MT. LE CONTE LODGE, Great Smokies Park, Oct. 25, 1940—

When I go to see a National Park, I like to walk in it.

I don’t want to mope along with a tourist party behind a naturalist, and I don’t want to ride no damned horse. I just want to get out all by myself like a hermit and square off my shoulders and head uphill.

There is plenty of walking for a fellow like me in the Great Smokies. In fact there are 675 miles of trails that meander all over this vast park.

But the main trails patronized by tourists are the five different routes which lead up to the top of Mt. Le Conte, nearly 6600 feet high. Many people make it up and back in one day. But others, like myself add 95 per cent to the pleasure by staying on top all night.

People had told me the Alum Cave trail was the prettiest and most spectacular. So, the day before starting, I went over to Park Headquarters to inquire and get my bearings.

I wound up talking to Assistant Chief Ranger Harold Edwards. He wears a uniform and has a desk and lots of papers on it, so I believed every word he said.

He said it would take me five hours to climb the Alum Cave trail. He said it would be the longest five and a half miles I ever walked. He said it was very steep, and footing irregular.

Well, it is possible I misunderstood Ranger Edwards, but I doubt it. Also it is possible that I’m a better man than I thought. But that seems somewhat fantastic, since I think I’m practically perfect to start with. So I can only deduce that Ranger Edwards, in spite of being a nice fellow, simply has days when he isn’t all there.

For, instead of five hours, I was on top of Mt. Le Conte in two hours and 50 minutes. And since I had prepared myself for a terrible ordeal, it seemed like the shortest five and a half miles I ever walked. It was, in fact, smooth and nice all the way up.

Poor Mr. Edwards. I guess he meant well, but he just didn’t realize he was talking with one of the mountain-climbingest goats this side of Tibet.

BACK TO SLEEP

In preparation for this historic stroll I awoke at 7 a.m., yawned a couple of times, and went back to sleep for half an hour. Then I ate breakfast, read the morning paper, got those old gray pants out of the back of the car and, as a final gesture, put them on.

Also I filled up the little chamois pack sack which That Girl made for my gallant walk through the Rockies last year from the United States to Canada.

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In this pack sack I put an extra sweater, four hankerchiefs (because I still have a cold), an extra pair of socks, two Hershey bars, two oranges, an old ham sandwich, and an extra pack of cigarettes, in case my wind gave out.

I did not take my sun glasses, nor a camera, nor a bottle of water, nor a ten-pound toilet kit, nor my new tuxedo, since past experience as an Alpinist has shown that such things are all a lot of nonsense.

It was 9:20 a.m. when I stepped out of Ranger Edwards’ car, shook hands, and, without once looking back, plunged into the jungle. Exciting experiences were not long in coming.

I hadn’t gone 200 yards when I came upon two couples standing in the trail, talking. They didn’t see me coming, so I had to walk around them. As I did so one woman said, “Oh excuse me,” and I said, “That’s all right.”

Fifty yards farther on I came upon a man with a cane, sitting against a tree. He said, “Are those people still gabbing back there?” and I said, “Yes,” and he said, “I thought so.”

When I had been walking an hour and a half, I met two young men coming down the trail like rockets. We stopped and smoked a cigarette together. They had walked clear to the top already this morning, and were well on their way back down, and it was now only 10:45. It was then I began to smell a mouse in Mr. Edwards’ sinister warnings about the trail.

“How far along am I?” I asked. It was my impression I was barely getting started.

“Oh, you’re half way there,” they said.

“And the trail ahead, how is it?” I asked.

“No steeper than you’ve come over,” they said. By that time Mr. Edwards’ mouse smelled real bad. But I was glad, too, for if there’s one thing I like about a mountain trail it’s for there not to be much more of it. I lunged on, and disappeared around a bend.

DISTANCES DECEPTIVE

At 12 o’clock sharp, I came around another bend and there ahead, across a valley stood a sharp precipice. They had told me that right behind this precipice lay the Le Conte Lodge.

I stood a minute, and tried to judge how long it would take to get there. Distances in the mountains are very deceptive. Out West you can see a long way, hence an actual distance is much farther than it looks. I remember once, in the high Rockies, figuring it would take an hour to get to a certain ridge, but it actually took three hours.

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So with this in mind, I estimated one hour to get to this precipice. And shiver these old timbers, if I wasn’t there in 10 minutes. The climb was over, and I hadn’t even eaten my sandwich.

Just as I topped the ridge, I turned around in the direction of Park Headquarters, and looked far down toward where Ranger Edwards was probably nestling behind his desk, and I puckered up my mouth and said, “Five hours Pvvvvvvtt.”

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P. S.—And now that I’ve used up this whole column bragging on myself, I suppose I’ll have to get to work tomorrow and tell you what I saw on the trip. Hope I can think of something good.

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