their dance with the Devil, throwing uprooted trees and mammoth rocks at the high mountain meadow where a few intrepid adventurers, like myself, will hunker down under thin strips of tarps and lightweight, waterproof fabric.

Today my journey begins at the Rex Triplett Grocery Store on the western side of Yadkin Valley and approximately sixteen miles to the west of Elkin, the last town in the Western Piedmont. In Elkin, the tavern with the weathered sign of the Angry Troll is where weary backpackers seek in-house brews as they tend to their injuries and ponder their next steps following faded directions going westward.

Rex Triplett is the last outpost before the wild lands and is run by a rugged clan of long bearded/big breasted people. This is where I left off my quest the last time I traveled the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. The gods, back then, confounded me with temperatures in the high nineties, a tweaked right knee, and, more specifically, an unforeseen barrier, a gateway into the west known as Wells Knob. By the time I reached the small outpost late in the afternoon, I had had it for the day—for this ongoing test of my ability (for miles now) to track the MST—and upon entering the grocer with its cluster of tired inbred folk and their distrust of thru-hiking strangers, I returned to the town of Elkin courtesy of a trail angel who swooped in to save me, ten miles shy of reaching the imposing granite wall of mountains known as Stone Mountain State Park.

Now, weeks later, with temperatures in the low nineties, I am quietly taking advantage of the brief respite to attempt my second crossing. However, I can see I am fooling myself, as I drive back into Elkin—the path west will soon be blocked, given the gray, rolling ceiling boiling on the horizon.

In Elkin, trail angel Bob Puckett picks me up at noon. He suggests I leave my car in the parking lot next to the police station. I agree—taking the additional precaution so that it can be found if I don’t return. He, then, drives me over to the site of that most recent terminus, the Rex Triplett Grocery Store.

I recognize, for Bob, this outpost must be the strangest place to drop off a sojourner in the face of an impending, dangerous storm, but nonetheless, this is where my push to climb into Stone Mountain State Park must begin. Later, if I can get my tent set up before the heavenly battle rages, I’ll be ready to face the oncoming onslaught.

The hike leaving the nearly hidden, hole-in-the-wall grocery is surprisingly hard. The days of walking thirty miles on flat roads in warm sunlight are definitely over. I foolishly had decided to start my hike at one o’clock because, after all, it was only ten miles, but within five miles I am tired and sweaty and admonishing myself for this decision.

I need to remember that ten miles on Day One of an adventure is always tough, what with spending part of the time working my way into the back country. For some reason, the switch from driving for several hours to walking several hours—especially with a thirty-pound pack—is discombobulating. My body does not adapt well. I am invariably more tired than I am the rest of the hike, and, today, tiredness—feeling the weight of what lies ahead walking towards the high mountains—is not a good thing.

For this part of the journey I am carrying additional pieces of equipment I have not used before. Now I have a small, Garmin InReach GPS tracker that hangs on my backpack and sends out a signal every twenty minutes. As my hike gets more remote crossing the three hundred miles of mountains, the tracker will be a lifeline to family and emergency personnel in the event of the unexpected.

More ominously, I carry a canister of bear spray on my belt as my first line of defense against large predators. I practiced at home and within seconds could shoot off a high concentration of capsaicin spray for more than forty feet. Of course, it’s those critical seconds I will need to save myself if a charging bear, mountain lion, or angry troll decides to devour me on my journey.

At five miles, the lefthand turn into the thick woods looks ominous, but that’s where the path leads. Soon, in the dark canopy of the forest, I pocket my glasses and start my climb in the shadow of a mountain. At one point, I come to a large tree that has fallen across the trail next to an active stream. It feels like this is a sign to turn back, but with some coordination I can see a way to get my thirty-pound pack under the tree and across the water. This is somewhat exasperating as the tree snags the pack repeatedly, but before long I am free, across the stream, and following the trail.

Two miles later I climb to a remote cabin with no presence of activity inside or out. A sign on the front door says Stone Mountain General Store, which, when I go inside is watched over by a bear of a bearded man who materializes from a back room behind the counter. I am stunned by his size and wonder if he is some sort of shapeshifter. The tension is palatable as he watches me struggle to find a reason to leave. When I buy an orange soda to lower the tension, the man grunts (or was it a growl) as I open the heavy screen door and go back outside. I know in my gut I need to put as many miles as I can between us before I stop for the night. I clutch my bear canister, but it is less reassuring than it was at home.

Sitting momentarily on a rough, handmade bench to get my bearings, I discover to my dismay I have lost my glasses. My prescriptions are all of two months old and now they are no where to be found on my person or in any of the outer pockets of my pack. Somewhere along the miles of woods I just hiked, my glasses have disappeared from my front pocket. I can only think that maybe that tree I struggled with to release my pack slithered a tiny branch into my pocket and secreted the glasses. These woods are full of mischief and I have no doubt I have been caught flatfooted. I am shocked. With the shapeshifter watching me from the window and the storm filling the sky, this is not the time to be blind.

Luckily I have an old pair of readers that I keep in my front pack pocket for emergencies. They are not as powerful as my prescriptions, but I’d rather be half blind trying to follow the wrinkled directions I’ve printed off days ago, than totally blind.

I soon realize, in studying the map, I am half a mile off of the trail. I need to backtrack if I don’t want to become a victim of these dense woods.

Given the elevation I have climbed and the varied terrain I have walked, I am loathed to try to find my prescription glasses. With the hours remaining in the day, the number of miles I have still to go, and the need to get my tent setup before the storm arrives, I resolve (with a heavy heart) to continue my journey. I realize, though, I have lost a critical piece of my “personal welfare” and this decision may come back to haunt me.

I backtrack to the trail turnoff that I missed earlier and am back on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. A mile later I pass a weathered sign that warns hikers that we are entering Stone Mountain State Park. Walking another four miles down an endless cascade of switch backs is unnerving, and I can’t help but feel I am being stalked by something not human. Repeatedly looking behind me, I see nothing in these dark woods.

Finally I get to the turnoff for the campground at the bottom of the mountain and an unexpected sense of safety washes over me. After such a long descent, I feel like I have entered a new, if not magical, realm. I realize, looking at my directions,I must hike another mile-and-a-half to get to the high meadow where I will spend the night. For once, rather than concerned with the storm about to unload its heavy burden, I feel fine with this additional walk. Everything will be okay.

Within a half mile on a spur trail walking away from the MST, I pass a beautiful two hundred-foot waterfall, and it is spellbinding as the water cascade down the rock face into a deep pool. I climb a wooden flight of stairs that, too, is nearly a half-mile long, and I can’t help but think that perhaps there are elves in these woods, elves who might have made these stairs. It dawns on me I must be in their domain. I thank them for watching over me and for this gift of stairs, as climbing the hillside beside the falls would have been impossible. The glistening staircase with its wooden railings and warm benches delivers me to a parking area, and, then, walking a half mile further, I arrive at the campground next to a grassy meadow where my campsite awaits.

A sign on the window at the ranger station says I should check in, but no one is around. As it is close to six o’clock, I can feel the impending rain on my skin. I ignore the sign and go directly to my campsite to prepare for a long night. In the bathrooms nearby I refill my two one-liter water bottles, then, move back to my site and with all due speed set up my small tent. Complete, it looks like it could not withstand any type of adverse weather, but I must trust that it is both secure and firmly tethered.

At my picnic table I start to make a hot stew from a packet of dehydrated kale and white beans. As the water begins to steam, I realize the fire on my burner has gone out. Shortly thereafter I realize that the fuel canister has been jinked and is now totally empty of butane gas. This calamity is one that I’ll regret the rest of my journey. It turns out I can’t even get one tiny pot of water boiling. I quickly stir the lukewarm water from my pot into the packet of dehydrated food and hope for the best.

Clearly, I am encountering telltale signs—one after another—that I am not wanted here.

The dehydrated kale and white beans soak in the tepid water and twenty minutes later, I eat. Given my options, semi-hydrated food is better than no food at all.

I shouldn’t say no food, as I also carry six burritos I made with peanut butter and raisins. These were supposed to be for later in the journey, but now they will be the staple of my diet over the next three days.

Before I can finish my stew, the storm arrives. Waves of rain sweep across my campsite, and I am forced to grab my dinner and duck inside the tent—securing the rain flap as quickly as I can to avoid drenching everything I’ve pulled out of my pack.

The rain pounds my tent and, after an opening thirty-minute salvo of tornado-like wind, does not let up for most of the night. At one point I wake to a drizzle of water falling on my face and realize that rain has found its way through the air vents in the rain tarp at the top of my tent. Adjustments to the tarp takes time and my face and chest become soaked, but I solve the problem for the moment—only to feel it repeat itself two more times throughout the night. Later, I realize that water is also flowing over my ground cloth and seeping into the tent near my feet. There is nothing I can do but keep away from that end of my temporary domicile.

All night I hear continuous rounds of thunder cracking against the mountains. The thunder is worrisome but, fortunately, I don’t feel lightning striking anywhere close to me. In slowly falling back to sleep, I can’t help but wonder if I also hear the howl of wolves in the distance or is it the shapeshifter crashing through the tormented forest.

This is probably the heaviest downpour I have experienced in my tent and in the morning I am delighted to find it has held up as well as it has. I envisioned at one point early in the night the tent not being able to withstand the pounding rain and heavy wind and me having to abandon it and spend the night cuddled in a blanket outside the bathrooms. Thank god, the gods didn’t let that happen.

I wake at daybreak and look out onto a washed, overcasted world. Several deer, though, are eating the lush grass in the meadow and could care less whether or not I get up and start moving around my campsite. The forecast calls for intermittent rain throughout the day, starting at eight o’clock this morning, but it isn’t raining now, so I quickly pack up my wet tarps and tent and secure everything to my backpack. Today, in spite of the elements, I will cross over Stone Mountain, then force my way up to the Devil’s Garden Overlook.

First, though, I must hike back the mile-and-a-half down to the actual trail. This entails climbing down the slick wooden steps past the waterfall, which seems to glimmer in its watery pool in the wet forest. Arriving at the MST’s white-blaze, I am thankful for the elves of these woods for their protection and glad to be back on point following the MST. Less than a mile later I start, once again, ascending a mountain and soon, thereafter, the rain begins.

Near the top, the side of Stone Mountain, itself, emerges from the mist off to my right and the view is spectacular. I can’t begin to capture on my cell the massive gray granite rock in the distance. It appears as if the mountain is part of where I am standing, but it is actually a mile or so away across a forested valley, and it is the largest piece of exposed granite I’ve ever seen.

In the rain, my footing is treacherous, but the trail requires that I turn left and walk across the slick granite face of the mountainside I am on to go back into the forest. Slipping and falling down the granite shoot beside me would be a horrific turn of events. I feel for my GPS InReach unit and am glad it’s tracking me as I inch forward.

I am not in a hurry and have the fog-enclosed landscape entirely to myself—no bears, no wolves, no mountain lions, no shapeshifters or trolls, no elves, not even dwarfs working the rock: just the top of the granite mountainside and me. Like this hike is proving to be straight out of a story by J.R.R. Tolkien. Like I should be scanning the skies, searching for a dragon that will shower me in a jet of fire to protect its jewels hidden in the mountain’s core.

Still, I can’t help but stop and be still—it comes, first, with a sense of awe, then, an overwhelming sweep of serenity. In spite of all of my frailties and limitations, in spite of fighting my own dragons on this sea-to-mountains journey, I recognize in a profound moment of realization that I have reached one of North Carolina’s own crown jewels, a jewel of which I knew nothing about, a jewel that the Trail directed me here to discover.

Three miles later I have climbed down the backside of the mountain and am standing at the lower Backpackers Parking Lot Trailhead. From here, finally, my climb straight up two thousand feet to Devil’s Garden Outlook is about to begin.

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Click here to read the previous chapter.

Map of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. This post focuses on Segment 6