04/19

I got out of my tent just in time to witness a beautiful sunrise over the Nantahala. Hobbling to a gap in the trees I reached down and plucked a dandelion from grass, wishing for a Chick-fil-A breakfast sandwich… I really don’t ask for much.

Even with a stiff back, the first five miles to “Wesser Bald” came easy. A winding path covered in the new growth of spring, and littered with wildflowers. Nick stopped in the middle of the trail “look!” Just to the right of us, clucked a Grouse, or mountain chicken as I called it. Unbeknownst to me, these mountain chickens are rather aggressive. After posing for a quick picture, it turned on us… wings flapping, and beak ajar, It’s beady eyes turned red as it chased us away from its turf. Not quite the Chick-fil-A I wished for.

At the summit stood a rickety old fire tower held together by rusted bolts, and rotted wood. Curiosity of course, led us up the stairs. They creaked with every step, threatening collapse at any moment, but the view from the top was well worth it. Mountains stretched far beyond the horizon and we could see the river winding through the valley below. Off in the distance, a slow, curling plume of smoke near Bryson City. A wildfire, maybe twenty miles out. Strangely, there appeared to be no effort to contain it. No helicopters. No planes. No trucks. Just the unbothered sprawl of smoke stacking higher into the sky. “Hope it ain’t headed towards us.”

We pressed on. A few more miles of mellow ridgewalking later, the trail transformed, shifting from a pleasant stroll to a vertical rock scramble. Standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at painted blazes mocking us from below. We found ourselves scooting like dogs down the slopes, and clinging to our trekking poles for dear life.

Good food, white water rafting, a hostel stay, chiropractor, and fire evacuation alerts, motivated us to get as close to town as possible. Our 5.5 mile day turned into 10. We made camp on a small stretch of dirt just 2 miles from the Nantahala Outdoor Center.

A few hours after settling in, a kid in full camo strolled out of the woods ten feet in front of our tents, carrying a shotgun and a rubber turkey. No “hello,” no “just passing through” just a kid dragging a decoy like a stuffed animal, nodding at us like this was the most normal thing in the world. Then disappearing back into the brush. Where was he when that chicken came at us?

We lay there in our tents, staring at the nylon ceiling, wondering if tomorrow’s Easter breakfast would come with a side of stray birdshot.