An adjacent peak was shrouded in gray, and we knew it was storming on that peak. We still had sunshine, at least for the next few minutes.
Just above the trail of laurels, which I had intended to photograph on the way down, the storm slammed into us, pounding rain. We picked up our pace, but I knew we were simply going to get wet. We were at minimum, a fast paced hour’s hike from the road. We had no gear. We got pelted by painful stinging giant drops, hurled from above. The steep narrow trails became slick with running water as we hiked as fast as we could without running. Soaked through, cold, we kept up the pace until we reached the stone arch. It was packed with people trying to stay dry. And slippery. And we were slick. It was all I could do to get hold of the one handrail going through there, because some people didn’t want to let go, even through they weren’t traveling downhill like we were. They were trying to wait it out.
I had only one waterproof anything, and that was a small zip lock bag with corn muffins that we had brought for a snack. I stuffed my phone in with the muffins, and we took off into the rain. The split rail bridges worried me. I knew there were three, one that passed above raging rapids. I couldn’t relax until we had cleared all of them. Then, all that was left was a hike. My boots were full of water as we squelched our way towards the road. By the time we reached the trail we had entered on, the one with the wonderful river sound, the rain had lightened. In the last few minutes, I saw people hiking the other way, dry people. There was a group with umbrellas. Not hikers probably, but it was kind of cute. And it let me know were near the trailhead. Distance walkers don’t carry umbrellas.
Backpacking, you change out in the open. In a trailhead parking lot, not so much. But were drenched, and not getting in the car like that. I reached into the trunk and came out with a beach towel. Good start. The next thing I snagged turned out to an oversized tee shirt I brought to sleep in. Good move too. I faced into the open car and changed shirts. From there, my days as a Miami teen kicked in. I could totally change out of a wet bathing suit on the beach without showing anything, and I did the same moves now. All it takes is a big shirt. I even changed bras.
Laughing, dry, we piled the wet stuff on the towel on the floor of the back seat. We got belted in, and my husband said “Let’s go to Whites Creek.” He was right. Never mind that we had planned to visit the craft galleries on the other side of Gatlinburg. It was enough adventure. Home sounded great.
My inner young backpacker was still with me when I stepped out our back door with the wet bundle. For a second, the waiting clothesline and the green yard looked like luxury, before it looked like home again.
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