“Hike the AT in the Grayson Highlands, you’ll see the wild ponies, too,” said a fellow backpacker we met at North Carolina shelter. Three months later in early August, my then-husband Bill and I headed to the AT in southwestern Virginia not far from the Tennessee border. Our first afternoon presented us with two surprises. The first was a plant called Doll’s Eyes, more appropriately named Alien Eyeballs because clusters of white, bulbous fruits with prominent black “irises” leered at us from skinny red spines as if they had dropped from outer space to study us like experiments when we walked by. Our second surprise was the feral, Chincoteague-like ponies that we had not expected until the next day, but a small herd pressed hard upon our heels, despite the presence of our dog, Koah, a 70-pound, Shepherd-Husky mix. One particularly aggressive pony, perhaps the alpha, chased Bill around and around a large tree while I hastily dug out carrot treats from my pack. When I succeeded, I whistled to the pony, waved a carrot, released Bill from his circular captivity, and apparently calmed the ponies as they, too, came to much on the goodies I guardedly offered.
That night we camped in the Grayson Highlands State Park, a mile-and-a-half off the AT in the days before a shelter was built close to the trail. In the campground we stood out—we had arrived on foot, the others having arrived by car, truck, or RV; and our small, lightweight backpacking tent contrasted sharply with the palatial tents and solid campers. We overheard the occupants of a neighboring site say, “Can you believe the two of them and that big dog are going to get in that little thing?” In the gray mist of the evening, the remnant of a short shower, we enjoyed our walk around the campground to take in the variety of set ups, including one RV that had a string of Christmas lights outlining its awning. One man’s distinct regional accent caught our attention because no vowel sounded in a way that we were used to hearing. Amazed, we repeated one of his statements back and forth, slowly at first for the sake of accuracy, and then we noted it somewhat phonetically when we returned to our campsite: “Ah kin git enuhthang ah wont.” We imagined a conversation between him and some of my Scottish relatives, shook our heads, and concluded, “We would have ‘a failure to communicate.’”
The next morning bright sunshine and warm temperatures met us for our traverse across the open highlands and a fourteen-mile day. We oo’ed and ah’ed over the Wilburn Ridge because it truly reminded us of Scotland—barren hills, season scrubby ground cover, massive rock outcroppings, all with an aura of mystery that seemed to invite a closer look. Along a dirt track in a mountain meadow more ponies approached: some were black, some tan, some had foals beside them. Ready with our bag of carrots, we fed them even as they nudged Bill’s pockets. Chuckling with delight, we continued on the path, ascending steadily through the open expanse towards the featured that the guide book called “rocky cliffs,” a looming cluster of boulders topping the mountain The head of the day climbed, too.
At the ridge, we sighed with relief as we passed into the shady tunnel of rhododendron that funneled us to the rocks themselves. Would we be hiking around the rocks or clamber over them from an as yet undisclosed point? Neither. In front of us was a boulder with the unmistakable white AT blaze next to a narrow A-frame opening. We were to go through the rock. And we did—twisting and turning to slide sideways bearing our packs while carefully stepping over large stones underfoot, following the blazes and occasional white arrow, making sure not to crack our heads on the rock walls inches away. With big smiles we emerged on the other side of what we later learned bore the name “Fat Man’s Squeeze.” We crossed more sparsely covered land and passed around more boulders until we came upon a new shelter, so new that it did not yet appear on a map or in a guide book. With day having heated up significantly, we decide to top up our water bottles at the shelter’s spring, but to our dismay the spring had all but gone dry, nothing more than a glorified mud puddle. I assessed our water situation and was confident we would have plenty because the map indicated three more springs along the way as well as a spring two-tenths of mile beyond a public picnic ground near the mountain top where we planned to camp for the night.
Into the early afternoon the trail took us either into a wide open landscape where the sun beat on us directly or into the woods where the humidity pressed on us more heavily. Climbing the shoulder of Mount Rogers, Virginia’s highest peak, brought no thrill. Up we went through a portion of Virginia’s tedious “green tunnel,” boring by comparison with the earlier excitements of the ponies and boulders. With sweat-soaked psyches, we decided against the mile-long side trip to the viewless summit. Our mood had declined as the elevation rose. Usually going down a mountain improves one’s attitude, but upon reaching Deep Gap on the south side of the mountain mine did not improve when I saw that the spring was nothing more than a most spot in the ground. “Oh great,” I thought sarcastically and began to worry. “This does not bode well.”
Though Bill and I had wonderful views as we walked through more highland-like scenery of the Mount Rogers National Recreation Area and crossed the picturesque gap at Elk Garden, the springs were drips at best. The temperature had risen through the day into the upper 80s, pushing 90, and walking up and down mountains in such exposed terrain necessitated that we drink plenty of the water we carried. I hoped the spring a half mile before our campsite would be better than the ones we had seen because I knew that we had just enough to get us to our destination. I had planned to fill up at that spring for the night and the beginning of the next day.
Before we reached the spring, however, we had to ascend the better part of Whitetop Mountain, nearly 1,000’ of partially switchbacked trail over two-and-a-quarter miles, all of it at the end of the day. We trudged up the trail concerned for our dog, too, because we knew he needed water. Alas, the spring was not much more than a seep of damp moss with a tiny pool which we allowed Koah to drink instead of us. We totaled up how much water we had in our bottles and knew this meant only a sip or two the rest of the way. Up we went the last steep half mile.
To our astonishment when we popped out at the top into a large parking area, several men with trucks and impressive radio equipment had set up near the picnic area, members of an amateur “ham” radio club. I approached them, engaged in conversation about how well they knew the area (which they did as I expected), and asked about the location of the spring supposedly another two-tenths of a mile beyond, explaining the dry springs we had passed and our need for water. They returned my question with puzzled looks. No spring was nearby to their knowledge except the one we had passed. Each of them kindly gave us some of their own dwindling supply which we gratefully received, amounting to a liter. After thanking the men profusely, Bill, Koah, an di walked on a few yards to the edge of the parking lot where halted to assess our fairly dire situation.
Together we had one-and-a-half liters of water—not bad if were not planning to cool supper and give Koah water. Another spring lay 2.5 miles beyond, but that walk involved a steep descent to go with our already fourteen wearying miles, and it was now 6pm. We might reach the next place by 7:30 as night fell. But what if that spring were dry and we were further exhausted? Should we risk it or choose rest and recovery? If we decided not to go on, what would we do for supper? After a full day of hiking, hunger was real. Any AT hiker will tell you that food is one of the most discussed and dreamed about subjects on the trail. We could swap the next day’s lunch for this night’s supper, though we would still be hungry because we did not eat as much at lunch, snaking through the day and eating big at night. In the morning at the spring or even later where we would definitely find water in a creek, we could halt to cook an unusually large dinner-breakfast, then at lunch eat our breakfast oatmeal, and hike replenished from there to a shelter for the night, and be back on schedule. It might be tough going at first, but if we started early in the cool of the day, and knowing that water awaited, we could do it. We nodded in resigned agreement: lunch for supper, then rest.
The trail wound through a magnificent mountain meadow that beckoned us to tent in its wild, calf-high grass. Half a mile in the distance a lone stony outcropping kept watch, ominously called Buzzard Rock. We lumbered down the path keeping our eye out for a spring “just in case.” Though we did not come upon a spring, we found a beautiful spot to pitch our tent with a 270-degree view of the mountains. The sky was clear and the glow of the evening settled. Now that our water was limited all I wanted to do was drink, not surprising after a day of physical exertion and sweating. I walked away a good distance to relieve myself, stepping around or over the banker’s box-size rocks hidden beneath the tall grass.
As I returned, I worried about the limited amount of water we had. We would have to give Koah the major portion, the better part of a liter. Could we get by with half a liter or a little less? I had to admit it was dodgy, and to be honest, unsafe. “Stupid, heatwave,” I grumbled. Then I tripped. The toe of my boot caught a hidden rock and I stumbled. Regaining my balance, I looked down and could hardly believe my eyes. In the depression of a rock, I saw a Gatorade bottle filled with water. When I picked it up, it felt cool and water was clear. I darted to Bill through the grass, skipping over and around the rocks, pumping the bottle in the air like a trophy. “Look, look!” I shouted. Almost stunned he asked, “Where did you find that?!” “In a rock,” I answered. “Well, I’ll be!” he exclaimed. We burst out laughing, giddy with joy. After momentary consideration about the safety of the water, we decided to re-purify it and use it to cook a more substantial supper of oatmeal—breakfast rather than lunch for supper. We easily had almost a liter of water left even after giving Koah a hearty drink.
Over a mushy dinner we speculated about the bottle of water. If it had been left intentionally for a thirsty hiker, someone had left it in the strangest of places. The spot was so far off the trail, it baffled me how anyone could have thought a passing hiker might find it. In case someone had accidentally left it behind, I felt sorry for that person because it meant that hiker had not only forgotten the water but also no longer had a bottle. Finding the bottle reminded me of a peculiar turn of events at my church in Alexandria, Virginia a few years earlier when we suddenly found ourselves possessing a fine harpsichord we had only dreamed about, the possibility being so outrageously remote. Our choir director had quipped that such an instrument would be “the harpsichord from God.” Imagine our surprise when “the harpsichord from God” appeared in our sanctuary in time for Easter music rehearsals, the unlikely gift not even of a church member but a church neighbor! Sitting on that mountain meadow, I half-joked, “Behold! ‘The water from God.’”
But the laugh was on me. As the tiny biblical parallel unfolded, I smacked the heel of my hand against my forehead and rolled my eyeballs over how dull I had been. I said to Bill, “This is water from a rock!” I recalled to him the story of how the Hebrews, while wandering in the wilderness en route to the promised land after the Exodus from Egypt, wound up camping at a waterless place; how they had complained that they were going to die of thirst and tested God to the point of threatening Moses within an inch of his life; how God told Moses to take his staff and strike a rock; how water came out of the rock and the people drank. Although I had not blamed God, Bill, or our dog for our shortage of water like the Hebrews blamed Moses and God, I had become burdensome company to myself and Bill because of my anxiety over water as the day had worn on. Bill had not been exactly thrilled about our shortage of water either. While it is true that God did not tell me to hit the rock, I “struck” my boot against it, and when I looked, instantly there was water for us at the waterless campsite. I hoped that our having groused at times through the day would not be held against us as it was against that generation of Hebrews whom God prohibited from entering the promised land of Canaan, because in a quirky switch of biblical geography, we planned to end our trip two days later in the famous trail town of Damascus (Virginia), neither dangerously dehydrated, nor like St. Paul, blind.
That night well we slept well, secure that we had just enough water to reach the next source. Early in the morning, we packed up quickly, munched snacks, fed Koah, drank what water was left, and headed off down the path in the cool of the day. An hour-and-a-quarter later, we found ample water at the next spring where we ate a hearty chicken noodle breakfast while sitting against a large boulder and under the shade of the surrounding trees. Fortified, we trekked on uneventfully and arrived at our shelter in the mid-afternoon with enough time to find the spring, relax, read, and make notes before moving into our evening drill. The next day, we completed our hike well hydrated, happily following the white blazes into Damascus and seeing just fine.