Banks and colleagues seek shelter from snow on trail

By Harold Banks | Alex City Outlook

Published Thursday, March 11, 2010

Editor’s Note: This is the second in a series of stories written by Dadeville resident Harold Banks about his hike and near-death experiences on the Appalachian Trail several years ago. The story will appear in consecutive editions of The Outlook.

I fight to overcome my body’s reluctance to perform and trudge over Whitetop Mountain using what are certainly my last reserves of strength and energy. Despite my agony and near total exhaustion, my dim spirit is revived by the accomplishment.

Halfway down the other side of the mountain and about two miles from our shelter, we meet a party of day hikers. They inform us that our destination shelter was torched by vandals a few weeks ago. They also say that heavy snow is predicted and advise us to walk along the U. S. Forest Service road at the bottom of Whitetop Mountain to a paved road where we can hitchhike to a motel. That sounds great to me, but for Danny and Jim that is not an option. There are mileage goals to keep. We continue in silence not knowing how we will spend the night, but hoping that at least a portion of the shelter roof remains to protect us. We had forgotten to ask about that possibility. All hopes dissipate when we finally come to the charred pile of rubble a short distance beyond the gravel road. Light is fading fast. The ground is boggy here at the base of Mt. Rogers and the noise from sleet hitting my rain shell hood is increasing. It would be a lousy place to pitch a tent, but the point is moot since we don’t even have one. Jim pulls the trail guide from his pack and studies it for a while, then announces, “We’ll just have to make it to the next shelter. It can’t be more than five miles.”

My mind screams, “No more than five miles! I don’t have five hundred yards left in me. And this isn’t just any five miles. It means climbing up and over the highest mountain in Virginia – in the sleet and snow – in the dark. Absolute madness!” Before I can figure out an alternative and actually mouth a protest, Jim has already taken the lead on the trail ahead. With his lean 6-foot, 5-inch frame, he takes only two strides to my three. I cannot possibly keep up with that pace any longer. I summon the courage to shout, “Jim I don’t think I can make it over Mt. Rogers.” Jim yells back, “Yeah, you can make it HB. You’re the toughest man I know. Besides, we don’t have go to the top of the mountain because the main trail circles a little below the crest to the shelter on the other side. There is an alternate route over the summit, but we’ll take the easier way.”

Some consolation. Toughest man he knows? Ha! I have made a bad mistake feigning enthusiasm and suffering in silence. Determination, stoicism, and plain bull-headedness can only take you so far, and I have found that limit.

Within minutes, the sleet turns to very heavy, wet, wind-driven snow. A few minutes more and all daylight is gone. We stop just long enough to pull out flashlights to guide us. For a while it is easy enough to follow the trail because it fills with snow before the surrounding terrain does, creating an easily visible white path. However, as we climb higher and the entire ground becomes deeply covered in fresh snow, it is almost impossible to follow. The Appalachian Trail is well marked by white paint blazes on trees, but the blazes are now obscured by the snow plastered to everything. Frequent pauses become necessary as Danny and Jim brush snow off tree trunks looking for the white trail blazes. That is a good thing for me because at this point, it is either slow progress or no progress.

The climb is steep and I am leaning so far forward under the weight of my pack that my face almost touches my knees. I stumble more often and have to consciously force aching, burning legs to rise for each step. The exertion is beyond anything I have ever experienced and surely my heart will explode at any moment. I have given up breath control and do not even try to stifle the gasping sounds from each inhalation. I am sweating profusely despite temperatures now well below freezing. Gore-tex rain suits are supposedly breathable. Maybe they are sitting in a football stadium, but working like this I am as soaked as if I were sealed in Saran wrap.

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