After descending from Clingman’s Dome at 6,655 feet I arrived at Newfound Gap, mile 207.3. There is a large parking lot there that had hundreds of people milling about enjoying a beautiful Spring day. A trail angel set up there calling herself “Wildlife ” had fresh bananas, apples, and home made cookies and cakes. As my good fortune or the Lords providence would have it my hobbling gate was noticed by another trail angle calling herself “Tennessee Pearl”. She works as a nurse at Johnson University in Knoxville and is blessed with keen powers of observation. She was distributing “sloppy joes” at a furious rate. After eating my fill of three sloppy joes, she said “I can see you’re feet are hurting you badly, would you like to come to my home and soak your feet in hot water and Epsom Salts?” A more enticing offer I’ve rarely had. I wanted to push on of course, but plantar fasciitis was progressively impeding my progress. It’s a frustrating but extremely common ailment of AT hikers. So, I accepted the most gracious offer.
The drive to Tennessee Pearl’s home on the outskirts of Knoxville entailed an absorbing tour of Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge, and Sevierville the childhood home of the all ebullient Dolly Parton. Dollywood Amusement Park is the major tourist attraction.
Hours of blissful soaking in copious hot water vastly improved my outlook on life. The next day Walmart served resupply requirements and all was right with the world again. Tennessee Pearl, or Rita and her husband Doug divide their time between Johnson University, Mission Work in Honduras, touring the continent, and being “Trail Angles”. Wholesome lives, lived in a wholesome place, the great state of Tennessee “The Volunteer State”. One last parting bit of wisdom from Tennessee Pearl was my introduction to “Vitamin I” or ibuprofen for the troubling physical disquiet of the tendons and ligaments. It’s a time tested elixir of the Appalachian Trail. Someday I hope I can repay my debt of gratitude to Tennessee Pearl.
From Newfound Gap it’s a two day hike to the north border of the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. Three more miles brings a person to the infamous “Standing Bear Farm” run by benevolent hillbillies on alcoholic steroids. It’s at mile 241.3, and a favourite place of respite for trail weary hikers. It’s one of those places that can be heaven or hell. In my case after two days stay it’s been both. Heaven first because there was no one else there. Then hell after the “New England Know It Alls” arrived smothering everything with boisterous platitudes, inane babblings, and trite profanity enough to pollute Sodom and Gomorra. I expected the most grating hikers to be encountered would come from New Jersey. Such has not been the case thus far. On the evening of their arrival the chilly air suggested the lighting of the bunkhouse stove at the hostel. Your common blow fly knows more about lighting a stove than your Bostonian. Their procedure was thus. Fill the stove with as much wet wood as possible, jam crushed plastic pop bottles in the chinks, then light her off with some wet socks for tinder. Leave the stove door open and flap at the smouldering socks with a piece of soggy cardboard till the bunkhouse is full of acrid smoke. I’d have tried to interceded with a particle of common sense but it would have necessitated getting close to them. As it was, the plastic pop bottles carried the day when they flashed up and started a flue fire. The flue fire generated enough draft to set the wood alight. The hillbilly proprietors interrupted their evening drinking rituals long enough to come over and say “What gya’ll got in tharrr, a jet engine?”
There had of course been enough excessive drinking before bedtime to ensure a sleepless night of server vomitation. The vomitation began shortly after midnight with the sick fellow bursting the bunkhouse door open and projectile vomiting on the stoop while falling and smashing a rocking chair. He then proceeded to serenade the rest of us with the dry heaves for hours. Ear plugs didn’t help. At least most of the vomit made it outside. The fellow’s name was Karaoke. I believe I may have been successful in changing it to Pukeoke.
Tomorrow I’ll be incommunicado for a couple days until I reach Hot Springs, NC, at mile 274.4. That is if my afflicted feet will take me the 34 miles. Hopefully, I can avoid staying in the shelters. They are wholly inadequate with respect to space, hazardous, dirty, dingy, and vermin ridden. That’s the best I can say about them. I promise to do a full rant when I get a chance.
Thanks to all of you for posting comments on my blog. Your thoughts are most appreciated.