Musings from the Trail: Through the Lens of a Long-Season Ridgerunner on the Appalachian Trail in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park

Hitch #8 — South Section | April 10–13, 2025

I often share a few highlights about my “hitches” (what my 4-day patrols on the Appalachian Trail are called), usually as blog posts or captions in the photos I share. But this hitch is one for the books—and it deserves a whole page to itself. The intensity of it was heightened by the 24-hour search and rescue operation I’d just been involved in the weekend prior.

The wind began to pick up as I opted for a shortcut to the Mt. Collins Shelter for cleaning and maintenance. Weather was coming, and I wanted to move quickly. My next destination was Mount Kuwohi (formerly known as Clingman’s Dome), the highest point on the AT, in Tennessee and the Smokies, at 6,644 feet.

After unseasonably warm weather and extreme thunderstorms the previous weekend, the sudden wet, cold snap felt especially uncomfortable. In 24 hours, the ridgeline experienced high winds, lows dropping into the 20s, thunder-sleet, snow, freezing rain, and an apocalyptic hailstorm.

It began thunder-sleeting as I summited Kuwohi, and I quickly passed the side trails leading to the tower. I arrived at Double Springs Shelter not long before lightning and nickel-sized hail descended upon the metal roof, creating a roar unlike anything you can imagine.

Later that evening, a family of eight thru-hikers showed up—mom, dad, and six children ranging from 7 to 13—all thru-hiking the AT. Not being around many children in my life, I initially felt uneasy about so many kids right next to me while I was trying to get much-needed sleep in the shelter. Mom and dad bravely set up their tent outside despite the wild weather we’d just experienced.

However, my fears were unwarranted. These kids were very well-behaved, polite, and clearly having the time of their lives. Well… maybe not that day, but they all seemed happy and were doing well. It was extraordinary, and I’m grateful I got to camp with them.

The next morning, we awoke to find two hikers in a tent who had arrived late the night before. One of them was a very sick hiker, that officially became my first suspected Norovirus case encountered this season.

Norovirus is a virus greatly feared by all who linger among long trails.. It’s spread by contact with feces or vomit and can spread like wildfire in places with high concentrations of people. Let’s face it—we hikers are dirty and gross. Proper handwashing (away from the water source, please!) is often underutilized and sometimes hard to achieve. Hand sanitizer has become the easiest go-to for feeling clean—along with wipes and other hygiene products that offer the illusion of cleanliness. But unfortunately, hand sanitizer does not kill Norovirus. Handwashing with biodegradable soap is the only effective way to eliminate it.

As rescue operations unfolded, the sick hiker was safely evacuated by our incredible search and rescue team. Fortunately, it turned out to be an isolated case—he had just arrived on trail via shuttle that afternoon and had not spent the night in the shelter. After that matter was successfully resolved, I headed for Derrick Knob. The weather continued to deteriorate. Thunder-sleet gave way to freezing rain and the occasional giant snowflakes. It was the oddest weather… it just kept changing into something else.

Having been too hot in my summer sleeping bag just days earlier, it felt surreal to be thrust back into winter in such an extreme fashion. I was cold every night, even after switching back to my standard extreme-weather gear. Being wet and cold all day felt extra harsh.

When I arrived at the shelter, there were already many wet, grumpy hikers present. Everyone suddenly loves the shelter when the weather turns difficult. And when the sun is shining, I’m constantly reminding hikers of the park’s regulations about shelter use and tenting—rules designed to protect this special land and promote sustainable impact to survive the growing popularity of hiking. We are loving our trails to death.

It was a rowdy crowd that night, and for the first time in my eleven months so far on the trail as a Ridgerunner in the Smokies, I felt unwelcome among some less-than-friendly folks. I instantly knew I didn’t want to stay in the shelter, even though I’d been hoping for a spot all day.

So I marched out into the freezing rain and set up my tent—driven by a desperate desire to be in dry clothes and climb into my warm sleeping bag. The process of entering a soggy tent and attempting to separate any dry items from the saturated pile of rain gear and clothing on the floor… is an unpleasant chore. (Didn’t I pack an extra bandana somewhere?!?) You just dig in and get ‘er done, because sometimes, time is of the essence.

But when I am laying in my warm sleeping bag, finally in those dry thermals, happily on top of my air mattress in my tent, damp, or not, it feels like a most comforting and victorious moment that compares to almost nothing. And gratefully, the next day was forecasted to be dry, but still cold and windy.

Once I began walking—and slowly drying out and warming up—the immense beauty around me renewing my spirits and jolting me out of survival mode for a moment here and there. Every limb and every leaf was embellished with wind-whipped ice, turning the sides of the trail into a fairytale backdrop from an enchanted realm. It’s hard to remain miserable when presented with such breathtaking wonder.

I finally arrived at my happy place—spending my last night on trail at my favorite shelter. It captivates me every time I’m there, in every season. I’ve had magical wildlife encounters, met inspiring people, and found a favorite spot to sit and watch the sunset over the mountains when the weather is kind. It’s a perfect place to end a hitch.

This time, as I returned from cleaning the privy, I saw a tree suddenly fall. I ran, yelling, “Hey! We don’t cut trees down!” We then had a thorough conversation about what Leave No Trace calls appropriate firewood—dead and downed wood, no larger than your wrist. Standing dead trees are homes to countless creatures and food for many more. They’re a vital part of the ecosystem—not standing firewood. It made me feel sad as I looked at the stump just a short distance from the front of the shelter. I quickly finished my chores and got ready to happily retire to my tent, as the shelter was once again overflowing with hikers.

The next morning, on my way back to my car, I thought the less than desirable circumstances surely had ended and I would have a nice, sunshiney walk out of the park.  But then I rounded a bend and found two people illegally camped right beside the trail—one of whom I remembered from last year (also camping illegally, without a permit). Although I could tell he remembered me too, he claimed he didn’t know he needed one… which, of course, wasn’t true.

Not thirty minutes later, I encountered a group of day hikers—one of whom had a dog. I kindly explained that dogs aren’t allowed on trails in the park and that he’d have to return to the trailhead. He nodded and said he’d go tell his group, who were a short way ahead. I watched as he suddenly took off—assuming I wouldn’t pursue. Seriously? This is how people behave? What happened to doing the right thing? What happened to being honest?

I was tired.
I felt grumpy and disheartened by human behavior, mumbling under my breath as I tried desperately to summon compassion and keep a smile on my face.

I made my way to the ranger station to report all the chaos (dare I blame it on the full moon??)—and it felt like such a relief to speak with another park professional about everything I’d encountered. I sat in my car—soaking in the electric heat and cushy seat for a long while before pulling out of the parking lot. The luxury of sitting in a car—something I so often take for granted—was my greatest comfort after such an intense weekend.

I ask for grace and ease in the next hitch. I trust that all experiences happen for my highest good. And with each extraordinary encounter, I gain valuable knowledge and wisdom.

But then again, it’s easy to say that now… sitting on my porch, in yet another luxurious chair, tea cup in hand, admiring the blue sky and the green mountains in the distance…