 The Appalachian Trail runs for 2175 miles up the eastern side of the US. Some hikers take on the full route, whilst others walk the more scenic sections, one of which is the 75 miles through the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. Alun Davies puts one foot in front of the other.
It’s 6pm on a hot, sultry Friday night and I’m sitting on the edge of a bed in a hotel room in Ashville, North Carolina with an uncomfortable level of sweat on my forehead and top lip. You see I’m 24lb over what I’d class as ‘my’ weight, feeling decidedly unfit and my jeans are so tight I’m in danger of a flock of birds deciding to roost on the muffin tops if I dare to venture outside. So, the decision is, do I wear a baggy shirt and hit the boozy fleshpots early or watch another re-run of this bloody advert?
I’m talking about one of those manic American TV promotions that go on for what seems like months and make you feel like a lump of pointless lard as a group of nubile floppy haired presenters perform exercises that in any other TV show would be deemed as simulated sex.
'Let me help you lose 10lb and 10in in 6 days’ says a guy with the sort of smarmy smile I’d like to bury my fist in. ‘Just follow the new ACME Arm Swinging Pneumatic Windmill Program and you’re guaranteed to look as good as Tracey and Ben in 6 days or you don’t pay a cent’. The scene then cuts to Tracey and Ben who are smiling manically and look like they’ve had an acute form of 1980’s hair surgery to rival the most tragic bonnets in Charlie’s Angels.
 Okay, I’ve had enough of this, I’m going out for one last full-on blast where I intend to put on another couple of unsightly pounds of flesh before embarking on a period of food and drink chastity in the hope that one of those female presenters will want to make an advert with me.
But, I’m not going to attempt to lose this weight swinging my arms in front of the TV dressed in a leotard, nor am I going to have a dental job, fake tan and liposuction for the ‘after’ shot. Oh, no, I'm going to do it carrying a 75lb pack and hiking 75 miles along the Appalachian Trail through the Smokey Mountains National Park, and I’m going to grow a beard (it’ll hide the multiple chins), and I’m not going to wash or comb my hair and it ain’t going to cost me a cent either, just sweat.
The Appalachian Trail threads its way up the eastern side of the US for approximately 2175 miles. From its southern trailhead at Springer Mountain, Georgia, it passes through 14 states before reaching the northern terminal on Mt Katahdin, Maine. Seasonal weather means that the vast majority of hikers start in the south and work their way north with the spring, hoping to knock off the Appalachian Trail (AT) before winter sets in and kills them. Along the way they can be expected to take five million footsteps, pass 165,000 blazes (white blazes are the trail markers), tramp through six national parks and eat more dried food than is good for them.
Hikers on the AT fall into different categories; the big swinging dicks are the through hikers hoping to walk the whole lot in one go over six months or so; next up come the 2000 milers who complete the trail in sections; then you have section hikers who walk the choice bits; weekend hikers who need no explaining and then you have the day hikers who everyone else looks down on and quite rightly so – they’re just lazy, fat bastards, not that I’d agree with that, I’m just pointing it out.
Visually, there’s no doubting which category I fall into as I plunder the chocolate section of a gear shop in Fontana Village near Fontana Dam, the southern entry point to the park for the Appalachian Trail. As I walk outside the store, chocka with a weeks’ supply of stodge, I pass four locals who look like founder members of the Facebook group ‘Good Olde Boys’. In full character mode, they’re sat on the porch dressed in wife beater vests, jeans, reflective shades and baseball hats. One of them gestures to me, though I’ve no idea what he’s saying, I just smile and plod on my way mindful of the fact that just down the road is the river of Deliverance fame. As the T-shirts which you can buy around these parts say, ‘paddle faster, I hear banjos’.
It’s 2pm and I’m at the start of the Appalachian Trail through the Smokey Mountains National Park. In front of me is a huge dam and beyond that the tree covered Smokies rise and fall into the distance. It’s 11 miles to my first overnight camp at Mollies Ridge and it’s uphill all the way, through bear country, and this pack is crippling me. Fortunately the first mile is on level tarmac across the dam wall from where it turns right and the slope kicks in, though very gently at first. As I head out I’m reminded of two things; the first is that the Smokies contain the highest density of bears in the US and secondly, I’m going to be walking the section of the AT during which Bill Bryson called it a day and gave up his quest to become a through hiker.
 Bryson’s book ‘A Walk in the Woods’ is a fantastic read, or I should say in my opinion the first half of the tale is a fantastic read. His account of the planning, preparation and hike along the southern end of the AT is one of the funniest and well written books I’ve come across in the past 15 years. I’m a great admirer of Bryson’s wit, style, observations and his extensive research though there’s something about ‘A Walk in the Woods’ that tells me he also gave up writing the day he quit walking. It’s going to be interesting to find out what it was about this section of the trail that caused him to hang up his boots; though I suspect the answer lies in the hundreds of miles he’d already covered or more probably in the thought of walking the ones he hadn’t. Anyway, it’s going to be good to share this section of the trail with him.
The first mile past the dam is easy going though the woods are alive. There is noise coming from all directions and every crack, crunch or tweet is of course a bear. I’ve already adopted the bear charge stance in confrontation with a couple of squirrels and the tension is rising with every step. And by the way, I’ve not seen another hiker since the off. In fact it’s hard to see anything at all other than trees. Anyway, bear tension soon starts to erode as the sweat and aches of walking uphill in hot, sweltering conditions kick in.
A walk in the woods is indeed apt, no matter if I’m walking up or down, resting or snacking, sweating or singing, I’m doing it under a green canopy. The path is easy going underfoot, well waymarked and kept. Last year’s fall has left a super cushy carpet to hike along for the most part and where it’s bare (that word again) then there’s a gentle layer of dust with the occasional stone. I note that when Bryson passed this way the rain was torrential and the path a quagmire, how fortunate.
Within a couple of hours I’ve spotted chipmunk, a couple of deer, more squirrels, thousands of caterpillars and huge quantities of unidentifiable things that jump for a living, about the only things I’ve not seen are other hikers and bears, though as previously mentioned I’ve heard all 1600 of them.
Man, is it hot on this trail. Fortunately the woods are providing cover from the sun but the humidity is draining me and I’m already starting to get low on water before the half way point. Within the next mile or so I also manage to drop a water bottle from my pack without knowing, and pass through a thick section of woods where the air is full of a pungent smell that is best described as a stale, filthy carpet that has been left out in the woods to rot – guess what that is?
And then I round yet another corner, and there it is. About 30 yards down off the trail is a bear. My first ever sight of a bear in the wild is happening right now, how do I react? Well, I carry on walking, with each step taking me a little closer to the big ball of fur that’s standing by a huge downed tree just off the trail. The bear for his/her part is very cool about the meeting and just turns its head slowly in my direction. It doesn’t run away (as I’d been told it would) nor does it emit a devil’s howl, extend claws and make a charge. The whole event is a rather matter of fact encounter where I keep walking and the bear turns back around and carries on with its business. All very civil and respectful if you ask me.
The last mile to Mollies Ridge is bloody hard going. From past experiences where I have suffered from serious dehydration, I can feel the start of liquid deprivation kicking in which makes me decidedly uncomfortable. My energy levels are dropping like a stone and I keep seeing the shelter through the trees like a desert traveller views a mythical oasis. I kid you not, I’m going downhill fast, my lower back has started to ache, shoulders and back are running out of power and my legs are grinding to a halt as a slight dizziness creeps in. If I had the energy I’d kick myself for the loose packing of that water bottle.
Just as I’m thinking about dumping my pack and heading for the hut (and spring) without the burden of additional weight, Mollies comes into view and the first couple of litres don’t touch the sides.
Mollies is a three sided wood shelter, typical of those on the Appalachian Trail. In most cases the ‘open’ side has a wire net which can be secured during the night to protect from any amorous bears. Mollies, however, is not totally traditional and the open side is just that, open. But I’m not alone here, spread out on the wooden bunk are three sleeping bags and just over the way are three young lads from North Carolina cooking supper. I go to join them just as the sun sets and their camp fire is at the height of its cooking prowess.
Just after I’ve been informed that Mollies is a haunted hut, a noise comes out of the dusk quickly followed by a guy carrying a gun, or to be precise a rifle.
‘Hey guys, how ya doing?’ says the guy with the gun.
Ten minutes later I’m in possession of the following information; The guy with the gun is a ranger and he’s biviing out on the trail about a mile ahead looking to shoot Russian Wild Boar. Apparently the imported boar escaped from a ranch years ago and have bred extensively in the Smokies, and are now doing a huge amount of damage to the environment. His job is to hunt them down.
 After a cursory warning about bear and an instruction to hang our packs in the trees overnight he also tells us about the time he was sleeping next to the trail and was awoken by a sound he assessed as a Russian Boar. As he crept through the bush with gun raised and primed he walked straight into a night hiker who had the biggest scare of his life. Fortunately, all worked out well on that one and as our ranger heads back into the woods for the night I settle down on the wooden bench with my head at the open door side. I figure that no bear can do any damage when I’m this tired.
In the next instalment, Alun Davies continues his walk in the woods and meets up with a drug crazed Texan, a septuagenarian through hiker and gets paid a nighttime visit he’d rather not have had.
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