My bucket list has three new entries.

The first I shouldn’t mention. It would be premature, perhaps even inappropriate. Despite making several comments, outright and subtle, I haven’t obtained spousal approval for it. Not even close. My mentions of it have brought only stares, puzzled looks, and a few dismissive comments…like when I suggested that our bedsheet doesn’t need to be tucked under the foot of our queen mattress.

Still, I’ll mention it. I want to “thru-kayak” the Missouri River—the longest river in North America. Beginning in the Rocky Mountains area of southwestern Montana (near a spot where Sacagawea was kidnapped by the Hidatsa during a raid on a Shoshone camp), the grand waterway flows 2,341 miles to St Louis, Missouri (near a spot where my youngest son, Kyle, aka B.W. POT, frequents St Louis Cardinals games).

My kayaking experience? Limited. 30 minutes on a pond in Montclair, Virginia. 120 minutes in a tandem kayak on Alaska’s beautiful Chilkoot Lake with my even more beautiful wife. And a strenuous, windy, 120-minute family adventure in sea kayaks off the coast of Bar Harbor, Maine. That should be sufficient. I mean, how hard can it be to paddle a boat downstream for 3 months? I just need spousal approval. And a kayak.

That brings me to my second new bucket list entry. This one, a result of our recent move to Maryville, Tennessee, is not only approved, but underway! Over the next several years, I plan to hike the Top 20 trails in the Smoky Mountains…accompanied by my better half whenever possible.

So, on August 12, 2019, my assault on this bucket list item began. Tale of the tape…

Trail Number 1 – Newfound Gap to Charlies Bunion
Roundtrip Length: 8.1 miles
Total Elevation Gain: 1640 feet
Avg. Elevation Gain/Mile: 405 feet
Highest Elevation: 6122 feet
Trail Difficulty Rating: 11.38 (strenuous)
Trip Photos: posted in a new album on my Author Steve Johnson Facebook page

My hike took place on my way to pick up Janet in South Carolina, where she had spent the week caring for her injured sister. Earlier, she had informed me that this particular hike was just outside her definition of fun. Thus, I would journey solo.

With my worn AT backpack, two 2-liter bottles of ice cold water, a few books, two PB & J sandwiches, some chips, and an apple, I generously applied lube and left our apartment at 7:30 a.m. for the 90-minute drive to Newfound Gap. On the way, I caught the day’s weather forecast on the radio—the heat index was expected to top 100 degrees, one of the hottest days of the year. Although initially concerned, I remembered I had two things going for me: a morning hike, and one that would begin at a much cooler 5049 feet above sea level and climb to over 6100 feet.

I arrived at the large Newfound Gap parking lot at 9 o’clock and was surprised to see only about a dozen other cars at the popular tourist area. Stepping out of the car, the memories came flooding back. I remembered arriving at that same parking lot on Day 21 of my AT hike, accompanied by Princess Elle, who anxiously awaited the arrival of her boyfriend. On that 2016 day, we received “rock star” treatment as people approached us like tourist attractions to ask us about our thru-hikes.

Fast forward to 2019—no rock star treatment this time. I was too plump and clean-smelling to be confused for a thru-hiker. Less visibly, I was wearing cotton underwear, a trail anathema. I strapped on my pack and walked across the parking lot toward a sign marking the way to head northbound (actually eastbound) on the Appalachian Trail. “Hello, old friend,” I mumbled to myself, then began my ascent.

America’s most glorious trail wasted little time in putting me on a steady, uphill climb, with white blazes marking the way. Once again, my mind began processing the myriad memories from my AT hike. The canopy of trees that form a long green tunnel. The need to keep my head down, much of the time, to plot the next step forward, factoring in rocks, roots, trees, and other obstacles. My ears peeled for the sound of anything unexpected. My arms and legs pumping in unison like a machine. Sweat beads forming on my brow. Muscles twitching in my calves and thighs as I propelled myself forward. The perfect intersection of my physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional selves. (Warm banana pudding has the same effect.)

Man, it was good to be back!

My first milestone, because an ENTJ like myself always must have a goal, was to cover the nearly three miles to Icewater Spring shelter without stopping. Along the way, I passed five couples, two dogs, and a child who, to their credit, had embarked on much more leisurely treks. While it wasn’t the right time of year to catch blooming wildflowers, I enjoyed stunning views of the North Carolina Smokies to the south.

At about the mile point, I encountered my first and only snake of the day—a harmless garter snake. Moments later, I glanced down and spotted a tick crawling along my left forearm. Fun fact: During my 2016 hike, I encountered only two ticks over 2100+ miles—both on my arms—one embedded and one crawling. On this day, I encountered a tick within the first mile of my hike. Okay, so that fact wasn’t all that fun.

As I climbed, I looked forward to my return to the Bunion. I longed to stand alone atop the famed rock, surveying the vast wilderness around me. Incidentally, the name Charlies Bunion was derived when Charlie Conner went on a hike with Horace Kephart, a friend and one of the early visionaries for a national park in the Smokies. When they paused to rest near the now famous rocks, Conner took off his boots and socks, revealing a rather severe bunion that resembled the rocks in front of the men. Kephart observed Conner’s feet and said, “Charlie, I’m going to get this place put on a government map for you.” And that’s precisely what happened. Had Horace hiked with me, rather than Charlie, the place would be called Steves Toenail-Fungus.

As I continued my climb along the ever-narrowing ridge, I glanced at my watch every few minutes to note the change in elevation. I’m not mentally at peace unless I have some sort of data to process and make sense of. It helped me pass the time during long stretches alone on the green tunnel in 2016. You might call me analytical…or simply a nerd.

At the 3-mile point, I arrived at my first stopping point, the Icewater Spring shelter, which is named after the nearby spring that flows from a pipe in the middle of the trail. I sat on the bench at the front of the vacant shelter, and the memories returned. I remembered sitting on that very bench, three years earlier, in sub-freezing weather, surrounded by dear friends who came to be known as the Great Smoky Mountains Bubble.

It was at this very shelter I met John Just who was hiking the AT to draw attention to his rare, genetic Fabry disease. We also encountered a sweet, though slightly overwhelmed couple, accompanied by their 9-year-old daughter, a telescope, guitar, and canned goods…but no sleeping pads. The poor girl tossed and turned, shivered, and cried out throughout the night. I felt bad for her. I hoped that she would survive the night. I also hoped that if she didn’t survive the night, I might get a share of her food.

Speaking of food, I made quick work of an apple and PB & J, as four section hikers from Indiana arrived and chatted with me about…guess what…the AT. I opened the shelter log, signed in with a note, and scanned a few of the entries. The day prior, a hiker with the trail name Spirit had been there. He/She wrote, “I am infinitely grateful for the woods and the peace it brings me. I am 90 days sober and feeling better than ever. It’s always a bit scary leaving the comforts of society for the outdoors for weeks but it is always worth it… ‘into the forest I go, to lose my mind & find my soul – John Muir’.” I appreciate the note and hope this hiker finds what they’re looking for. Not all trail magic takes the form of food.

Before departing the shelter, I established the Icewater Spring shelter library by placing my two AT hiking books and devotional book, secured inside clear, protective storage bags, on the upper bunk inside the shelter. Maybe God has someone in mind to read them.

Back on the trail, I snapped a picture of the Icewater Spring, then continued mostly downhill about a mile to a sign marking the Charlies Bunion spur trail to the left. With it being a Monday morning, I anticipated having the place to myself. I would be able to climb the famed bunion alone, with the peace and serenity of the Smokies surrounding me. As I carefully walked along the narrow ledge with an extremely steep drop-off, I took in spectacular views, including Mount LeConte, and considered how easy it would be for someone to misstep and die.

As I rounded the final turn, I looked up and was shocked to discover the glorious bunion was covered with unsightly humanity! Bummer! But, hey, no problem. I would hang out at the base of the bunion and chat with a couple as we waited for the large, brown-skinned contingent to climb off the famed rock. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Despite glancing at my watch and then glancing their way several times, they didn’t get the hint. For the next 10 minutes, they laughed, took in the views, and chatted in a language appearing to be Spanish, although I wasn’t close enough to confirm.

Needing to get back down the trail, and unwilling to wait any longer for them to show tourist etiquette and gracefully exit, I got an idea. I cautiously approached the base of the rock and, using the pseudo-Spanish I learned from my friend Terry Reeves in Honduras, said, “Hola. Mi nombre es Steve, aka Fob. Me gusta…uh…una foto…uh…on that bunion you’re sitting on.”

They looked at each other, laughed, and motioned for me to join them. Yes, it was an offer to join the party. The party on the bunion. Or, as they say in Guadalajara, la fiesta en el juanete.

As I scrambled up the rock, using both hands to keep my balance, one of the male rock occupants said something to me. I couldn’t tell if it was “que es un Fob?” or “queso Fob” (a rare cheese) or perhaps something else. My ear canals were sweaty. Not wanting to be impolite, I replied, “Es una larga story…for another tiempo.”

At the top of Charlies Bunion, I quickly assimilated to my hosts’ lives and culture. We smiled, high-fived each other, laughed for no reason, posed for a few photos, and bonded in ways that transcend language and nationality. This wasn’t the moment of quiet, solitary beauty I had anticipated, but it was special…really special. Trail magic, in fact.

Realizing they had no plans to leave the bunion, and might even live there, it was time for me to gracefully exit. I gave them a few more fist bumps, started down the rock, and looked back to say, “Gracias, amigos.” They smiled and said something I couldn’t quite make out. It might have been, “Fob, eres el mejor.”

I made my way back to the trail, and turned westward toward Newfound Gap. A few miles later, I caught up with another couple and their son who were plodding along. Craving conversation in my native tongue, I asked if they had been to Charlies Bunion…they had. I asked if they had met the delightful Hispanic people atop the bunion.

“Yes,” the man said. “But they’re not Hispanic. They’re from India.”

Boom.

That brings me to my third new bucket list item: learn Hindi.

Until then, this first of 20 planned hikes of the Smokies will remain… la fiesta en el juanete!