The Park Ranger parks his truck and steps over to my tent as gingerly as he could in his heavy boots. “Hello? Hey.” I poke my head out and look up to see him sporting the beige uniform of woodsy authority. The light behind him, dappled through the trees, is fading from gold to dark blue.
He stoops to see me, but comes no closer. “Didn’t want to scare you there, Miss. Headin’ home. You’re the only person in the park tonight. You all set? There should be a college student out here, ran into him this morning, high outta his mind.” He looks off into the woods. “Can’t find him now. Sure hope he doesn’t fall into a gorge.”
Just a few short weeks ago, I was sitting in the studio apartment I’d moved into following the breakup of my engagement. No, let me revise that: following my breakup of my engagement to a good man I realized didn’t want to marry. Life alone was strange and thrilling and confusing; four months into singledom, however, I had no idea what I was doing. I wanted to hit some kind of reset button. I’d run a marathon a few years before and loved to hike the LA mountains. The idea to go on a long hike occurred to me after talking to a friend about Cheryl Strayed’s account of her Pacific Crest Trail hike after her divorce. I loved to hike through the mountains around Los Angeles, but I also knew I didn’t want to hike for miles and miles like Strayed. Nevertheless, I wanted to be somewhere brand new, somewhere beautiful.
A few pages into Wild, I decided I was no more ill-prepared to venture into wilderness than Cheryl Strayed. I resolved to take a weeklong hike along the Appalachian Trail’s southern end, along the border between North Carolina and Tennessee. After airfare, I reasoned, the trip would be cheap, healthy, and give me confidence in my newly single life. What I did not count on when I bought the tickets was a government shutdown that closed down every single national park and thus prevented entry onto the trail. Undaunted and itchy to hike something, I flew out to Tennessee without much of a plan beyond camping by myself in a place I’d never been before.
Day One
My flight arrives in Knoxville, Tennessee. From from Tennessee I plan on driving to North Carolina and stopping at Gorges State Park, which has primitive camping (no showers, restrooms, or trailer spots) not far from the ranger station. Beyond that, I plan on doing day hikes at state parks until, hopefully, the national parks reopen and I can hit the Appalachian Trail.
The first thing I notice in Knoxville is orange, orange everywhere. The University of Tennessee colors and logos adorn everything from people to pets to the entire front window of a residential home. I am staying with my old friend Brian’s* parents, Mindy and John, before I head into the woods. I have heard many sweet stories from Brian about his parents and brothers; I picture a happy home with parents and family photos on the walls. My fiancé and I didn’t put family photos on the walls, but this only seemed odd to me after we had broken up. Mindy and John’s house—sweet and old, on a tree-lined street—is full of pictures. They cover the walls of the entryway, the upstairs hallways, even the bathroom. Mindy and John are lovely; they take me to dinner that first night, asking about my friend Brian, who’s the only one of their three sons to live farther than an hour away. I tell them Brian resembles both of them, and together their faces turn warm and break with laughter. Hungry for a home I don’t really have but spirits buoyed by these good middle-aged people, I feel my confidence swelling like music. I’m ready for the trail.
Day Two
I get up early, but Mindy is already up. She offers me coffee and granola bars. I tell her I will be back in five days to meet up with Brian, who’s coming home to visit from California. I drive across the border into North Carolina to Gorges State Park, named so after the river gorges hidden within. The park rangers take my camping fee and direct me to a path that leads into the woods. I hitch up my backpack and head down the trail, where it’s soundless but for the damp leaves underfoot. It’s warm for the middle of October, but the sun is low in the sky as I start to set up my tiny tent one-person tent. I sling the bag of granola bars and apples I have brought along over a tree branch to protect myself from nosy bears coming in my tent for food. I try to light a fire, but everything in North Carolina is wet; even the dry paper I stuff under the wood snuffs out after a moment or two. I give up on the idea of dinner and settle into my tent with a copy of Heart of Darkness I picked up at a thrift store on the way to the park. I feel like I am still playing with the idea being alone, reveling in the novelty of sleeping here in the dark in North Carolina, a move that feels so bold, in a state I’d never been to before.
Day Three
I wake up to the damp woods, get dressed, and hike out to my rental car. I have a two nights planned at the campground, but I want to explore the area. I drive to South Carolina just to say I did, and to get some hot food. It’s raining lightly as I walk through the trees at a small park near the border between the states. The drops fall on my plastic hood, drowning out all other sound with their patter. The air smells of wet leaves and bark. Midweek the park is empty, slightly dark, and full of chipmunks. (I will see many chipmunks on this trip, more than I ever have in my life.) I drive back to North Carolina and my little tent in the woods, listening to Christian rock on the radio. Maybe this would be a normal day if I lived here, I thought, perhaps not the camping part, but being out in nature. I would be used to these trees and roads. I’d take them for granted like I do the sunny days and beaches back in California. I won’t take this freedom for granted when I get back, I resolve.
Before returning to my campsite, I check in at the ranger station at Gorges. The ranger on duty tells me the national parks are open and I’m free to hit the Appalachian Trail if I wish.
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