Great Smoky Mountains

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park gets 12 million visitors a year. Almost none of them go backcountry. This is either a great tragedy or the best-kept secret in the eastern US — I can't decide which.

I entered at Newfound Gap and didn't see a paved road for five days.

The First Day's Climb

The AT out of Newfound Gap climbs immediately and doesn't apologize for it. Within two miles I was above the tourist layer — above the parking lots, the visitors centers, the families eating sandwiches by their cars — and into the green cathedral of the high Smokies.

The forest up here is spruce-fir, a relic of the last ice age, fragile and magnificent. In June, the rhododendrons were at peak. Every switchback felt like turning a page.

There's a quality of attention that only comes when you're carrying everything you need. You notice things differently.

The Storm on Night Two

Nobody warned me how fast weather moves in the Smokies. Or maybe they did and I forgot.

I was halfway through setting up camp when the sky darkened from the west — not gradually, the way it does in the city, but suddenly, like someone pulling a shade. Twenty minutes later I was inside the shelter listening to thunder bounce between ridgelines and rain hammer the metal roof, warm and dry and unreasonably pleased with myself.

Charlies Bunion

Day four took me to Charlies Bunion, a rocky outcrop on the state line ridge with an exposure that makes you remember you're a small animal on a large planet. The Appalachian Valley spread north and south. On a clear day you can see into seven states. I sat there long enough that a raven landed three feet from me and stared with the frank curiosity of a creature that has no reason to fear anything.

I'll come back in October for the color. The Smokies in fall must be something else entirely.