MY SCARY NIGHT WAS OVER
- By Jean Deeds (Excerpt from There Are Mountains To Climb)
Erwin, Tennesse, 338 miles hiked, May 3, l994
Some of the hikers who had left Hot Springs during the thunderstorm instead of waiting until the next day, as Flare and I had, faced a treacherous time hiking through the mountains with lightning flashing very close all around them. There were a few scary incidents, with tree limbs falling and near-misses, although no one was actually struck. It made me aware that I needed to be careful in storms. Trees, mountains, and lightning were a dangerous combination.
On a sad note, Methuselah left the trail in Hot Springs to have arthoscopic surgery on his knee. He was such a kind and gentle soul that I would miss knowing he was on the trail. But Methuselah had left an impression on my heart that would be with me as I continued north toward Maine. When I came to a particularly difficult part of the trail, all I had to do was remember that 75-year-old blind man who hiked 270 miles of very rugged terrain through the mountains, and the trail kind of smoothed out ahead of me.
Friends often worried that I would encounter threatening people or animals on the Appalachian Trail. I had no frightening incidents, though, until one night when I was tenting all alone near the top of a mountain in a small clearing, surrounded by forest. Suddenly in the middle of the night I was awakened by the sound of animals outside my tent. I could tell they were close, they were moving around, and from the sound of their heavy breathing, they were large. I was terrified. My heart began pumping so loudly, it filled by whole chest cavity and resonated in my ears. I lay completely still, not wanting to make a sound, praying they wouldn't know I was there if they couldn't hear me. My mind went over the list of possible animals, that size. I figured it had to be bears or wild boars, but they sounded too big to be boars. It had to be bears.
I had hung my food in a tree about 50 yards from my tent and it sounded like they were headed in that direction. I was relieved that I had followed the advice of other hikers and had gone to the trouble of hanging my food instead of keeping it inside my tent. If they snagged my food, the next morning I'd have to go back to the road I had passed about a mile earlier and hitch into town to resupply. Just as I started to relax slightly, thinking worse things could happen, I realized they were coming back. They seemed to surround my tent. One posted itself just a few feet away from my head and stayed there, breathing loudly. My earlier terror increased.
I had two thoughts in my mind: "Oh no, I forgot about the two Fig Newtons in my waist pack!" And, "Dear God, I don't want to die being mauled by bears!" Soundlessly, I pulled my little Swiss Army knife out of my waist pack and opened it. My only plan was that if they came in one side of the tent, I'd try to slice open the other end and get out. I lay there without moving a muscle, eyes wide open, staring, listening, praying.
They stayed for a least an hour, one near my tent, the others moving about, snapping tree branches and twigs. What were they doing? Why were they staying such a long time? When were they going to make their attack? And what was I doing all by myself in the middle of the woods inside a tiny tent with no protection?
Suddenly, it began to thunder, lightning and pour. I had never in my life been so glad to have a thunderstorm arrrive. I figured the storm would drive the animals away and, sure enough, I was no longer able to hear them. An hour of absolute terror had exhausted me, and I soon fell asleep.
At 6:30 the next morning, I awoke feeling instant relief that my scary night was over. But within moments I realized I could still hear the heavy breathing outside my tent! I'd heard of people being trapped in shelters-or even in a privy-in the Smokies all day by bears, and I reluctantly contemplated the thought of spending the day in my tent until someone came along to help.
I was a little braver in daylight, however, so I carefully unzipped a small section of my tent, peered out from under the rain fly, and saw a huge cow calmly staring at me, chewing her cud! She didn't look the least bit threatening. I just lay there shaking my head at my own idiocy. And then I fell back asleep for a hour. When I awoke again, she was gone, but there was a fresh cow pie near my tent.
I saw four more cows nearby when I began hiking, and immediately started crying, perhaps as a release from the bottled-up terror of the night before. I had no idea the trail on the top of that mountain was near a pasture with a broken-down fence in between. Does it seem as if our worst fears often out to be groundless?
Jean's book, There are Mountains To Climb, is available from:
Silverwood Press,1508 East 86th Street #105, Indianapolis, IN. 46240