Sunday, August 06, 2000
Hardships notwithstanding, adventure worth the effort
'Magic' trail reaches end

By MARK TAYLOR
The Roanoke Times

   You know what they say about first instincts.

    When 88-year-old Olen "Mountain Man" Waldrip, standing atop McAfee Knob on Friday afternoon, pointed at a distant, hazy ridge and said, "That's where you'll be tonight," my first thought was, "Yeesh. That's a long way."

    Then I thought about the distance. We faced a hike of less than seven miles to Tinker Cliffs. That wasn't too far, not relative to the miles photographer Mandi Wright and I had traveled since starting our 10-day biking, canoeing and hiking trip from Abingdon to Roanoke.

    I was right the first time. It was a long way.

    After filing our day nine report from McAfee, Mandi and I headed north on the Appalachian Trail. Our destination was the Lambert's Meadow shelter, about a mile beyond Tinker Cliffs. We would camp at the shelter for the night, hike nine miles to Daleville the next morning, then ride our bikes into Roanoke on Saturday afternoon to complete our adventure.

    Energized by lunch and the spectacular view from the knob, Mandi and I moved fast over the first few miles toward Tinker Cliffs. Then, as we began the climb to the peak, our too-heavy packs and ill-fitting boots began their all-out assault on our bodies. As we stepped gingerly through the softball-sized rocks littering the trail, our backpacks' straps dug into our shoulders and the packs' waist belts bruised our hips. The balls of our feet burned as blisters began forming.

    The view from the cliffs was as amazing as the vista from McAfee, with visitors able to gaze on valleys and ridges stretching to West Virginia.

    The distraction brought a temporary respite from the pain, but we couldn't afford to stay long. With about a mile yet to hike and darkness just more than an hour away, we reluctantly stepped back on the trail and began the descent to the Lambert's Meadow shelter. We staggered into camp about 8 p.m.

    The shelter wasn't as nice as those we'd seen earlier in the day, but it had a roof, which we figured we'd need when the inevitable rain hit.

    We hurried to set up before dark, which was quickly enveloping the steamy hollow. As I primed the camp stove on the site's table, I heard Mandi messing with a plastic tarp in the shelter. I turned to see what she what she was doing. She wasn't in the shelter, though. She was standing 20 feet away.

    I heard more rustling from under the wooden structure, set on a foundation about two feet off the ground.

    "We have company," I said.

    "I hope it's not a skunk," Mandi said.

    Whatever it was, it was scurrying around in a bunched-up piece of plastic tarp someone had stuffed under the shelter. I grabbed the edge of the plastic and slowly pulled it. The animal didn't come out with the tarp. Using my head lamp, I cautiously peered under the shelter. I saw a tail, then a body.

    We were sharing the shelter with a giant rat.

    "Rats are worse than skunks," Mandi said, grimacing.

    To keep out insects and rats, we set up our tents - without the rain flies - inside the shelter.

    Rodents scurried around the shelter that night. At least that's what Mandi said. I was too zonked to hear or care about anything.

    Saturday morning we awoke to sun. The only rain-free day of the trip had been our first on the trail.

    Would the trip end as it started?

    We packed up and readied for our last day of travel. We felt better than we had the night before, but the nine-mile hike out was going to be tough. Before we set out, I took a count of the Ibuprofen tablets left in our medical cache.

    "We have 25 left," I said.

    "That should be enough," Mandi said.

    It nearly wasn't.

    The route between the shelter and Daleville snaked along the ridge of Tinker Mountain. Peaking through the trees, we got nice views of Botetourt County to the north and Carvins Cove and Roanoke County to the south.

    The first few miles went OK, but soon our feet were burning. I stopped, took off my boots and cringed when I saw the half-dollar sized blisters forming on the balls of my feet.

    "I'm not even going to look at mine," Mandi said.

    Bad erosion along many sections of the trail didn't help our speed over the trail. During heavy rain, the trail turns into a stream, and when the waters leave, the trail itself resembles a steep and rocky streambed. A careless step could have easily led to a trip-ending ankle injury.

    After more than four hours of hiking along the ridge, we began to descend into Daleville. As we neared the end of the trail, the sound of sirens erupted on U.S.220. It was a sound we hadn't heard for more than nine days.

    With even more respect for Appalachian Trail thru-hikers, who routinely cover 20 miles a day, we staggered into the parking lot at the Bank of Fincastle. We found a spot of shade under a small tree, took off our packs, sat down and agreed the 20-mile hike was the hardest leg of the trip.

    We were met in Daleville by friends who delivered our bikes and cold drinks. After a quick lunch we got back onto the bikes for what would be a quick ride into downtown Roanoke.

    After two days of slow trudging, it felt great to be back on bikes. We flew down Cloverdale Road at speeds reaching 30 mph. Then a truck driving the other direction pulled a U-turn in front of us and pulled to the side of the road. A man neither of us recognized jumped out holding two bottles of cold Gatorade.

    "I thought I might see you out here," said Jimmy Parr of Eagle Rock. "It's so hot I figured you might need these."

    We thanked him and pedaled on, turning west onto U.S. 460. We soon left the busy road, making our way toward downtown on smaller, quieter roads.

    As we drew nearer to Roanoke, I tuned out the sights, sounds and smells of civilization and thought about the trip Mandi and I were about to complete. We had ridden our bikes 231 miles, canoed 30 miles and hiked 20 miles. We even rode horses for 12 miles, though that trip didn't bring us any closer to home.

    I thought about the challenges we had faced along the way. The seemingly constant thunder, lightning and rain. The biting dogs. The stinging bees. The bad freeze-dried camp food. The wrong turns. The shelter rats.

    I also thought about the good things, which so heavily outweighed the bad. The people like Jimmy Parr who had come briefly into our lives, some offering tangible gifts, most offering simple kindness.

    I'd heard Appalachian Trail hikers talk about "trail magic," but I never quite understood. Now I did.

    It had been a long and tough journey, but it had been a magic trail.

    As we pedaled down Salem Avenue in downtown Roanoke, I looked skyward and realized we'd been given one final gift.

    The sun was still shining.

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