Ice Storm

Sometime in high school my friend Scott and I took a backpacking trip up into the mountains of western North Carolina. In the middle of winter. We were young, and it bothers me only a little to admit that this was well before the Weather Channel, or the Internet at all, and in our planning and packing we had really paid almost no attention to the weather forecast, mainly just expecting it to be cold at the altitude we were hiking. Which, among other things, it turned out to be.

My parents had driven us up past the end of the pavement, and we shouldered our packs at the head of an approach trail, as they’re known, to the Appalachian Trail, which we planned to hike over two nights and as many days. 

I think I was seventeen at the time, though maybe sixteen, and Scott a couple of years younger. My parents were used to this sort of thing. Backpacking had been a passion of mine for several years at this point, along with motorcycles, Beat literature, and guitars. What I lacked in experience I compensated for with a vivid imagination and strong sense of possibility. 

As the car drove out of sight, tires clawing back down the gravel road, we began the ascent of Wesser Bald on the narrow trail. It was a heavily overcast and chilly day, and as we climbed it began to lightly spit snow mixed with freezing rain. We stopped to don our rain gear and then shouldered on, up into the low hanging clouds that shrouded the mountain. 

As we continued up it began to get noticeably colder, and the sleeting snow increased, driving into our hooded faces. I began to wish I had packed ski goggles, as the glasses I was wearing needed to be wiped off every few minutes. As the day moved into late afternoon the snow increased and the temperature continued to drop. Ice was beginning to collect on the trees.

Finally, with the sun going down, we arrived at the top of the mountain and the old fire tower which, on a clear day, gave a three hundred sixty degree view of the surrounding peaks and valleys. Today, it was socked in by thick gray clouds, driving a steady mix of snow and sleet across the exposed mountaintop. We were an hour away from total darkness, and the storm, for it had become a storm, was beginning to coat everything in ice. 

We had brought a tent, but the idea of pitching it in the driving wind on the top of the mountain, seemed like a doubtful proposition. And if the storm continued to build, who knew if it would even survive the night. Scott and I, hopeful, unshouldered our packs, and climbed the ice covered steps up into the fire tower. 

The tower, in the face of budget cuts and more modern technology, had been closed a couple of years before. Since then, vandals had broken all the glass in the panoramic windows. As we climbed up into the tower, it was obvious it would be no place to spend the night. With all the glass broken, the wind howled through and the floor was already slick with snow and ice. The beginnings of hypothermia began to cloud our thoughts.

As we’re about to climb back down and look for a level place to pitch the tent, we noticed a small two by two foot opening in the ceiling, leading up apparently, to somewhere. From Scott’s shoulders I was able to pull myself up into what was a small attic, sheltered from the elements. This was a game changer, quite possibly a lifesaver. We brought up the packs, I handed them up to Scott in the attic, then climbed up myself. 

Any number of places can be described as heaven. A beach on the Yucatan, sharing a special meal with family or friends, a rainbow trout rising to a dry fly on a clear mountain river. But this sheltered attic in an abandoned tower in a winter storm, was heaven. Outside the wind howled, the tower swayed, ice pounded the shingles. But inside we made hot tea on our little camp stove, unrolled our sleeping bags, heated up soup, and congratulated ourselves on being warm and alive. 

The next morning was clear and cold. Brittle sparkling icicles hung from the tower and trees. Deep snow covered the ground. All white as far as the eye could see. A redtail hawk hung in the wind, reveling in it, looking for breakfast. When the sun was up high enough to begin melting the ice, Scott and I descended the tower and started down the trail toward Wesser Creek.

As we hiked down the steep switchbacks, back and forth across the mountainside, it became obvious there would have been no level ground to pitch a tent. For miles. Had we chosen to pitch it on top in the wind, the chances of it remaining upright the entire night would have been just a wish and a coin toss. A freezing night exposed to the elements. Coincidence? Opportunity? Luck? God had sent us that two by two foot entrance into the tower attic. It just wasn’t our time yet.

Got down to Nantahala Outdoor Center late that afternoon, a couple of wet, dirty, hungry teenage backpackers. The NOC, which has become a mini empire of outdoor stores and activity across the southern Appalachians, was then only a one room cabin hanging out over the river, pot bellied wood stove in the center. Hopefully hot food. We stumbled in the front door. An older local employee was manning the store.

“Where’re you fellas coming from in this weather?”

“Up on Wesser Bald.”

“Last night? In the storm?”

“Yessir.”

“Well I’ll be damned. Must of been a helluva night. I’m the only one could make it to work today. Only cause I live close and have four wheel drive. Roads are iced up and closed every direction.”

Scott and I just looked at each other. Grateful is as good a word as any. Outside, the river was already high, muddy, and still rising from the snowmelt. 

“You have anything to eat?” We politely asked.

“You’re in luck boys. Made some of my famous Nantahala River chili today. And some fresh cornbread.”

Life isn’t always like this, but I’ve remained open to possibility, and as we bellied up to the stove with bowls of hot chili, for the second time in twenty four hours, we were in Heaven.