Loving NE Georgia: A Backpacker’s Tale (Part 5)

After Ralph and Jay dropped me off I donned my bulging pack and headed down Glore Rd, trying to be quiet and invisible. It was like entering another world. The road was deeply rutted from the passage of countless four wheel drives and years of rain; in places the road was ten to fifteen deeper than the surrounding landscape, giving the illusion of being in a tunnel. Trees formed a canopy overhead, blocking the sun and providing a shady, cool oasis. It had recently rained, and everything glistened with moisture.

My back protested with each step I took, yet I kept going, intent on getting as far away from civilization as possible. My earlier experiences in the mountains of Oregon had taught me how to “disappear” into the forest; if no one knows you are there, they can’t hurt you. I was worried about what Ralph had said regarding the possibility of stumbling upon someone’s moonshine operation or secret pot field, but figured that once I got to Toccoa Creek, I could find a place off the road to make camp.

Photo by James P. Blair (Available at Allposters.com)

I walked by several turtles, some with shells nearly a foot long, whom I assumed were laying eggs in the muddy red clay. Several times I came upon clusters of swallowtail butterflies that gathered in groups from two to six, intent upon some mating ritual that I could only wonder about. Abundant red headed Woodpeckers ravaged the trees with an incessant knocking sound and a couple of startled wild turkeys took flight as I stumbled down the path. Three times I had to wade through tributaries of Toccoa Creek as they flooded across the rutted road. Little fish fled terrorized from the shallows to cover as I crossed.  

I’ve measured it since; it was less than three miles – (but I would have sworn it was closer to six!), before, to my dismay, I came to a blacktop road. I walked a short ways in both directions; there were no houses or anything in sight. Red blazes around a few trees, accompanied by little signs, confirmed that I was in national forest. I back tracked away from the road, found a likely place, and set up camp.

One of the biggest problems with backpacking is that it’s very difficult to carry enough food. I did my research before leaving, and even tried to believe that one of my little packages of rice and seasoning, combined with a small tin of chicken, would be enough for dinner. It did make a nice snack, but my body was craving protein in much larger quantities. It was obvious that my two weeks of food would last no more than one. 

That night, about two hours before sunset, I sat by my campfire, having just finished my second dinner, when I heard a dog bark. I thought it curious, as I was pretty sure there were no houses or anything nearby, but I was much more concerned about blisters on my feet and the blazing pain in my lower back, so I paid it little attention. Suddenly a pack of seven dogs came tearing around the corner and into my camp.

Snarling Dog

The Alpha, some type of terrier, charged within a few feet of me, snarling and growling. The others waited behind him, looking as if they were just waiting for an excuse to charge. All were barking, snarling, growling. I looked around me; not a stick or rock or anything within reach. The Alpha took another step closer and crouched down, as if preparing to attack. I did the only thing I could think of: I jumped up, throwing my hands into the air in what I hoped was a menacing gesture, and screamed. “ArrrrrrgggggH!” The dog pack fell back a couple of paces. I noticed that some of them wore collars, and they all looked well fed. I began to rethink my assumption that this was a pack of wild dogs. Just then a woman’s voice called out, and I saw a tall blonde woman come along the road. “Sorry! Sorry!” she called to me, while calling to the dogs in Swedish. She hurriedly walked past my camp, continuing to call the dogs (which didn’t seem to be listening) in that other language. Once she passed, the dogs followed. I sat back down, trembling, while I listened to the gentle murmur of the nearby stream, the winds wafting through the trees, and my heart pounding in my ears. 

That was not to be my only scare of the day. 

After dark, I climbed into my tent for the second night of my journey and fell fast asleep. It was about midnight when I heard a roar of machinery. I leapt out of my sleeping bag and unzipped my tent just in time to see a 4 WD pickup literally in the air as it careened down the rugged road. By the scattered light I could see someone standing in the back, rifle in hand. Their horn sounded the rebel charge, and in a blink they were gone.  

I stayed there for a couple of weeks, and during that time nocturnal four wheel drives frequently came charging down the road. The old, unkempt road was so bad, I would have thought it impassable to any vehicle, but nevertheless, almost every night one or two vehicles went by in one direction or another.

During the following week I realized my food situation was critical. Worse, I had already burned through most of my money, and I had serious doubts about how I was going to make it to the next month. 

I spent the days hiking along the various old roads and trails that ran through the forest here. Most were overgrown roads that just abruptly ended in the middle of nowhere. One led to a little cemetery with three graves from the 1800’s.  There were huge mounds of blackberries bushes anywhere the sun managed to get through the forest, and I ate them by the handfuls. Several times while hiking I came across large cat prints in the mud, and looking for snakes with every step became second nature. I quickly learned to always carry at least three liters of water; it really sucked to run out on top of a mountain, far from any streams!

To bathe I used the hydration pack in my backpack (some call it a water camel) hung from a tree after letting it lie in the sun a couple of hours to warm up. There was something about the soap or shampoo that always attracted yellow jackets, and it’s amazing how intimidating one little bee can become when you’re stark naked! (Face it: there are some places you don’t want to be stung!)



I spent all day just to end about a mile from where I started from!
(Blue is portion hiked, Red with Ralph, Green hiked from Glore Rd)



My food dwindled at an unsustainable rate, and even though I tried to ration it, it was obvious it would be out soon. I had less than ten dollars, and I was losing a lot of weight.  

Loving NE Georgia: A Backpacker’s Tale (Part 3)

Toccoa, GA

                It was about seven on a Sunday morning, the air was cool, and I had gotten more chilled on the train, so I was eager to go into the lobby and warm up; unfortunately, this station was currently unmanned and there was no one around. I did find a little heated waiting room, complete with rest rooms, and spent a few minutes warming up and trying to reorganize my pack (my bed roll kept coming undone). I only had one stop to make, and that was at, what I thought, was a Wal-Mart so close to the station I should be able to see it. Sadly, as I walked in widening circles around Toccoa, I could not find it. 

                I had checked Google Maps before I left, and according to that, there was a Wal-Mart less than a couple of blocks away; what I didn’t know was that it had been relocated to a site four and half miles away since. Luckily, I ended up on the right road and even going in the right direction, but I was already exhausted, my shoulders ached, and each step with my pack was becoming more and more of an effort, especially on the hilly parts.

                One can only guess what people driving by in their cars thought as I struggled up the road, panting like a choo-choo train, sweat pouring off my face, hair tangled and matted. The sun came up strong, and the temperature rose quickly. A car stopped at a red light, and I desperately motioned for the driver to roll down her window. She did, and I asked for directions.

Mellissa S,
Toccoa, GA

                “Well, I’m going there too!” she replied. “Want a ride?” I gratefully accepted, shrugging off my pack and wedging it into the back seat while trying to wipe the sweat from my eyes.

                Mellissa Spencer, my benefactor, was a lab technician at a nearby hospital just on her way home from work – she was the first of many people who have stunned me with their kindness. She not only took me to the Wal-Mart, but she waited for me, too! By now, my money was about one third of what I thought I would have, so I hurriedly bought about half of my list of “necessities,” just figuring I’d have to do without the rest (there are necessities, and then there are really necessities). Mellissa and I headed out -- at long last I was on the final leg on my journey to the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest! 

  

Panther Creek, GA

                We talked on the way, she graciously offering to take me all the way there, saving me about eight miles of hiking. She told me about her husband and family; I asked her about fishing in this area. She mentioned that her husband always went to Panther Creek, and that he always did well; he liked to use a white rooster tail. She explained that it was probably a better place to go then what I had planned, which was to start out at Toccoa Reservoir, and then hiking up Highway 17 to US 441, eventually to Rabun Lake, Seed Lake, and Burton Lake.  After, I would circle around to the beginning of the Appalachian Trail, once the weather cooled towards the end of summer. Hopefully I would be able to enjoy some of the fabled Georgia trout fishing, once I had enough for a license. (I didn’t know it then, but there were several issues with that plan). With a disconcerted, worried look in her eyes, offering again to take me to Panther Creek, she dropped me off. Of course, I refused her kind offer, hanging on resolutely to “The Plan.” I have to admit, she really touched my heart with her laughter and kindness; turns out that maybe my brain was touched too, because “The Plan” immediately fell apart. 

Toccoa Reservoir, Toccoa, GA

                For one thing, I was expecting this to be in wilderness; after all, it was surrounded by National Forest, but it wasn’t very wild. There was a golf course on one side of the lake and a store on the corner. A gate led to a road that went a short distance along the wooded side of the lake, and I bypassed this, found a likely camping spot near the water, and set up camp. That afternoon and evening it slowly sunk into my understanding that this was, after all, a reservoir, the City of Toccoa’s water supply, and probably I shouldn’t be camping there. (It turns out that the local police often chased homeless people away from here). 

                To make matters worse, it had begun to rain heavily, and I discovered that there were ticks everywhere! Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands, perhaps, all waiting at the top of every weed and blade of grass there was. (One got in my hair and dug into my skull, where it apparently lived quite happily for over two weeks until I was finally able to get it removed). Though I had no license yet, I did fish a bit, and spent a large amount of my limited remaining funds in the nearby store, buying bread, eggs, night-crawlers and so forth. Otherwise, the night passed without event.

                I broke camp early the next morning, wanting to get out of there before I garnered any unwanted attention. My gear was wet from the rain, but I painstakingly packed up my dripping, muddy tent, managed to get everything back in my pack, and hit the road.

Loving NE Georgia: A Backpacker’s Tale (Part 2)

Into the Frying Pan

 

Jacksonville Greyhound Bus Station at Night.
(Courtesy of The Times Union)

Without fanfare, I was dropped at a friend’s business only three miles from the Greyhound Bus Station on June 2nd, where I spent the night sleeping on the floor. Early in the morning I hiked from there to the bus station, where I accumulated my first layer of sweat, despite the relative low temperature of 70 ° F. I nervously waited outside the door watching the night people and the homeless chatter back and forth, handing out more than a few cigarettes in the process, and thankfully, not getting mugged.

The bus was filled with bored, sleepy people, as it wound its way up the Interstate and then through scenic coastal South Carolina. I felt numb, but when I dozed my dreams were filled with beautiful mountain forests, dancing streams, sparkling campfires, and lunker trout.

I got off the bus in Clemson, SC early that evening and had until morning to find the Amtrak station.  It was to be more challenging than I expected. I asked at the Greyhound how to get there (my cell phone was unable to get on the web), and a harried employee casually pointed me in the direction. With great difficulty I donned my pack and headed off in the pointed direction, immediately beginning to sweat in the 75 degree temperature. The street I understood to follow ended abruptly.

I thought Clemson was a beautiful city, but I couldn’t find anyone who actually lived there to clarify the directions, although I asked literally dozens of people. The station was only a mile distant, but I must have walked five times that. I kept walking, looking, while the straps of the pack – which I hadn’t figured out how to adjust correctly – began to cut painfully into my shoulders. After an hour, my legs trembled with each step, and I was bathed in perspiration. All this, and I hadn’t even got near a hiking trail yet! A local cop shadowed my travel, cruising by at a slow speed every few minutes. I began to worry, a little, about making this trip. 

Finally, after a couple of hours, I found the Amtrak station and shivered through the night with my only clothing choice being shorts and a tank top (I had left everything else behind for lack of space). Someone said it was almost 50°F by morning. I did meet some nice folks though, and we talked with one couple while watching some birds trying to teach their young to fly. The train arrived on schedule, and I was on my way.

Amtrak Station - Toccoa, GA

I watched through the windows during the short trip, growing more and more excited as each mountain side and patch of forest we traveled by revealed itself under an occasional street lamp as I strained to make out details in the predawn greyness and morning fog. 

My earlier trepidation vanished. 

Dawn broke as I arrived at the Amtrak station.