Questionable Campsites/lodgings
If you spend enough time on the Appalachian Trail, eventually you will find yourself in a situation where you must camp somewhere that is not exactly what you hoped for, but just happens to be where you ended up. This section tells the story of some of those places that hikers have ended up camping at and either ended up quite spectacular, not what they thought, or at times maybe even downright dangerous.
The following are excerpts from the book "Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike" by John Gignilliat
CAMPING NEAR ROADS
We had hoped to make it to the next shelter, but the pizza delivered to Mount Rogers Park Headquarters had made us logy. Instead, we decided to find a campsite four miles up the trail by a forest road. My only concern was the idea of camping by a road, something we always tried to avoid. I was even more concerned when a hiker coming from the other direction told us it looked like a party spot for locals. After he continued on his way, Carol commented, “How would he know?”
Her question was answered when we reached our proposed campsite. We walked past a soggy blanket with two beer cups nearby. One was half full and had a condom floating in it. The area was littered with broken beer, wine, and whiskey bottles and there was trash everywhere. Near the road there were two huge fire rings ten feet in diameter that looked big enough to burn whole trees. Yes, this definitely looked like a party spot, and here we were on Memorial Day weekend.
DAVIS FARM CAMPSITE
After a short stop, we continued on for five miles along Chestnut Ridge. It again became hot and humid when we got away from the exposed knob, and we found the rough and rocky ridge difficult hiking. We stopped on the trail for dinner and were soon passed by Lady Bug and Rain Man. They told us they were heading for Davis Farm Campsite. It required an extra half hour climb down a side trail, but we decided to join them there for the evening. They went on ahead while we finished our dinner. When we started up again, we found that the early morning climb and the heat had sapped our strength. It was with much relief that we reached a double blue blaze marking the trail to the campsite. There was a note from Rain Man in a plastic baggie confirming that this was the way.
The trail was a steep descent with switchbacks, loose rocks, and stinging nettles. When we reached the “campsite,” we quickly realized that our guide book listed this site in the singular rather than the plural. The location was a small dirt ledge built out from the side of the ridge with enough room to pitch one tent comfortably. The couple from Quebec already had their huge tent set up, and Lady Bug and Rain Man were in the process of pitching theirs in what little space remained. Rain Man seemed to think there was enough space to squeeze in behind their tent. Being exhausted, we elected to stay rather than hike back up all those switchbacks to find a campsite further down the trail. We had our tent stakes practically in Lady Bug and Rain Man's tent and our feet would be literally hanging over the ledge, but we were able to squeeze in. We made friends with the couple from Quebec, although their limited English made communication difficult. They were both about our age (forties), who had owned and operated a motel in Quebec. I was amazed that they both smoked Pall Mall non-filter cigarettes while they hiked, then shared a cigar every night when they stopped.
We sat by the edge of our tent looking out over the picturesque, farm-filled valley nestled down below. The campsite was halfway down Chestnut Ridge, and we were looking across the valley and over the farms at a parallel ridge with the sun sinking behind it. The view was almost too pretty to be real. As soon as the sun set, the twilight bugs chased us all into our tents.
HIKING IN THE DARK
We hiked on in the oppressive heat. After coming to a highway, we crossed over and were greeted with a large sign attached to continuous barb wire topped chain-link fence. It stated in bold letters: EXOTIC ANIMAL BREEDING AREA / ABSOLUTELY NO CAMPING / VIOLATORS WILL BE EATEN. We found out later that this area was the breeding grounds for the National Zoo in Washington, DC. The tongue-in-cheek addition to the warning sign along with several suspicious looking holes dug under the fence convinced us to obey the no camping rule.
Checking our data book, we found out that there was a primitive campground four miles up the trail. We had no choice but to try and make this campsite by nightfall. After two of the four miles, darkness began to fall over the woods like a heavy dark pall. We could not view the sun setting, but it was becoming harder and harder to see the trail. We reached the cutoff trail to the campground in almost total darkness. We quickly hung our food out of the reach of critters and set up our tent using Carol's headlamp flashlight (an indispensable piece of gear). The spring was only a short distance from the campsite, and we drank our fill and replenished our water bottles. We brought back extra water and washed off the sweat, dirt, and grime of the day's exertion.
Noiseless lightning began flashing and flickering through the limbs and branches, followed shortly by a strong wind moaning in rising and falling intensity. Having hiked into this campsite in the dark had given it an eerie feeling, and the wind and lightning heightened this sensation. We learned later that this area and spring were the campground of Colonel John Mosby, a Rebel commander who led numerous successful raids against the Union Army. Maybe the wind and lightning were their protest of a couple of Yankees sleeping in their camp.
POLISHED BOOTS by Carroll Grossman
From the Thru-hiker’s Handbook:
Blood Mountain at 4,461 feet is the highest point on the A.T. in Georgia. It is famous in Native American lore as the site of a battle 400 years ago between Creek and Cherokee warriors so fierce, “the hills ran red with blood.” Nearby Slaughter Mountain is reputed to cache the gold of the Cherokee nation, rumored to have been hurriedly hidden when they were forced to leave Georgia by the military in the early 1800s.
21 April, from Miller’s Creek, maybe
I think it’s the twenty-second of April, no the twenty-first. Even with so short a time on the trail, I need to remind myself each day that it is Monday the ---- or Saturday the ----. whatever day it is. Today we climbed Blood Mountain, which was not all that strenuous on the ascent, but the descent had me picking my way through rocks on a steep hillside. Total focus required... Relieved to be heading up hill, I move fast, each step higher than the last.
Once Harland catches up with me at the summit, where I stand gazing back in wonder at all the hills we’ve climbed over the last couple of days; we revive ourselves with a mixture of Tang and lemonade. I invite Harland to lead off down the mountain.
Harland, do you mind going in front for awhile?
No, not at all, just don’t run over me.
Shucks, I’d be like a fly perched on your pack.
Down we start. Step, slide, slide. I take a deep breath and begin to walk on top of the rocks, rock to rock, concentrating my fullest. No more banter. No conversation. Off and on rain showers.
We make it to Neel’s Gap as the clouds and thunder roll in with pounding, drenching rain. There we make the acquaintance of our first section hiker. Section hikers are those individuals who plan an A.T. hike that they accomplish on day, weekend or one- and two-week journeys covering from twenty to two hundred miles at a time. (We were to find that section hikers are often willing to share their provisions with through hikers who might be hungry or discouraged.) The local hiker we meet, Tibbetts, an electrician from the nearby town of Blairsville says he’s heading home. I ask if we might ride into town with him just to get in out of the weather for a spell. He says yes and that he knows of an inexpensive clean motel where he’d be happy to drop us off.
As we check in, we arrange for an early morning ride to return us to the trail.
Once inside our room that has just space enough for a double bed and a chair, we remove our sopping wet gear. Harland begins to clean his boots. I lay my clothes across a chair and climb into a hot shower. It’s only the third night out and I’m showering and getting ready to sleep in a motel. I argue with myself. Today, we hiked fourteen, rugged, rocky, wet miles and I answer myself:
That’s not much, we should have toughed it out.
Nevertheless, I relax and enjoy the warm water and sweet-smelling soap. As I emerge from the shower, I spot my boots near the front door—gleaming that soft, deep shine that leather acquires after being well rubbed and polished.
Harland? Harland’s flat out, all six feet and 190 pounds, diagonally across the bed, plum tuckered out as my dad would say.
Harland, would you like to take a shower?
No. Sleep.
As there is no space for me on the bed, I sit in the chair and admire my boots.
Startled awake by Harland’s snoring, I try moving his feet and legs onto the same side of the bed as his body and head to make space for me to lie down beside him. It’s no go, so I lift my right leg across his back and hips and drape myself on top of him. He doesn’t stir as I pull a pillow down to support my head and neck, to nap to the rhythm of his breathing.
The following are excerpts from the book "Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike" by John Gignilliat
CAMPING NEAR ROADS
We had hoped to make it to the next shelter, but the pizza delivered to Mount Rogers Park Headquarters had made us logy. Instead, we decided to find a campsite four miles up the trail by a forest road. My only concern was the idea of camping by a road, something we always tried to avoid. I was even more concerned when a hiker coming from the other direction told us it looked like a party spot for locals. After he continued on his way, Carol commented, “How would he know?”
Her question was answered when we reached our proposed campsite. We walked past a soggy blanket with two beer cups nearby. One was half full and had a condom floating in it. The area was littered with broken beer, wine, and whiskey bottles and there was trash everywhere. Near the road there were two huge fire rings ten feet in diameter that looked big enough to burn whole trees. Yes, this definitely looked like a party spot, and here we were on Memorial Day weekend.
DAVIS FARM CAMPSITE
After a short stop, we continued on for five miles along Chestnut Ridge. It again became hot and humid when we got away from the exposed knob, and we found the rough and rocky ridge difficult hiking. We stopped on the trail for dinner and were soon passed by Lady Bug and Rain Man. They told us they were heading for Davis Farm Campsite. It required an extra half hour climb down a side trail, but we decided to join them there for the evening. They went on ahead while we finished our dinner. When we started up again, we found that the early morning climb and the heat had sapped our strength. It was with much relief that we reached a double blue blaze marking the trail to the campsite. There was a note from Rain Man in a plastic baggie confirming that this was the way.
The trail was a steep descent with switchbacks, loose rocks, and stinging nettles. When we reached the “campsite,” we quickly realized that our guide book listed this site in the singular rather than the plural. The location was a small dirt ledge built out from the side of the ridge with enough room to pitch one tent comfortably. The couple from Quebec already had their huge tent set up, and Lady Bug and Rain Man were in the process of pitching theirs in what little space remained. Rain Man seemed to think there was enough space to squeeze in behind their tent. Being exhausted, we elected to stay rather than hike back up all those switchbacks to find a campsite further down the trail. We had our tent stakes practically in Lady Bug and Rain Man's tent and our feet would be literally hanging over the ledge, but we were able to squeeze in. We made friends with the couple from Quebec, although their limited English made communication difficult. They were both about our age (forties), who had owned and operated a motel in Quebec. I was amazed that they both smoked Pall Mall non-filter cigarettes while they hiked, then shared a cigar every night when they stopped.
We sat by the edge of our tent looking out over the picturesque, farm-filled valley nestled down below. The campsite was halfway down Chestnut Ridge, and we were looking across the valley and over the farms at a parallel ridge with the sun sinking behind it. The view was almost too pretty to be real. As soon as the sun set, the twilight bugs chased us all into our tents.
HIKING IN THE DARK
We hiked on in the oppressive heat. After coming to a highway, we crossed over and were greeted with a large sign attached to continuous barb wire topped chain-link fence. It stated in bold letters: EXOTIC ANIMAL BREEDING AREA / ABSOLUTELY NO CAMPING / VIOLATORS WILL BE EATEN. We found out later that this area was the breeding grounds for the National Zoo in Washington, DC. The tongue-in-cheek addition to the warning sign along with several suspicious looking holes dug under the fence convinced us to obey the no camping rule.
Checking our data book, we found out that there was a primitive campground four miles up the trail. We had no choice but to try and make this campsite by nightfall. After two of the four miles, darkness began to fall over the woods like a heavy dark pall. We could not view the sun setting, but it was becoming harder and harder to see the trail. We reached the cutoff trail to the campground in almost total darkness. We quickly hung our food out of the reach of critters and set up our tent using Carol's headlamp flashlight (an indispensable piece of gear). The spring was only a short distance from the campsite, and we drank our fill and replenished our water bottles. We brought back extra water and washed off the sweat, dirt, and grime of the day's exertion.
Noiseless lightning began flashing and flickering through the limbs and branches, followed shortly by a strong wind moaning in rising and falling intensity. Having hiked into this campsite in the dark had given it an eerie feeling, and the wind and lightning heightened this sensation. We learned later that this area and spring were the campground of Colonel John Mosby, a Rebel commander who led numerous successful raids against the Union Army. Maybe the wind and lightning were their protest of a couple of Yankees sleeping in their camp.
POLISHED BOOTS by Carroll Grossman
From the Thru-hiker’s Handbook:
Blood Mountain at 4,461 feet is the highest point on the A.T. in Georgia. It is famous in Native American lore as the site of a battle 400 years ago between Creek and Cherokee warriors so fierce, “the hills ran red with blood.” Nearby Slaughter Mountain is reputed to cache the gold of the Cherokee nation, rumored to have been hurriedly hidden when they were forced to leave Georgia by the military in the early 1800s.
21 April, from Miller’s Creek, maybe
I think it’s the twenty-second of April, no the twenty-first. Even with so short a time on the trail, I need to remind myself each day that it is Monday the ---- or Saturday the ----. whatever day it is. Today we climbed Blood Mountain, which was not all that strenuous on the ascent, but the descent had me picking my way through rocks on a steep hillside. Total focus required... Relieved to be heading up hill, I move fast, each step higher than the last.
Once Harland catches up with me at the summit, where I stand gazing back in wonder at all the hills we’ve climbed over the last couple of days; we revive ourselves with a mixture of Tang and lemonade. I invite Harland to lead off down the mountain.
Harland, do you mind going in front for awhile?
No, not at all, just don’t run over me.
Shucks, I’d be like a fly perched on your pack.
Down we start. Step, slide, slide. I take a deep breath and begin to walk on top of the rocks, rock to rock, concentrating my fullest. No more banter. No conversation. Off and on rain showers.
We make it to Neel’s Gap as the clouds and thunder roll in with pounding, drenching rain. There we make the acquaintance of our first section hiker. Section hikers are those individuals who plan an A.T. hike that they accomplish on day, weekend or one- and two-week journeys covering from twenty to two hundred miles at a time. (We were to find that section hikers are often willing to share their provisions with through hikers who might be hungry or discouraged.) The local hiker we meet, Tibbetts, an electrician from the nearby town of Blairsville says he’s heading home. I ask if we might ride into town with him just to get in out of the weather for a spell. He says yes and that he knows of an inexpensive clean motel where he’d be happy to drop us off.
As we check in, we arrange for an early morning ride to return us to the trail.
Once inside our room that has just space enough for a double bed and a chair, we remove our sopping wet gear. Harland begins to clean his boots. I lay my clothes across a chair and climb into a hot shower. It’s only the third night out and I’m showering and getting ready to sleep in a motel. I argue with myself. Today, we hiked fourteen, rugged, rocky, wet miles and I answer myself:
That’s not much, we should have toughed it out.
Nevertheless, I relax and enjoy the warm water and sweet-smelling soap. As I emerge from the shower, I spot my boots near the front door—gleaming that soft, deep shine that leather acquires after being well rubbed and polished.
Harland? Harland’s flat out, all six feet and 190 pounds, diagonally across the bed, plum tuckered out as my dad would say.
Harland, would you like to take a shower?
No. Sleep.
As there is no space for me on the bed, I sit in the chair and admire my boots.
Startled awake by Harland’s snoring, I try moving his feet and legs onto the same side of the bed as his body and head to make space for me to lie down beside him. It’s no go, so I lift my right leg across his back and hips and drape myself on top of him. He doesn’t stir as I pull a pillow down to support my head and neck, to nap to the rhythm of his breathing.