The Mysteries of Tricorner Knob (Day 23)

3/9/2023 Thursday

I’m writing this from my tent, perched on a small parcel of level ground nestled between dramatically swooping inclines covered in, you guessed it, rhododendrons. The shelter is above me in the ravine and I can hear the sounds of friendly hiker chatter (there’s a ridge runner here who used to be an attorney and has a manner not unlike Mr. Rogers about him—none of the thru hikers were chuffed to have a “cop” sleeping in the shelter with them).

Indiana—an older hiker I traveled with over a hundred miles ago—showed up at the shelter, looking many pounds thinner and much tanner. It seems thru-hiking suits him! Bill and I felt buoyed to see someone from earlier on the trail. Two brothers—Mark and Ethan—joined us. Mark is a thin bearded man who reminds me of an old friend. They’re out for a three day trip that overlaps with the AT. They were impressed that I recognized that they were brothers, but actually I just thought Mark was cute, seemed gay, and wondered if perhaps they were a couple. It was just easier to gain that information by assuming they’re brothers. They just happened to be actual brothers (who, in point of fact, bear little resemblance to each other). Don’t judge me—I learned these tricks from Ben! I’m a shameless flirt, but not so shameless as my husband!

Let’s talk for a minute about that shelter name, Cosby Knob—yikes! Now, I think it’s still ok to adore the Huxtables even after what Cosby did. So I choose to call it “Rudy Ridge” instead, in honor of Rudy Huxtable. If you’re thinking that that sounds too much like Ruby Ridge, yeah, but doesn’t that add a fascinating additional layer?

This morning I walked down a beautiful “aisle.” The trail went level, gentle even, and took me through a section of forest where tiny, fresh pieces of pine lay everywhere, still green and full of scent. Maybe a storm? It’s the kind of effect you could spend huge $$$ to replicate at a rich wedding and still end up with a cheap imitation. How could you ever match the freshness of the air, the artistic flair with which the mosses adorn the gnarled roots? You could hire Lars von Trier and maybe pull it off on film, though god only knows what it would cost you to pay him to create something and have it not come out deeply alienating.

The terrain was so gentle. The day and the miles seemed to fly by. I was forever stopping to jot a note or idea in my notebook—a sign that trail legs may be coming, since I’m feeling good enough to be having ideas.

Since it’s a short day, I took a leisurely tour of Tricorner Knob, a shelter I reached just after 11. It was a trip down memory lane. Back in 2021, Trip and I spent a miserable, wonderful, memorable night in that shelter. It was my first night in any shelter, and we were hiding out from rain and deadly cold temperatures (around 15 degrees F), which came in the night as a sort of treat. (Contrast that with the weather we’ve been having this year—no rain in five days and mostly mild temps—and then remember that Trip and I hiked the Smokies 12 days LATER in that season). He and I spent the day hiking through chilling rains and periodic showers of ice that fell from the trees at the slightest provocation and painfully impacted any part of the body not protected. Every time we heard the sound of ice raining down, we’d both put our trekking poles above our heads. We each took hard blows to the thumb. So it was a rough day and Tricorner was our (full, stinky) refuge at the end of it. I couldn’t face a wet and frozen tent, so I talked Trip into staying in the shelter with me, even though we were trying to avoid shelters because of the pandemic.

I tell you all this because I have extra time and I want to give you a “tour” of a shelter. AT shelters are an institution in their own right. Before I do that, a quick note for Ben.

MESSAGE FOR BENNY BEGINS: Hey sweet pea, can you get that book with all the histories of AT shelters and take a picture of the page (or pages) on Tricorner and then send to me? I want to add the researched history to the impressionistic portrait I’m about to provide. The book is on the bookshelf in our bedroom between the bricks marked “Athens Block.” Nope, that’s the book on houseplants that my parents gave us for Christmas. This one has a green spine too but it’s smaller. Yeah, that one. The section on Tricorner should be near the beginning because it’s only at 220-some miles. MESSAGE FOR BENNY ENDS

Smoky Mountain shelters are a bit different. They’re much much larger, and almost all of them (or maybe all of them come to think about it) feature double-deck sleeping areas. They also have large covered social areas where you can cook and also a fireplace, sometimes two with one on either side. Tricorner is a fascinating place. It’s the most remote shelter in the park, or so I’ve read. It sits very close to a small spring, so close that the area around it is marshy and boards have been placed across muddy patches. I doubt that a contemporary shelter would ever be placed so close to a water source. There’s a privy—also surprisingly close to the water source, but downstream from where hikers would actually fill up.

The shelter is built of what appears to be fieldstone, perhaps local. Probably. Who would haul all that stone in from somewhere else? The shelter backs on a hill, and time has begun to blur the line between nature and the structure (see pics below). When I stayed there I slept on the top bunk. My inflatable pillow kept falling into a large gap between the sleeping platform and the wall. You can see mice run along the walls in the evening. All AT shelters have mice, it’s just a question of whether you will notice them.

When we woke in the morning at that shelter in 2021, everything that had been wet was frozen solid. A nutty hiker—who looked like he weighed 85lbs wet, which he was—dunked his trail runners into the little stream flowing from the spring to “soften” them up enough to untie the frozen laces and allow his feet inside. You can avoid this scenario by untying your shoes and opening them up BEFORE they freeze overnight.

Back in 2023, the rains have come. I can hear the gentle patter on my tent. Nothing to be upset about—we could get a hurricane and still be some of the luckiest people, weather-wise, to have hiked through the Smokies on the AT. I’ll finish the tour in photos.

I didn’t get a shot of the whole shelter, but you can google that real easy. Also, spooky thing about this shelter: I was alone but something is blowing or dripping such that you always think you can hear the footsteps of someone approaching—you can’t see the path that leads to the main trail when you’re in the shelter. But no one is there.