The Attempt
It was an exercise in foolishness and hubris. I dove into the backcountry trying to prove something only to find myself caught between madness and reason. Slow and steady wins the race. Be the tortoise, not the hare.
The Foothills Trail snakes some 77 miles across some of South Carolina’s best wilderness. Easily overlooked, the trail offers a masterclass in backcountry hiking/camping that humbles and thrills even seasoned Appalachian Trail thru-hikers. I don’t think I’ve ever done more than 15 miles of the AT, but the FHT haunts me like Ahab’s White Whale since I first hiked a section of it one winter break in college. I can say I have hiked every stinking mile of it in sections, but never thru. A reasonable itinerary gets you from point to point in 5-7 days. So when a high pressure system settled over the Southern Appalachians - bringing clear skies and higher temperatures - I said, “I’ll do it in 4!”
The first 15 miles were magnificent. The Chattooga Corridor is as stunning as it is wild. It was one of the best and most affirming walks I’ve ever been on. 15 miles from Oconee State Park to Burrells Ford is respectable. But it was barely afternoon and I had to keep walking if I was going to make my arbitrary Wednesday finish at Table Rock, about 60 miles east-northeast of my position. I was high on a false sense of confidence. The backcountry has a way of reminding men of their fragility. I wondered if this is what James Dickey was getting on about as I walked the long path.
The appeal of the backcountry diversion is in its power to essentialize and focus your mental and physical resources. You bring only what you need. All of your decision making is focused on the pursuit of a single destination.
As you walk you repeat certain self-affirming mantras:
You’re a champion.
You’re a champion.
You’re a champion.
The roots and rocks along the riverside path are hardly (hardy?) barriers to your own self-realization.
It’s when all the rugged mountain ridges begin to look the same and menace you with their sameness that you begin to question yourself, your skills, and your senses as you stumble through the last eight miles uphill to the campsite at Sloan Bridge. Every squirrel becomes a bear. Every root, a snake. Now there’s an unexplained pain in your elbow.
I stubbornly dragged myself into East Fork Camp just below Sloan Bridge/SC-107 with an hour of light to spare. The Foothills Trail dances with highway 107 on its way north from Oconee State Park to the iconic Whitewater Falls (FACT CHECK: it’s actually SC-130 that takes you to the iconic Whitewater Falls). The sound of beefy V8 engines dragging those mountain roads is eternal.
Much to my relief there was already a camp resident waiting for me, a man named Phil. He’s really Jeff, but he mistakenly called me Phil and I had to ask him to remind me of his name as well. So now we are both “Phil”. The two Phils traded hiking stories for an hour or two before retreating to their respective shelters. Phil was thankful for the brief companionship of Phil while Phil tended to Phil’s wounded ego.
When the tincture finally begins to hit during the night much of the worry and regret melts away for a time. You become obsessed by the cocoon of synthetic and natural layers you’ve been perfecting through the cold night. Your mind begins to consider the likelihood of waking up in a state of metamorphosis. What will your final physical form look like? You pray for something as well insulated as a bear.
My natural state tends towards the solitary mode. It’s easy to convince yourself that it’s better to go it alone rather than make the necessary compromises to walk the long path with another. And a night alone in the woods can send the mind to both troubling and interesting places. I like to believe there are answers in the backcountry. Maybe one is that a warm and comfy bed is one of mankind’s greatest achievements. There may be less virtue to my commitment to sleeping on the hard ground than I tell myself. And maybe stubbornly going it alone so often will only get me so far before I have to stop and ask “why?” Maybe one day I will find a committed adventure buddy to share the journey with. Maybe it will be my cat.
Buried in your barely-adequate-for-the-weather-you-misjudged synthetic cocoon, you begin to notice the morning bird songs. Light must be peaking over the horizon.
Relief.
Extraction
Text via GPS to dad: “Chilly night there towards the end. lol”
I swallowed my pride with a big gulp and requested an early pickup at the National Forest Service parking lot at Whitewater Falls, only 47.9 miles short of my goal. It was five(ish) miles to get from East Fork Camp to a burger and a comfy climate controlled ride back to the family compound in northern Greenville County.
“Phil” was up and out not long after the sun began cresting the nearby ridge line. Exchanging friendly farewells returned the two Phils to their previous forms: Jeff and Thomas. I struggled to stay focused as I became better acquainted with the limitations of a GPS signal in the deep gorges of the Chattooga/Jocassee backcountry. Coordinating texts to dad found their way to the satellite about as fast as my weary body and mind could get camp broken down. No matter, he was in the car and I’d get there eventually.
Whitewater Falls tumbles down from one of the highest points along the trail. No surprise it’s said to be the tallest waterfall east of the Rocky Mountains. To get there though, I had to climb higher to get around the appropriately named Round Mountain looming over the falls.
A week or so earlier, forest service crews initiated a burn operation in that part of the national forest to mitigate the build up of combustable materials that could trigger a much bigger conflagration. The tortured silhouettes of charred mountain laurel stood like ghostly apparitions. The silence was deafening. Of course, the seared landscape is merely a superficial concern to the native flora and fauna. Fire is as important to the health of a forest civilization as water, sunlight, and air.
Rounding the roundest of mountains I found my salvation, the sound of heavy trucks engine breaking down SC-130’s exhilaratingly steep grade. Another turn brought into view the incredible engineering of the Bad Creek Reservoir tucked away in a high ravine above Lake Jocassee. Only a couple more switchbacks. First sight of the highway and I audibly yelp. One final corner around blackened boulders reveals a third generation Toyota Highlander with leather seats and dual zone climate controls. Zion.
Stay tuned…