I walked into the clouds today, moving steadily upward from the camps, climbing the mountains that loom over the far side of the lake.
The path was familiar at first, and far from arresting in its beauty. I followed a dirt road through the trees--changing already at this altitude--passing familiar turnoffs and paths. I was sleepy, and a bit bored, and longed for something to catch my attention.
Soon enough, I reached the end of the dirt road and, picking through "puckerbrush" and undergrowth, began to follow an old trail. The trail crawled up the mountain steeply, and I followed it even as it became more difficult to ascertain exactly where it it was leading me. The climb was seeminly interminable, and at no point could I find a vista of any sort.
At some point, after bushwacking through the overgrown trail for some time, I came upon an old metal stove. The rusted bohemoth sat alongside the trail, filled with rotting leaves and decaying vegetable matter. On the other side of the trail I saw a doorway leading into the mountain. Carefully placed stone masonry ringed the opening, and wooden beams supported the earth. A rusting 1970's pull-top Pepsi can sat just outside the door.
I carefully approached the door. "Hello?" I said, hoping that whoever had once lived here no longer did.
Nobody responded to my call. I listened for noises. Nothing.
I moved along down the trail, making space between me and the strange place. I am always greatly affected by abandoned homes, ghost towns, and the like, and being alone atop a mountain made the whole experience even more spooky. I moved along, and the vegetation quickly grew strange as I moved deeper into the perpetual cloud cover.
The ground was covered with rotting trees, the soil obviously made of natural compost. Moss grew over everything fallen, creating a dark green carpet over the forest floor. The tall, thick trees blocked out much of the harsh, cloudy light.
I crept along, a bit hesitant, but unwilling to allow this supernaturally strange feeling to stop my trip. Suddenly, I stepped on something strangely non-organic. I looked down to see a taut metal wire suspended a few inches above the trail. The wire ran up the slope, following the trail.
I stepped back quickly, assuring myself that my imaginary 1970's hermit had certainly not installed trip wires. And, I told myself, if he had, he certainly had not connected said wires to packages of dynamite. And what more, I thought, even if he had done such a thing, the dynamite would surely not have lasted this long under such damp conditions.
I stepped back from the wire, nearly convinced by my reasoning, but not quite. I slowly continued up the hill, supporting myself with small trees as protection against the dangers posed by the slick, moss-covered rocks.
After another half-hour or so, I reached what seemed to be the peak of the mountain. Stepping into a small clearing, I found, to my surprise, that I had stumbled across the Appalachian Trail. I sat for a few minutes, studying the signs and the distances to local landmarks listed, and then began my careful trek downwards.
This time, I felt much more confident about my surroundings, and took to a bit of exploring. I tugged on the wire (but not too harshly) to see where it led (I couldn't figure it out), and when I reached the "hermit's home", found, upon peeking in the door, that it was in fact only a small root cellar. The "room" was only about four feet wide, four feet high, and three feet deep, and had obviously served as a small storage space.
Curious now, I looked around, sure that some sort of home must be nearby. I found more metal parts, in addition to the stove. I kicked a strange looking object, which promptly fell apart, revealing a six-pack like structure made up of long, thin tubes (dynamite????). I found a long slab of concrete that appeared to cover other rocks. I began to kick at it and it fell apart. I put the pieces back quickly, thinking "what if this is a grave?"
It was all now much more interesting than it was spooky, but nonetheless, I chose not to spend too much time there and continued on my way down the mountain.
When I finally reached the Camp again, I told Eric about my hike, and began to ask him questions about the strange things that I had seen. The answers, of course, were much more mundane and much less spooky than my imagination had led me to believe, but still quite interesting. I had passed what was once a fire-watcher's post. The small room was in fact a root cellar of sorts, and the house this man once lived in was burned down by the forest service long ago. The strange grave-like concrete slab was the step that led into the house.
And so, somewhat sadly, the mystery has been solved, and I can now hike up the mountain across the pond with impunity and confidence, but without mystery or adventure.
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