9. that time we actually feared for our lives

Person of the Week: The Gnarled Oak Tree

Forever a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, Chandler and I somehow managed to get ahead of schedule to the point that we were left with astoundingly short hikes for our last two days—8 and 6 miles, respectively, if I remember correctly. We were to cross into North Carolina on the first of the two days, camp just north of the border, and leisurely make our way to our final campsite on the second day, where Ron would pick us up the following morning. There was a major landmark in the section of trail before us—the Gnarled Oak Tree—about which we’d read quite a bit online (Google “gnarled oak tree bly gap” and you’re bound to find more information than you’d ever need about a tree you’ll probably never see. This harsh reality stands in stark contrast to the consistent difficulty in finding any other information about this section of the trail—information, for example, that may have been relevant and useful in planning a hike). Chandler and I had eagerly anticipated these easy days and some good old-fashioned tourism, but Mother Nature refused to let us coast across the finish line.

The problems began around the time we crossed from Georgia into North Carolina. The weather was fair, as it had been—surprisingly so—for the entire hike; any time it had rained over the past 8 days, it had been short, light, and almost entirely restrained from reaching us by the canopy above. We had only covered our bags once or twice throughout the whole ordeal, and mostly just to be cautious in those cases. So we weren’t much bothered when the North Carolina air took on a light mist and clouds gathered overhead; it would blow over like it had every other time.

We reached Bly Gap—both the site of the Gnarled Oak Tree and our campsite for the night—in the mid afternoon, leaving us with significantly more time at camp than we’d had at any other campsite. We admired the Gnarled Oak Tree for a bit, but, luckily for us, set ourselves to work setting up camp fairly quickly. It’s fortunate that, despite having plenty of time to waste, we wasted little, because the moment I had the rain fly secured over the tent—as if on cue—the rain began.

Unconcerned, we wrapped our rain ponchos around our bags and waited under a tree, seeing no reason to make a mess while trying to get into the tent (our sleeping pads and food and whatnot were still packed up) and confident that it would end shortly.

It didn’t. And it was really cold.

So after a good while, sopping wet and freezing cold, still standing in the pouring rain, we decided we needed an alternative plan. We stripped down to our unmentionables and threw our soaking outer layers over a branch, got into the tent, and hurriedly unloaded the essentials from our bags under the limited protection of the tent’s entryways. We managed, replaced the covers on our bags, zipped up the doors, and listened to the rain on the roof while we snacked in the comfort of our temporary home. It didn’t take us long to doze off, and we enjoyed a comfortable afternoon nap while we hoped for the storm to pass. When we woke up in the early evening, there was still a light drizzle falling. We continued to lounge, intermittently commenting to one another that we should probably hang the food in a tree but making no effort to do so (This is one of the many enduring jokes from the hike; whenever we tell the story of Bly Gap, we look at each other and say, as dispassionately as possible, “Dude, we should probably hang the food up.”). We did eventually hang the food as the sun was going down, and, after ensuring that everything else was prepared to pass the night, we once again retired to the tent.

 

It wasn’t anything abnormal for us to wake up several times throughout the night. Although we failed to acknowledge it at the time, Chandler was still jet lagged, and the ground was just downright uncomfortable. This night was different though. We woke to pitch blackness, something to which we were fairly accustomed at this point; but this time it was accompanied by heavy rain—particularly disconcerting in a tent that could cave in from above, whether solely from the force of the rain and wind or with the help of a falling tree branch (the kind that crushes cars), or flood from below at any moment—and the occasional flash of lightning, illuminating the tent as though it were midday for a moment before a resounding thunderclap. Having spent over a full year’s worth of nights comfortably indoors since then, even I now struggle to fully grasp the depth of the fear I felt that night; with that in mind, you can imagine how it would be that much more difficult to convey to another through writing. So I humbly ask that you would take my word (I’ve established credibility by this point, have I not?) and rest assured:

It was absolutely terrifying.

I’m almost certain that Chandler and I both lay there wide awake for a considerable amount of time, scared out of our wits but not wishing to take the chance of waking the other in an attempt to start a conversation. At long last, the silence was broken. We prayed.

We weren’t in any hurry the next day, having only a couple of miles to cover. I remember few specifics; I know it was a substantial amount of uphill hiking, we were constantly commenting on how much nicer the North Carolinian campsites seemed, and, though it was actually quite short, the mileage seemed to drag as we constantly anticipated reaching our destination. We did eventually arrive at Deep Gap, North Carolina. Once again with more time than we knew what to do with, we tried for the first time on our trip to start a campfire. We went through several boxes of matches, but ultimately failed. Chandler spent some time writing a paragraph about his disdain for hiking in the trail log there, and we eventually prepared to go to bed early; we were eager for morning, and Ron with it, to come.

At the recommendation of a much-more-knowledgeable friend, we had forgone sleeping bags and rather employed basic top sheets the entire trip. As our friend had pointed out, sleeping bags just weren’t necessary in a Georgian late July, and there was no reason to waste the weight and space carrying them. Thank goodness too, because if we had tried to pack them, I’m not sure we would’ve made it as far as the Hike Inn on day one. His advice had served us well all through the trip and we hadn’t given it a second thought; $5 Walmart bed sheets grew to seem like the only logical things to bring on such a trip, having kept us comfortably warm every night up to this point. On that last night in Deep Gap though, what had seemed all along like the forward-thinking choice of linens quickly turned to seem a horrible decision, possibly made in a temporary fit of madness. We slept even less than we had the night before, subjected to insomnia induced by the freezing cold. Ultimately resigned to the last of the punishment the forest decided to throw at us, we lay there, chilled to the bone, and waited for the sun to rise.