Weather or not, life is grand on the trail.
Weather is one thing that we cannot control, at least not yet. On the appalachian Trail, weather can make or break a hike. But it is always there, and if you learn to live with it, even the bad stuff, you will always have something to smile about or share a story about. If you would like to submit a story about the weather experiences you have witnessed as you traveled or camped along the Appalachian Trail, send an email with the information to:[email protected]
Balance Ions
by Carroll Grossman/Teaberry
It isn’t raining. The air is still. The thrushes, who had awakened us with their beautiful complex song, are quiet. I hear no animals rustling in the underbrush. We steadily climb on the twentieth day of our adventure in the southern Appalachian Mountains. The forest has become less dense as we reach higher elevations. Blackberry bushes are losing their bloom and tiny green berries are beginning to form.
“Harland,” I call, “Double Cup, yoo hoo.” No answer. He must be dawdling hoping he can locate a ripe berry. I can’t go back, I think. The intense silence of the forest frightens me. I tighten the straps of my backpack and run, then walk again as the trail opens onto a wide ridge, flat, like a bald. The hair on my arms begin to stand straight out, the hair on my legs extends so does the hair on my head. Oh my God! Have I entered an electric field? I turn back and yell to Harland to hurry that we have to find shelter. I shake under my skin and hurry, hurry running across the open space. I pause to look back over my shoulder to see Harland emerging from the trees and bushes on the other side. “Come on, come on!” I yell which words are drowned out by the loudest thunder I’ve ever heard. He moves across the tall grass awkwardly, but as fast as he can go. “Come on, come on,” I urge again as lightning follows thunder and run onto the trail on the other side. We descend as the lightning and thunder crash around us. There are cliffs on our left and a drop off on our right. “Sweetie look, look.”
“What?”
“Just there,” he points.
“Yes, yes,” I agree, “let’s go for it.” We sprint off the trail climb up and left to find a small, shallow cave—big enough for us to stand against and feel some protection from the storm. Wind and rain burn the skin on our faces and our arms—like pellets from a pellet gun, but we are side by side no longer feeling we might be struck dead at any moment. We move closer to one another shoulders, arms, legs touching as we wait out the storm.
Possible Hypothermia on the Appalachian Trail
By Carroll Grossman
Day 5 23 April - Indian Grave Gap
We follow the marker toward Indian Grave Gap where soon the weather takes a nasty turn: Thunder rolls, rain, sleet, and hail pepper our bodies. My response is to hike harder and faster until, in spots, I am nearly running. The wind rips; my body stings with every hailstone. I look for shelter but see only dark outlines of trees and rocks along with the barely discernible path that is the Appalachian Trail. The mist and shadows of trees blur to the shape of Indians left of the trail.
They wave for me to follow, and as though in a trance, I fall into step behind them. They move swiftly through the trees to follow a deer path I would not have discerned. They pause before a short, narrow opening in a rock. As we pass inside, we enter a large, dry cave. They speak to an Indian woman who rises from a mat off to my right, where she tends a small fire. The woman shows me to a moss-covered rock ledge where she removes my sodden clothing and indicates that I should lie down. She covers me with a warm, scratchy blanket that has the pungent scent of horses clinging to it. My body tingles with the scratches and the warmth and the memory of horses I have known. A short time later, the woman returns with a wood bowl filled with hot liquid. It tastes of herbs and the sweetness of birch bark. I think how lovely to be warm enjoying a hot drink.
Oh my God, what am doing; I come out of my reverie with a start. I admonish myself: Wake up you idiot before you hike into the side of a mountain. You are freezing and you have no idea how far behind hour husband is. Get real to solve the cold and misery. Go find your sweetie. Once more, I cover the same ground in reverse, scrambling to walk or run as fast as I’m able in the wind and sleet to find Harland. After half an hour I still have not met up with him.
Near panic, I ask myself, has he gotten off the path so that I missed seeing him? I worry that he’s stopped to rest long enough to suffer hypothermia. Finally, I see him walking slowly, leaning into the wind, miserable, wearing only his long sleeve capilene hiking shirt, no jacket.
“Why didn’t you put on your jacket when the weather got so awful?
“I’m more comfortable in a shirt that wicks moisture away from my skin,” he says.
I think, honey you look awful, but say uncomfortable, miserable is how you look to me. I squeeze him, wetness and all, and ask if he can hike faster so we can keep warm. He says, “No, I cannot move any faster.” I figure he’s correct about that, but meantime the snow and sleet continue to fall, and the wind continues to blow. We agree that I must move faster to keep from freezing so I move to hike ahead explaining that I will turn around in thirty minutes and, there, wherever there is when I meet him again, try hiking together until lunch.
The plan works. In an hour the storm passes, and the sun makes a brief appearance. We take advantage of the break in the weather to prepare instant mashed potatoes to eat along with carrot and celery sticks I’ve carried from Natalie’s house. I change socks.
As a result of Harland’s rule that he would carry no heavy fruit or vegetable, I squirrel away one or two fruits or vegetables in my pockets at each town stop to supplement a diet of peanut butter, cheese, and canned tuna.
The storms resume throughout the afternoon but without cold and sleet. We hike on four or five miles to Tray Mountain Shelter where we cook lentil and onion soup. Rejuvenated by the break and warm food, we hike on for two more miles until the sun once more shows its face that allows us to set up camp and begin to dry our wet belongings.
A Lightning Trail Tale – Getting Struck By Lightning on the Appalachian Trail
By Andy “Captain Blue” Niekamp
I bought two lottery tickets in Greenwood Lake, New York Sunday night, May 31, 2015. I was feeling like the luckiest guy in the world after surviving a lightning strike on Black Mountain in New York on the Appalachian Trail (AT) earlier that day. I was fortunate to be able to walk off the mountain. Dozens of people each year across the U.S. aren’t so lucky. Lightning kills, and being caught in an electrical storm is risky business. It’s a reminder that came to me hard and fast one recent afternoon in Harriman State Park, New York. Here’s my story.
I was making good progress Sunday morning. My goal for the day was to hike an ambitious 19-mile trek from New York 17, a highway road crossing of the AT, to Bear Mountain State Park along the Hudson River.
Rain and possible thunder storms were in the forecast that day, and this section is not as easy as the elevation profile suggests. The terrain is rugged with lots of boulders and short, steep climbs. I knew climbing rocks and challenging inclines in the rain would be slippery and slow going. As an experienced long-distance hiker working on my fourth end-to-end completion of the AT, I was aware of the risk. Over the past 26 years and 8,400 miles of AT hiking, I have endured many thunderstorms. My hope was that I could make the 250’ ascent up and over Black Mountain before the thunderstorms hit. The climb was not a long one and wouldn’t take a lot of time. I was undeterred by the danger, but looking back now I realize that I was more complacent than concerned about the risk.
Good hiking weather prevailed throughout the morning, and I was moving quickly. By early afternoon, I was 10 miles in. I took a short break at the William Bryant Memorial Shelter where I met three other northbound hikers. We exchanged pleasantries, and I kept moving, determined to meet my day’s mileage goal.
A light rain started about 45 minutes later but quickly became increasingly heavy. Stopping to put on my rain gear, I could hear the sound of thunder in the distance. I happened to spot one of the three hikers I had met earlier at the shelter. Papa John (PJ) had decided to wait out the thunderstorm on lower ground. He hated hiking in thunderstorms. I hated hiking in thunderstorms and should have stopped at that point. But I convinced myself that “it wasn’t that bad,” and pressed ahead. I turned a blind eye to my personal safety.
I reached a flat, open, exposed area and, on a clear day, would have stopped to take in the spectacular views of the valley. But the storm would soon be on top of me, and serious concern began to take hold when I realized that the descent down the other side of Black Mountain was not imminent. I had one more rise to scale. By this time, the rain was pouring, and water was accumulating fast in the recessed structure of the path. There was more water on the trail at that point than on ground. In essence, the trail turned into a flowing conduit of water for the rain. The trail had become a stream.
I was wet, soaked from head to toe. The concern of a lightning strike became more palpable. I decided to carry my hiking poles instead of placing them in the ground and headed toward the final rise. A quick scrabble up and over would take me to the safety of the lower areas.
Then it happened. I felt a tremendous electrical surge hit my entire body. My back arched. Every muscle in my body clenched. The intensity of the contracted muscles could have broken a bone. I gasped for air. I was blinded by an orange flash of light and lost most of my hearing. The jolt knocked me backwards on my backpack down an incline. I smelled a whiff of something burning. The excruciating pain lasted a brief millisecond. Yet, in the aftermath, I had no pain except for a sensation of complete numbness in my feet. I lay sprawled on the ground fully conscious of what had just happened.
As the thunder, lightning, and rain continued, there was no time to panic. I scrambled to take evasive action. Moving any significant distance to lower ground was not feasible, and the tall trees canopying the trail were potential electrical conductors. I took my only option. I threw my poles as far away from me as I could to get rid of any metal around me. I retreated to a low, grassy area and unfurled my foam sleeping pad. I assumed a low body position on the ground, praying the pad would insulate me from a second or third strike, should they come. But I knew that there is no safe place outside during an electrical storm.
I waited. The thunder storm started to move. It was no longer directly above me. As the danger passed, my wilderness first aid responder training kicked in. I knew that lightning strikes are very serious. Untreated cardiac events are often fatal. Serious burns can occur at the entry and exit points of the electrical charge. Strikes have other serious side effects, too, that affect the body’s entire neurological function.
I took a quick assessment. I had no apparent injuries that I could diagnose and was slowly regaining strength and sensation in my feet. I was able to talk, to stand, and to walk. I knew I was only one mile from the Palisades Parkway. But I made the wise decision to call 911. The dispatcher patched me through to the State Park Police who would help me to get medical attention. As I waited for instructions from the ranger as to the meet-up location, I spotted PJ. I waved him over to explain what had happened. The threat of lightning had passed, and he agreed to walk out with me in case I collapsed on the mile-long hike down to the Palisades Parkway, the nearest road. I felt Ok, but heart failure or stroke was a real possibility so soon after such major trauma. I was transported to Nyack Hospital in an emergency vehicle. Lucky for me, my blood work, EKG, and chest x-rays came back normal, and I was discharged a few hours later without requiring medical treatment.
I have replayed all of the “should haves” in my mind a dozen times. I should have checked the weather radar; I should have sought shelter at the first sound of thunder; I should have retreated to a lower elevation when I realized the summit of Black Mountain was flat. I should not have allowed the mile goal that day to obscure my judgment.
I do a lot of hiking, and I lead group hikes including hikes on the AT. I would have never taken this risk with others. Their safety is always my primary concern. As difficult as my disregard for my own personal safety is to admit, I want fellow hikers to avoid making the mistakes I made by sharing my experience and concluding with important reminders for all back country hikers from the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS).
“Backcountry Lightning Risk Management” by John Gookin of NOLS lists these four precautions (pp. 4-6):
1. Time visits to high risk areas with weather patterns. Study weather patterns and know what the forecast is for your hike area. Be prepared to change your hiking plans if a storm is forecasted.
2. Find safer terrain if you hear thunder. When you hear thunder, move to lower ground. It means that the storm is ten miles or less away. Avoid ridges and peaks because lightning tends to hit higher points of contact. Lower ground reduces your risk. If possible, descend on the side of the mountain without cloud coverage. If possible, avoid wet ground. Current travels faster along wet terrain.
3. Avoid trees and long conductors once lightning gets close. Avoid standing near bushes and trees. Plants generate a charge that attracts lightning. Never stand in water, under power lines, or near metal surfaces.
4. Get in the lightning position if lightning is striking nearby. Any electrostatic sensation on hair follicles should be taken as a warning of imminent danger. Take steps to minimize the impact. Put your feet together and assume a crouch position, wrapping your arms around your legs. The lightning position will not reduce your risk but it may lessen the severity of the serious injury you suffer.
These tips are ways to reduce the odds of incurring a strike, but keep in mind, the risk of a strike is always present. The best precaution is to be indoors.
By the way, my hopes of a lottery winning didn’t transpire. Statistics say that there’s about a one in 3,000 life-time chance of being killed by a bolt of lightning. The odds of winning the Power Ball lottery in New York are a lot higher. Another lesson learned--getting struck by lightning is more likely (and more dangerous) than winning the lottery.
Source:
Gookin, J. (2010, April). Back country lightning management. Paper presented at the 21st International
Lightning Detection Conference and the 3rd International Lightning Meteorology Conference,
Orlando, FL. Retrieved from
http://www.nols.edu/nolspro/pdf/Lightning_Gookin_WRMC2010printmaster.pdf
by Carroll Grossman/Teaberry
It isn’t raining. The air is still. The thrushes, who had awakened us with their beautiful complex song, are quiet. I hear no animals rustling in the underbrush. We steadily climb on the twentieth day of our adventure in the southern Appalachian Mountains. The forest has become less dense as we reach higher elevations. Blackberry bushes are losing their bloom and tiny green berries are beginning to form.
“Harland,” I call, “Double Cup, yoo hoo.” No answer. He must be dawdling hoping he can locate a ripe berry. I can’t go back, I think. The intense silence of the forest frightens me. I tighten the straps of my backpack and run, then walk again as the trail opens onto a wide ridge, flat, like a bald. The hair on my arms begin to stand straight out, the hair on my legs extends so does the hair on my head. Oh my God! Have I entered an electric field? I turn back and yell to Harland to hurry that we have to find shelter. I shake under my skin and hurry, hurry running across the open space. I pause to look back over my shoulder to see Harland emerging from the trees and bushes on the other side. “Come on, come on!” I yell which words are drowned out by the loudest thunder I’ve ever heard. He moves across the tall grass awkwardly, but as fast as he can go. “Come on, come on,” I urge again as lightning follows thunder and run onto the trail on the other side. We descend as the lightning and thunder crash around us. There are cliffs on our left and a drop off on our right. “Sweetie look, look.”
“What?”
“Just there,” he points.
“Yes, yes,” I agree, “let’s go for it.” We sprint off the trail climb up and left to find a small, shallow cave—big enough for us to stand against and feel some protection from the storm. Wind and rain burn the skin on our faces and our arms—like pellets from a pellet gun, but we are side by side no longer feeling we might be struck dead at any moment. We move closer to one another shoulders, arms, legs touching as we wait out the storm.
Possible Hypothermia on the Appalachian Trail
By Carroll Grossman
Day 5 23 April - Indian Grave Gap
We follow the marker toward Indian Grave Gap where soon the weather takes a nasty turn: Thunder rolls, rain, sleet, and hail pepper our bodies. My response is to hike harder and faster until, in spots, I am nearly running. The wind rips; my body stings with every hailstone. I look for shelter but see only dark outlines of trees and rocks along with the barely discernible path that is the Appalachian Trail. The mist and shadows of trees blur to the shape of Indians left of the trail.
They wave for me to follow, and as though in a trance, I fall into step behind them. They move swiftly through the trees to follow a deer path I would not have discerned. They pause before a short, narrow opening in a rock. As we pass inside, we enter a large, dry cave. They speak to an Indian woman who rises from a mat off to my right, where she tends a small fire. The woman shows me to a moss-covered rock ledge where she removes my sodden clothing and indicates that I should lie down. She covers me with a warm, scratchy blanket that has the pungent scent of horses clinging to it. My body tingles with the scratches and the warmth and the memory of horses I have known. A short time later, the woman returns with a wood bowl filled with hot liquid. It tastes of herbs and the sweetness of birch bark. I think how lovely to be warm enjoying a hot drink.
Oh my God, what am doing; I come out of my reverie with a start. I admonish myself: Wake up you idiot before you hike into the side of a mountain. You are freezing and you have no idea how far behind hour husband is. Get real to solve the cold and misery. Go find your sweetie. Once more, I cover the same ground in reverse, scrambling to walk or run as fast as I’m able in the wind and sleet to find Harland. After half an hour I still have not met up with him.
Near panic, I ask myself, has he gotten off the path so that I missed seeing him? I worry that he’s stopped to rest long enough to suffer hypothermia. Finally, I see him walking slowly, leaning into the wind, miserable, wearing only his long sleeve capilene hiking shirt, no jacket.
“Why didn’t you put on your jacket when the weather got so awful?
“I’m more comfortable in a shirt that wicks moisture away from my skin,” he says.
I think, honey you look awful, but say uncomfortable, miserable is how you look to me. I squeeze him, wetness and all, and ask if he can hike faster so we can keep warm. He says, “No, I cannot move any faster.” I figure he’s correct about that, but meantime the snow and sleet continue to fall, and the wind continues to blow. We agree that I must move faster to keep from freezing so I move to hike ahead explaining that I will turn around in thirty minutes and, there, wherever there is when I meet him again, try hiking together until lunch.
The plan works. In an hour the storm passes, and the sun makes a brief appearance. We take advantage of the break in the weather to prepare instant mashed potatoes to eat along with carrot and celery sticks I’ve carried from Natalie’s house. I change socks.
As a result of Harland’s rule that he would carry no heavy fruit or vegetable, I squirrel away one or two fruits or vegetables in my pockets at each town stop to supplement a diet of peanut butter, cheese, and canned tuna.
The storms resume throughout the afternoon but without cold and sleet. We hike on four or five miles to Tray Mountain Shelter where we cook lentil and onion soup. Rejuvenated by the break and warm food, we hike on for two more miles until the sun once more shows its face that allows us to set up camp and begin to dry our wet belongings.
A Lightning Trail Tale – Getting Struck By Lightning on the Appalachian Trail
By Andy “Captain Blue” Niekamp
I bought two lottery tickets in Greenwood Lake, New York Sunday night, May 31, 2015. I was feeling like the luckiest guy in the world after surviving a lightning strike on Black Mountain in New York on the Appalachian Trail (AT) earlier that day. I was fortunate to be able to walk off the mountain. Dozens of people each year across the U.S. aren’t so lucky. Lightning kills, and being caught in an electrical storm is risky business. It’s a reminder that came to me hard and fast one recent afternoon in Harriman State Park, New York. Here’s my story.
I was making good progress Sunday morning. My goal for the day was to hike an ambitious 19-mile trek from New York 17, a highway road crossing of the AT, to Bear Mountain State Park along the Hudson River.
Rain and possible thunder storms were in the forecast that day, and this section is not as easy as the elevation profile suggests. The terrain is rugged with lots of boulders and short, steep climbs. I knew climbing rocks and challenging inclines in the rain would be slippery and slow going. As an experienced long-distance hiker working on my fourth end-to-end completion of the AT, I was aware of the risk. Over the past 26 years and 8,400 miles of AT hiking, I have endured many thunderstorms. My hope was that I could make the 250’ ascent up and over Black Mountain before the thunderstorms hit. The climb was not a long one and wouldn’t take a lot of time. I was undeterred by the danger, but looking back now I realize that I was more complacent than concerned about the risk.
Good hiking weather prevailed throughout the morning, and I was moving quickly. By early afternoon, I was 10 miles in. I took a short break at the William Bryant Memorial Shelter where I met three other northbound hikers. We exchanged pleasantries, and I kept moving, determined to meet my day’s mileage goal.
A light rain started about 45 minutes later but quickly became increasingly heavy. Stopping to put on my rain gear, I could hear the sound of thunder in the distance. I happened to spot one of the three hikers I had met earlier at the shelter. Papa John (PJ) had decided to wait out the thunderstorm on lower ground. He hated hiking in thunderstorms. I hated hiking in thunderstorms and should have stopped at that point. But I convinced myself that “it wasn’t that bad,” and pressed ahead. I turned a blind eye to my personal safety.
I reached a flat, open, exposed area and, on a clear day, would have stopped to take in the spectacular views of the valley. But the storm would soon be on top of me, and serious concern began to take hold when I realized that the descent down the other side of Black Mountain was not imminent. I had one more rise to scale. By this time, the rain was pouring, and water was accumulating fast in the recessed structure of the path. There was more water on the trail at that point than on ground. In essence, the trail turned into a flowing conduit of water for the rain. The trail had become a stream.
I was wet, soaked from head to toe. The concern of a lightning strike became more palpable. I decided to carry my hiking poles instead of placing them in the ground and headed toward the final rise. A quick scrabble up and over would take me to the safety of the lower areas.
Then it happened. I felt a tremendous electrical surge hit my entire body. My back arched. Every muscle in my body clenched. The intensity of the contracted muscles could have broken a bone. I gasped for air. I was blinded by an orange flash of light and lost most of my hearing. The jolt knocked me backwards on my backpack down an incline. I smelled a whiff of something burning. The excruciating pain lasted a brief millisecond. Yet, in the aftermath, I had no pain except for a sensation of complete numbness in my feet. I lay sprawled on the ground fully conscious of what had just happened.
As the thunder, lightning, and rain continued, there was no time to panic. I scrambled to take evasive action. Moving any significant distance to lower ground was not feasible, and the tall trees canopying the trail were potential electrical conductors. I took my only option. I threw my poles as far away from me as I could to get rid of any metal around me. I retreated to a low, grassy area and unfurled my foam sleeping pad. I assumed a low body position on the ground, praying the pad would insulate me from a second or third strike, should they come. But I knew that there is no safe place outside during an electrical storm.
I waited. The thunder storm started to move. It was no longer directly above me. As the danger passed, my wilderness first aid responder training kicked in. I knew that lightning strikes are very serious. Untreated cardiac events are often fatal. Serious burns can occur at the entry and exit points of the electrical charge. Strikes have other serious side effects, too, that affect the body’s entire neurological function.
I took a quick assessment. I had no apparent injuries that I could diagnose and was slowly regaining strength and sensation in my feet. I was able to talk, to stand, and to walk. I knew I was only one mile from the Palisades Parkway. But I made the wise decision to call 911. The dispatcher patched me through to the State Park Police who would help me to get medical attention. As I waited for instructions from the ranger as to the meet-up location, I spotted PJ. I waved him over to explain what had happened. The threat of lightning had passed, and he agreed to walk out with me in case I collapsed on the mile-long hike down to the Palisades Parkway, the nearest road. I felt Ok, but heart failure or stroke was a real possibility so soon after such major trauma. I was transported to Nyack Hospital in an emergency vehicle. Lucky for me, my blood work, EKG, and chest x-rays came back normal, and I was discharged a few hours later without requiring medical treatment.
I have replayed all of the “should haves” in my mind a dozen times. I should have checked the weather radar; I should have sought shelter at the first sound of thunder; I should have retreated to a lower elevation when I realized the summit of Black Mountain was flat. I should not have allowed the mile goal that day to obscure my judgment.
I do a lot of hiking, and I lead group hikes including hikes on the AT. I would have never taken this risk with others. Their safety is always my primary concern. As difficult as my disregard for my own personal safety is to admit, I want fellow hikers to avoid making the mistakes I made by sharing my experience and concluding with important reminders for all back country hikers from the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS).
“Backcountry Lightning Risk Management” by John Gookin of NOLS lists these four precautions (pp. 4-6):
1. Time visits to high risk areas with weather patterns. Study weather patterns and know what the forecast is for your hike area. Be prepared to change your hiking plans if a storm is forecasted.
2. Find safer terrain if you hear thunder. When you hear thunder, move to lower ground. It means that the storm is ten miles or less away. Avoid ridges and peaks because lightning tends to hit higher points of contact. Lower ground reduces your risk. If possible, descend on the side of the mountain without cloud coverage. If possible, avoid wet ground. Current travels faster along wet terrain.
3. Avoid trees and long conductors once lightning gets close. Avoid standing near bushes and trees. Plants generate a charge that attracts lightning. Never stand in water, under power lines, or near metal surfaces.
4. Get in the lightning position if lightning is striking nearby. Any electrostatic sensation on hair follicles should be taken as a warning of imminent danger. Take steps to minimize the impact. Put your feet together and assume a crouch position, wrapping your arms around your legs. The lightning position will not reduce your risk but it may lessen the severity of the serious injury you suffer.
These tips are ways to reduce the odds of incurring a strike, but keep in mind, the risk of a strike is always present. The best precaution is to be indoors.
By the way, my hopes of a lottery winning didn’t transpire. Statistics say that there’s about a one in 3,000 life-time chance of being killed by a bolt of lightning. The odds of winning the Power Ball lottery in New York are a lot higher. Another lesson learned--getting struck by lightning is more likely (and more dangerous) than winning the lottery.
Source:
Gookin, J. (2010, April). Back country lightning management. Paper presented at the 21st International
Lightning Detection Conference and the 3rd International Lightning Meteorology Conference,
Orlando, FL. Retrieved from
http://www.nols.edu/nolspro/pdf/Lightning_Gookin_WRMC2010printmaster.pdf
"Rain" by David A. Grim (JASH - Just A Section Hiker)
When I think about rain, the first thing that comes to mind is the rain I experienced living in Louisiana. The rain can come down so hard in that part of the country you literally can't see the hood ornament on the front of your car. Wild Cajun drivers have been known to have head-on collisions when driving in these heavy monsoons by driving down narrow streets with their heads out the window for visibility. They physically bump heads. Ouch!!
The second thing I think about when it comes to rain is the Summit Venture. The Summit Venture was a large seagoing ship that tried to navigate the waters of Tampa Bay Florida in just such rainy weather. The ship knocked out the center span of the southbound lane of a four-lane bridge sending a busload of unlucky people to their deaths in the murky waters of the bay. If you travel south across the new Sunshine Skyway today, look west and you'll see the remains of the old bridge.
As I hiked North along a stretch of the AT just past Unaka Mountain in September of '96, I kept thinking about rain. It had been raining on and off all day. As do all hikers, I had a dilemma on my hands. Should I get rain-wet or sweat-wet? I elected sweat-wet and kept hiking up the mountain with a limited view because of my backpacker's poncho. Just after the eerie green light on the top of Unaka Mountain, I began happily cruising down the backside of Unaka on my way to Cherry Gap Shelter.
The rain let up so I could take a dry water break, which is probably some kind of oxymoron like military intelligence or something. Anyhow, as soon as I put my poncho away for the umteenth time that day, it began to rain again. On came the poncho and I hiked on with only the sound of rain pattering on the leaves of the ever so green trees about me and the swish of my wet poncho against my body. Being low on water I began to worry when I would cross water again. As a hiker I am constantly thirsty and water is the only beverage that does it for me. Finally, the rain quit and I found water.
Hurricane Fran was coming my way and I had been out section hiking long enough this trip to not know if the rain was the hurricane coming my way or just normal rainy weather in September. I was watered up and having just crossed the highest point for the day, according to the liar's legend at the bottom of my map, was ready to get to the shelter and off my feet. As usual, The AT had other things in mind.
I picked up my pace from about 2 to 4 miles per hour. The Trail had become relatively level and I wanted to be out of the impending witches brew of weather. At first I smelled the change in weather and felt the wind pick up. The trees began to sway vigorously back and forth and the thunderstorm began to move in. To add insult to injury, with my poncho on, I couldn't get to my water easily. My pack was relatively dry and I wanted, at all cost, to keep it that way.
Suddenly I heard thunder and saw lightening all about me. Let's see how does that work? For every second you can count from the flash of lightening until you hear the thunder is a mile. Flash, I began counting, one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three….bang. I repeated the process until I couldn't even say one before the thunder would sound. I'm a fatalist and don't believe in mother nature but do believe in God. I believe that your days are numbered and you can't leave this life one minute before or one second later than HE has determined. Just to play it safe I prayed as I hiked figuring he may be busy and wanted to be sure if it wasn't my time yet, I wouldn't fall into the oversight category when entering heaven. Did you know if you're alone and laugh out loud at yourself in the wilderness, nobody can hear you?
With each step I became thirstier and yet was surrounded by water. The rain began to pour down now. This was Summit Venture quantity rain and I was dying of thirst. Just about then I noticed something I had overlooked with my limited visibility, a pocket of water forming in the crook of my poncho covered arm as I hiked. What the hay, I drank from the pocket. As fast as I could drink it was refilled. Yep, who says prayer doesn't work?? You do have to keep your eyes open though.
Did you ever wonder why The Trail looks like a small riverbed in places? I found out. As the rain poured down I saw places that the map indicated would be okay to camp that looked like lakes. As I hiked up a small hill, down came a chameleon floating on a log in the torrent. Yep, he was going white water rafting today and I could tell he wanted off in the worst way. My gortex lined boots, designed to keep me dry, were filled with water inside and out. I didn't have one dry spot on my body under my sweat-wet poncho by the time I pulled into Cherry Gap Shelter.
My first order of business upon arriving at the shelter was to hang up all of my wet clothes to dry. As I sat in the shelter, alone except for a ground squirrel and wearing nothing but a smile, I momentarily considered changing my Trail handle to "Buck Naked". I knew that wouldn't do though because I could just see myself meeting someone on The Trail and having them ask my name. Yes sir, my name is "Buck Naked". Nope I decided to leave bad enough alone. When people ask me who I am, I tell them I'm Just A Section Hiker or unimaginatively shortened to JASH.
Happy Trails
Jash
When I think about rain, the first thing that comes to mind is the rain I experienced living in Louisiana. The rain can come down so hard in that part of the country you literally can't see the hood ornament on the front of your car. Wild Cajun drivers have been known to have head-on collisions when driving in these heavy monsoons by driving down narrow streets with their heads out the window for visibility. They physically bump heads. Ouch!!
The second thing I think about when it comes to rain is the Summit Venture. The Summit Venture was a large seagoing ship that tried to navigate the waters of Tampa Bay Florida in just such rainy weather. The ship knocked out the center span of the southbound lane of a four-lane bridge sending a busload of unlucky people to their deaths in the murky waters of the bay. If you travel south across the new Sunshine Skyway today, look west and you'll see the remains of the old bridge.
As I hiked North along a stretch of the AT just past Unaka Mountain in September of '96, I kept thinking about rain. It had been raining on and off all day. As do all hikers, I had a dilemma on my hands. Should I get rain-wet or sweat-wet? I elected sweat-wet and kept hiking up the mountain with a limited view because of my backpacker's poncho. Just after the eerie green light on the top of Unaka Mountain, I began happily cruising down the backside of Unaka on my way to Cherry Gap Shelter.
The rain let up so I could take a dry water break, which is probably some kind of oxymoron like military intelligence or something. Anyhow, as soon as I put my poncho away for the umteenth time that day, it began to rain again. On came the poncho and I hiked on with only the sound of rain pattering on the leaves of the ever so green trees about me and the swish of my wet poncho against my body. Being low on water I began to worry when I would cross water again. As a hiker I am constantly thirsty and water is the only beverage that does it for me. Finally, the rain quit and I found water.
Hurricane Fran was coming my way and I had been out section hiking long enough this trip to not know if the rain was the hurricane coming my way or just normal rainy weather in September. I was watered up and having just crossed the highest point for the day, according to the liar's legend at the bottom of my map, was ready to get to the shelter and off my feet. As usual, The AT had other things in mind.
I picked up my pace from about 2 to 4 miles per hour. The Trail had become relatively level and I wanted to be out of the impending witches brew of weather. At first I smelled the change in weather and felt the wind pick up. The trees began to sway vigorously back and forth and the thunderstorm began to move in. To add insult to injury, with my poncho on, I couldn't get to my water easily. My pack was relatively dry and I wanted, at all cost, to keep it that way.
Suddenly I heard thunder and saw lightening all about me. Let's see how does that work? For every second you can count from the flash of lightening until you hear the thunder is a mile. Flash, I began counting, one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three….bang. I repeated the process until I couldn't even say one before the thunder would sound. I'm a fatalist and don't believe in mother nature but do believe in God. I believe that your days are numbered and you can't leave this life one minute before or one second later than HE has determined. Just to play it safe I prayed as I hiked figuring he may be busy and wanted to be sure if it wasn't my time yet, I wouldn't fall into the oversight category when entering heaven. Did you know if you're alone and laugh out loud at yourself in the wilderness, nobody can hear you?
With each step I became thirstier and yet was surrounded by water. The rain began to pour down now. This was Summit Venture quantity rain and I was dying of thirst. Just about then I noticed something I had overlooked with my limited visibility, a pocket of water forming in the crook of my poncho covered arm as I hiked. What the hay, I drank from the pocket. As fast as I could drink it was refilled. Yep, who says prayer doesn't work?? You do have to keep your eyes open though.
Did you ever wonder why The Trail looks like a small riverbed in places? I found out. As the rain poured down I saw places that the map indicated would be okay to camp that looked like lakes. As I hiked up a small hill, down came a chameleon floating on a log in the torrent. Yep, he was going white water rafting today and I could tell he wanted off in the worst way. My gortex lined boots, designed to keep me dry, were filled with water inside and out. I didn't have one dry spot on my body under my sweat-wet poncho by the time I pulled into Cherry Gap Shelter.
My first order of business upon arriving at the shelter was to hang up all of my wet clothes to dry. As I sat in the shelter, alone except for a ground squirrel and wearing nothing but a smile, I momentarily considered changing my Trail handle to "Buck Naked". I knew that wouldn't do though because I could just see myself meeting someone on The Trail and having them ask my name. Yes sir, my name is "Buck Naked". Nope I decided to leave bad enough alone. When people ask me who I am, I tell them I'm Just A Section Hiker or unimaginatively shortened to JASH.
Happy Trails
Jash
The following are weather related excerpts from the book "Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike" by John Gignilliat
HYPOTHERMIA
It was cool, beautiful hiking for the first several hours. All seemed to be going well. The clouds never broke, and as we approached the twin peaks of Snow Bird Mountain, the clouds lowered and turned into a thickening fog. It was not actually raining, but the humidity was so high that moisture was condensing on the leaves and branches and then dripping down on us. As we climbed higher, the wind increased and the temperature began to plummet. A gradual and insidious chill overtook us before we comprehended what was happening. We finally realized how cold we were getting and changed into warmer clothes and rain gear. Hypothermia is a constant danger when hiking in the mountains. It can be a sneaky killer who stalks its victims in a slow and deadly manner using its two favorite weapons: wind and rain. We vowed to be more careful in future wet and cold conditions.
MT. MOOSILAUKE
September 11th . . . We were up before seven. It was another gray, overcast day; and within an hour we were walking in a light drizzle. We had hoped for sunshine for this climb of Mt. Moosilauke, but it was not to be. It was a long steady ascent but never too steep. We kept expecting to break through the tree line as we approached the summit, but it always seemed just a little further ahead. When we finally reached the tree line and began our treeless hike to the summit, it was like stepping from indoors to outdoors. The howling wind had an unobstructed fetch across the treeless mountain top. This had a profound effect on the wind chill. We had been warned about the severity of weather on the summits, but this caught us off guard. Up until coming out of the trees, our hike today had been perfect in terms of temperature. We all had our raincoats on, but we should have turned back and put more clothes on. Instead, we continued on forward. Rain, sleet, and hail were whipping horizontally across the barren rocks driven by winds gusting to fifty miles per hour. Within seconds, I was chilled to the bone. We had just put our rain jackets on, but no one thought to don wind pants. It was the coldest I had been since leaving the wintry state of Wisconsin five years ago. The sleet and rain bit into our eyes, making it difficult to see; and the gusting driving wind made it difficult to walk. We hiked in tandem hurrying as fast as we could and all leaning into the wind at crazy angles. We knew it was only one mile before we dipped back down into the trees again, but that one mile seemed like an eternity. We were all hiking in shorts with bare legs. I actually thought my legs might get frostbitten and paused occasionally to rub them. We reached the summit and hurried on past without even a second look. For a short while I was frightened by the situation we had put ourselves into. But once we passed the summit, I knew we could make it. With great relief, we finally reached the protection of the short, stunted trees marking the tree line on the other side of the summit. This was our first of the dangerous White Mountains and was a good lesson and warning to be prepared!
When we finally reached the tree line, it had the opposite effect, making us feel like we were stepping back indoors. We passed another group of freshmen out from Dartmouth going in the opposite direction. I was sorry that I did not have the presence of mind to warn them to put on every piece of outer clothing they had. Some looked poorly dressed for the conditions they were about to meet.
HYPOTHERMIA
It was cool, beautiful hiking for the first several hours. All seemed to be going well. The clouds never broke, and as we approached the twin peaks of Snow Bird Mountain, the clouds lowered and turned into a thickening fog. It was not actually raining, but the humidity was so high that moisture was condensing on the leaves and branches and then dripping down on us. As we climbed higher, the wind increased and the temperature began to plummet. A gradual and insidious chill overtook us before we comprehended what was happening. We finally realized how cold we were getting and changed into warmer clothes and rain gear. Hypothermia is a constant danger when hiking in the mountains. It can be a sneaky killer who stalks its victims in a slow and deadly manner using its two favorite weapons: wind and rain. We vowed to be more careful in future wet and cold conditions.
MT. MOOSILAUKE
September 11th . . . We were up before seven. It was another gray, overcast day; and within an hour we were walking in a light drizzle. We had hoped for sunshine for this climb of Mt. Moosilauke, but it was not to be. It was a long steady ascent but never too steep. We kept expecting to break through the tree line as we approached the summit, but it always seemed just a little further ahead. When we finally reached the tree line and began our treeless hike to the summit, it was like stepping from indoors to outdoors. The howling wind had an unobstructed fetch across the treeless mountain top. This had a profound effect on the wind chill. We had been warned about the severity of weather on the summits, but this caught us off guard. Up until coming out of the trees, our hike today had been perfect in terms of temperature. We all had our raincoats on, but we should have turned back and put more clothes on. Instead, we continued on forward. Rain, sleet, and hail were whipping horizontally across the barren rocks driven by winds gusting to fifty miles per hour. Within seconds, I was chilled to the bone. We had just put our rain jackets on, but no one thought to don wind pants. It was the coldest I had been since leaving the wintry state of Wisconsin five years ago. The sleet and rain bit into our eyes, making it difficult to see; and the gusting driving wind made it difficult to walk. We hiked in tandem hurrying as fast as we could and all leaning into the wind at crazy angles. We knew it was only one mile before we dipped back down into the trees again, but that one mile seemed like an eternity. We were all hiking in shorts with bare legs. I actually thought my legs might get frostbitten and paused occasionally to rub them. We reached the summit and hurried on past without even a second look. For a short while I was frightened by the situation we had put ourselves into. But once we passed the summit, I knew we could make it. With great relief, we finally reached the protection of the short, stunted trees marking the tree line on the other side of the summit. This was our first of the dangerous White Mountains and was a good lesson and warning to be prepared!
When we finally reached the tree line, it had the opposite effect, making us feel like we were stepping back indoors. We passed another group of freshmen out from Dartmouth going in the opposite direction. I was sorry that I did not have the presence of mind to warn them to put on every piece of outer clothing they had. Some looked poorly dressed for the conditions they were about to meet.