Blood Mountain

Blood Mountain

Discovering the Mountains of North Georgia

In the autumn of 1994, my world was spinning out of control. A new job was odious, an important relationship with a girlfriend was disintegrating, and available options seemed few indeed. That October, I had dinner with my old boss at a restaurant near LAX. Danny Rhyan had relocated to Georgia with my previous employer, and he was back in Southern California on company business related to the move. Over dinner, Danny informed me that the company had not yet filled my old position, and if I wanted the job and was willing to relocate to Georgia, the job was still mine. There was one issue; I had to make the decision here at dinner tonight.  
 
From a technical point of view, the move made sense. The company was going in a new direction and was installing cutting-edge enterprise application software, and experience with this technology would augment and expand my resume, perhaps extend my career. The biggest issue before me was the prospect of moving to Georgia, and I was uncertain about it. I had not lived in the South since my Army days at Fort Bragg in North Carolina, but Atlanta was a cosmopolitan center and had much to offer. I loved California, though, and was hesitant to leave the West. I now stood at a major crossroads, and knew this decision would affect my life for many years to come. As I was no longer young, the most important thing was to secure the future in regards to career and earning potential. With that thought in mind, and realizing that I could no longer continue in my current situation, I stuck out my hand and said yes, I’ll come. Danny took it and smiled, then told me his secretary would fax me the actual offer in the morning. That was it, for better or for worse; I was heading back to the South to live near Atlanta. At that moment in life, many familiar doors and options closed and unknown portals to new and exciting opportunities opened for me in the future, and the axis of my world changed dramatically. 
 
I drove into Georgia on November 9, 1994 and rented an apartment soon after my arrival. My company had relocated to Norcross, a small town northeast of Atlanta, and I had just driven across country from California. Some friends and co-workers had moved across months earlier, and I could count on them to help me settle in and learn my way around.
 
The following weekend I took a ride up to Brasstown Bald, the highest point in Georgia at 4784’. The day was rainy and cold, but I was learning my way around the state and enjoyed the drive up into the Georgia Mountains. A narrow paved lane departed from the main road and snaked its way up the side of the mountain almost to the top. From the parking lot, a paved walkway worked its way to the summit where an observation deck gave views of the surrounding area. The summit looked out over beautiful rolling mountain countryside with the hardwoods bare of leaf. I enjoyed a coffee from the thermos in my pack, and intuitively knew that this part of the state would become familiar territory.
 
Back at home in Norcross, I found the local hiking stores and purchased a Georgia Trails guidebook and a set of maps. I was already familiar with the Appalachian Trail (AT), the 2100-mile long footpath that begins in Georgia and ends in Maine. During the New England period of my life, I had hiked the length of the AT in New Hampshire and Connecticut, as well as parts of the trail in Vermont and Maine, and wondered what adventures the trail held in store for me here in Georgia.
 
I looked at the maps and read the guidebook, and then decided on the summit of Blood Mountain as my first Georgia hiking destination. The book surmised that the name Blood Mountain came from a legend that the Cherokee and the Creek Indian tribes fought a fierce battle on the mountain near Slaughter Gap. Although not as high as Brasstown Bald, the 4458’ summit of Blood is the highest point reached by the AT in Georgia. The trailhead was located near Neels Gap. A road went through the gap at an elevation of 3100’, and there was a hiker’s store and hostel in the gap called the Walasi-Yi. Many of the through-hikers I had met in New Hampshire spoke of the store warmly, and talked about the available services and the owners with gratitude and respect.
 
Leaving Norcross early on a Saturday morning, I drove north in the pre-dawn darkness on rte 400 to its terminus, then turned north on rtes 19/129 and followed the signs as they curved around Dahlonega and made their way up towards the mountains. Passing the turnoff for Woody Gap, the car was soon climbing steeply towards Neels Gap with Blood Mountain towering above the surrounding woods. I gained the top of the notch and turned into the empty parking lot in front of the Walasi-Yi. It was still early and the store was not yet open, so I left the engine running and got out of my car to stretch and breathe the cold mountain air.

 A long green and white metal sign indicated the Appalachian Trail crossed the road at this point, and for the first time in four years, I saw the familiar white blaze signifying that the trail was indeed the AT. The AT itself was marked with a white blaze of paint, each blaze about two inches wide and six inches long, and this blaze appeared on trees and rocks along the trail’s entire length. I stood alone in the cold air of Neels Gap in northern Georgia and let the tide of memories and emotions surge through my being. The best years of my life transpired on and around these white blazes some seventeen hundred miles up the trail to the north, but now I was 44 years of age and beginning a new chapter of my life here in Georgia.

Getting back in the car, I continued north downhill to a hiker’s parking lot about a quarter-mile away on the left where I gathered my pack and left the car. A blue-blazed trail left the south end of the lot and quickly worked its way up a wooded draw. There was occasional hard snow and ice on the ground and stretches of frozen mud on the trail. The trail gained the top of the draw and turned left for a short distance before ending at the intersection of the AT in Flatrock Gap. I turned right and followed the AT south towards the summit of Blood Mountain, which loomed up before me directly in the west. The AT stayed on top of the ridge and soon came to another trail junction. Here, the Freeman Trail diverged left and headed around the flank of Blood Mountain where it would eventually rejoin the AT almost 2 miles later at Bird Gap.
 
Staying on the AT, the trail quickly turned to the right and began a long climb along a gradual grade up the eastern slope of Blood Mountain. Later, it made a hard left and I found myself swithchbacking up the side of the mountain. The trail made its way through hardwoods that stood bare in the cold December morning. High up the slope the trail turned left and stayed fairly level as it headed south around the side of the mountain. The trail swung around to the west and began to gain altitude with good views towards the south. Snow and ice became more prevalent, and occasional patches of pine and spruce dotted the hillside. The trail turned to the north and worked its way up, alternating between wooded areas, rocky gullies, and open rocky ledges. Eventually, I emerged out upon the summit ledges with unobstructed views toward the south and west. Small trees, shrubs and grasses dotted the rounded summit that sat with its long axis aligned north-to-south. On the far horizon to the southwest, I could make out the tall buildings of Atlanta almost 80 miles distant.
 
I removed my sweat-soaked shirt and put on a dry top and a sweater under my wind parka, then pulled a thermos of coffee out of my pack and enjoyed a hot drink and a snack while looking out over the expanse of mountains that formed the southern terminus of the Appalachians. The beginning of the AT was almost thirty miles away by trail on the summit of Springer Mountain.
 
A little farther north on the summit was the Blood Mountain Shelter, a formidable two room stone building. The door faces north, and when you enter the shelter, the first room has a stone fireplace. In the second room is a raised wooden sleeping platform that covers most of the floor area. Large windows on the sides have no glass, but rather wooden inserts that keep inclement weather out when placed into the opening.
 
Continuing north on the AT, there was a one-mile descent to Slaughter Gap. Near the summit, the trail went down through rhododendrons that almost formed a tunnel around the path. At Slaughter Gap, the AT made a hard left and headed west along the flank of Blood Mountain, and then curled toward the north following a ridge, which it later crossed over and continued west to Bird Gap and the junction with the Freeman Trail. Turning left off the AT, I hiked the Freeman Trail south as it curved around the mass of Blood Mountain; it remained mostly level, but with minor ups and downs as it traversed along a rocky footway. It eventually swung to the east around the southern flank of Blood and soon rejoined the AT above Neels Gap.
 
I followed the spur trail back to the parking lot and the car where I put on a dry T-shirt and drove up to the Walasi-Yi; parking in the now-crowded lot out in front of the store. The AT went through a gate between two buildings, and many say this is the only covered part of the trail for its entire length. I walked up the wide stone stairway, walked past the store out onto a large stone patio that held several picnic tables, and enjoyed the fine view to the south of the country below Neels Gap.
 
I went into the store and met the owners, Jeff and Dorothy Hansen. They were friendly and gregarious as they busied themselves with inventory and phone calls. I told them that this was my first visit to the area and briefly described my hiking adventures in the northeast, and they welcomed me to North Georgia with a smile and a handshake before returning to their tasks at the store.
 
I poured a coffee and walked around the place they called Mountain Crossings at Walasi-Yi, and met some of the staff who where helping customers in the two main rooms. A room filled with camping and hiking gear was off to the left, and Lee Evans was answering questions from the people milling around the displays within. Lee was a handsome man, young and lean with a ready smile. Behind the counter was Peggy Shadbolt, long light colored hair framing a warm grin. She had a figure that spoke of long hours spent outside and on the trail. She worked the register and treated everyone with a friendly and direct manner. On the floor was Elaine Morris, a lean and friendly blond-haired girl, and she assisted those who searched for clothing or literature in the main room.  
 
I finished my coffee and browsed the hiking literature; after picking out a topographic map of the surrounding area, I paid Peg at the register, walked out into a cold evening, and made my way to the car. In a few moments, I was on my way home and driving back towards Atlanta.
 
Over the Years
 
That is the story of my first hike in Georgia. What I did not realize at the time was the role that Blood Mountain and the surrounding area would play in my life. Georgia was my home for three years, and during that time, Blood Mountain became the axis of my world. In hindsight, everything revolved around it, most of the good things in my life that came out of those three years in Georgia came because of that mountain, the people I met there, and the adventures shared with friends on and around it. The people at Mountain Crossings all became friends, and although other friendships were made during that time, the deep and abiding relationships were forged and tempered by the hours spent together on Blood Mountain and in the surrounding hills.
 
First there was the mountain itself. Over the span of three years, I averaged more than two ascents per month of the mountain, and climbed Blood at least once in each month of the year and in all kinds of weather.
 
The winter months meant snow, ice, and the biting cold of the North Georgia Mountains. With spring came the explosion of greenery and the onset of the rains. In summer, the mountains were hot and hazy and the air carried a humidity that was hard to endure, at least until the ferocious thunderstorms rolled through in the afternoon. With autumn came clear crisp days and the spectacle of color as the leaves of the hardwoods changed hue before making their fall to the forest floor.
 
Aside from the mountain and the area, there were the people who entered my life and became my friends. I met Brian Illari at work, and he soon introduced me to his wife Juliana, or Jules.
 
Brian and I became fast friends and shared many adventures on Blood Mountain and in the surrounding high country. We made several memorable climbs of Blood Mountain in the winter. The longest hike I ever attempted was with Brian, and it was an eighteen-mile effort that saw us hike nine miles to the summit of Blood from Woody Gap and then return; a hike we made one cloudy and cool October day. The hike started at Woody Gap and climbed to the summit of Big Cedar; from there we saw our halfway point far in the distance. Leaving the summit, we descended into Miller Gap and began making our way across the ridge toward Blood. We crossed Baker Mountain, Jarrard Gap, Bird Gap, and finally reached Slaughter Gap, where we began the final 1.1-mile ascent to the summit. The two of us stopped in the shelter at the summit to eat and rest. We allotted ourselves 45 minutes in the shelter on Blood, which seemed to go by as fast as any 45 minutes in my life. Then it was two aspirin and back to the trail on aching legs. Slaughter Gap, Bird Gap, Jarrard Gap, Baker Mountain, and Miller Gap (and all the ups and downs in between), where we stopped for a break. I had saved a thermos of coffee for this spot, and we drank the hot liquid in the gathering darkness along with chocolate cookies in preparation for the ascent of Big Cedar. As we started up towards the summit, it began to rain. At the top, we put on our headlamps, but the rain had ended and the resulting fog made finding the trail particularly difficult as the light from our headlamps was reflected back into our eyes. We inched our way along from white blaze to white blaze, and finally made it back to the car.
 
Once we made a long daytrip from Atlanta to the Great Smoky Mountains to climb Mt LeConte. We met in the early morning hours and drove the four hours to the 5000’ summit of Newfound Gap. From the gap, we took the AT north for two and a half miles, and then followed the Boulevard Trail for five miles across the ridge to visit the four summits of LeConte, the highest standing at 6593’ of elevation. Leaving the summit, we continued down the Alum Cave Trail to the road, where we now faced a hitchhike back to Newfound Gap and our car. This was an arduous 13-mile hike, and the ride home was long and tiring. Before reaching Atlanta, we had every window in the car wide open for fresh air, and we sang along to the songs on the stereo at the top of our lungs just to stay awake. You only meet a few people in your life who you would consider as a companion on a trip like that.
 
William ‘Buddy’ Poe was a co-worker at my company in Norcross. We had several memorable ascents of Blood. On one, we came across the Freeman Trail from Neels in the clouds. As we came to Bird Gap, the trail rose up into clear air. The cloudbank stayed hard against the edge of the trail, as distinct as a wall, as if we were in a science fiction movie. There were two other memorable climbs of Blood Mountain undertaken with Buddy, one was in the biggest downpour and the other was in the deepest snow fall of all my times on the mountain; these were two memorable ascents.
 
Jeff Leggett was a co-worker who also shared some memorable hikes with me on Blood, and in the surrounding hills. One cold evening in the early winter, we returned from the summit in the dark and hiked through the abandoned Lake Winfield Scott camping area as we headed to our car. We heard voices ahead and came upon a large roof supported by four pillars that covered a picnic area. A group of people were eating dinner and having drinks in front of a large fire roaring in the fireplace. We stopped to talk with them and enjoy a bit of their fire, and they offered us a drink and asked us to join them. We did, and the result was a wonderful evening.
 
Darrin Kerrigan was also a co-worker and we shared many adventures together, including a climb of Mt LeConte in the Great Smoky Mountains. On that trip, we drove up to the Smokies on Friday night after work and made camp in the park. The next day we made the same loop that Brian and I had done, we took the AT from Newfound Gap and then hiked across the Boulevard to visit the summit of LeConte, and later descended the Alum Cave Trail and hitchhiked back to our car. All of this was on a pleasant day with no humidity and maximum visibility, a summer rarity indeed.
 
Jeff and Dorothy Hansen were busy, but we visited as we could. The store was always a bustling place, and I often stopped in after a hike just to say hello to my friends and enjoy the atmosphere. The Walasi-Yi was a welcome sight to many a through-hiker. Jeff and Dorothy provided inbound and outbound mail and package service, advice, encouragement, repaired gear, sold supplies, offered a bunk and laundry service, and so much more to the legions of hikers that tramped through the gap.
 
One day on the hike to the Boulevard Trail from Newfound Gap, I encountered Jeff in the Great Smoky Mountains enjoying a day by himself on the trail. Dorothy once shared a story with me about her young son; he wrote a poem based on some images of new stars taken by the Hubble Telescope. Her excitement and description of the words Chris used when talking to her about the article excited me, he likened them to leaves sown through space. I wrote a story about it, and what really took me out of my element was the fact that I read my story aloud to the Sunday gathering at Atlanta’s Unitarian Universalist Congregation. I did this not once but twice that Sunday, as they had an early service and a late service consisting of 700 to 800 attendees each time. I was nervous and ill at ease, but I survived the experience and felt a new appreciation for the written and spoken word.
 
Peg and Justin lived in the rooms above the hostel at the far northern end of the Walasi-Yi, and the AT ran right past their front door. After we became friends, I would spend some nights sleeping on the floor of their apartment. Justin was an artist who fabricated sculpture out of metals, and he used discarded farm equipment. I commissioned a set of candlesticks from him, and they still serve me today. On another commission, he made two sculptures of Brian and Juliana’s dog Clarence, a rescued Greyhound. One piece was a large and long rendering, and the other was small and more suitable for a mantle. Brian and Jules decided on the small one for above their fireplace, so the large one became mine. We had a great party at the Goose Creek Cabins just north of Neels Gap to unveil the two works and to celebrate the artist. Aside from me, the group included Elaine, Brian, Jules, Peg, Justin, Darrin, and Darrin’s girlfriend during those years, Deborah.
 
Blood served as a springboard to other sections of the AT, and I hiked stretches both north and south of Neels. Trips went through Hogpen Gap and Unicoi Gap, and we partied amidst the Germanic kitsch of Helen. Four or five times a year a group of us would use a multi-car shuttle and leave a car at Neels and drive around the mountains to hike across the AT over Blood Mountain from Woody Gap to Neels Gap, a joy of a walk almost a dozen miles in length.
 
In October of 1995, Hurricane Opal rolled into Atlanta and virtually shut the city down for October 5th and 6th. Marietta had the high metro-Atlanta wind gust of 79 mph, and Atlanta lost 4000 trees, yet the storm was even stronger to the north. On Saturday the 7th, I slowly made my way up north to Neels Gap to make the loop around Blood. The damage was incredible. At Bird Gap, a jumble of mature hardwoods lay in ruins. Trees lay destroyed along the entire crest of the ridge traversed by the AT, and some areas looked as if artillery had shattered the forest. Everywhere I looked, there was damage and debris. The loop around Blood on the Freeman Trail and over the summit on the AT usually took me 4 to 5 hours including lunch and rest stops. That Saturday I arrived back at my car 8 hours after starting out. I was exhausted from climbing over, under, and through the destroyed trees and bushes on the trail, and had enough bruises, cuts, and scratches to attest to the ferocity of the storm in North Georgia. My favorite trail in the Smoky Mountains, the Boulevard, did not reopen until well into the following year.  
 
There was one magic day in June when I ascended the AT from Slaughter Gap to the summit of Blood. Near the top, the rhododendrons were in full bloom and I hiked through a tunnel of flowering blooms, the fallen petals forming a thick carpet on the trail.
 
If hiking on Stone Mountain or Kennesaw during the hot months, I could always look to the northeast and see the distant shape of Blood Mountain and a line of clouds formed above the crest of the Appalachian Mountains. In the summer, when Atlanta was broiling hot and the humidity beyond description, I would leave early for the mountains and rest in the shade and relative coolness of the shelter on the summit of Blood. Almost every humid summer day saw a thunderstorm, and these could be storms of great intensity, especially if you were out on the trail. The sky would darken and the wind would slowly quicken; the thunder growing loader as the storm drew near. When the storm front hit, the wind could be sixty miles an hour, or more, and the great trees would be swaying back and forth and the leaves bent in the wind until just their bottoms showed. The sudden deluge amid the wind was so cold on a hot sweaty body that it could take your breath away. I often stood in the lee of a tree with the lightning crackling and popping on the ridge with the almost simultaneous blast of thunder following the strike, my heart pounding as the spectacle of nature’s power occurred around me. Then, just as quickly, it would all be over, the storm would diminish and fade, the sound of thunder growing distant and marking the retreating track of the storm. Then the air would become as steamy as a jungle, and I quickly forgot the cold feeling of a few minutes ago.
 
The summer was also the time for swimming in Lake Winfield Scott after a hot hike. Occasionally, a group of us would camp here and enjoy a weekend of hiking, swimming, and partying.
 
Beginning in February, I would spend weekends on the AT around Blood meeting and talking with the legions of AT through-hikers who were now working their way towards Maine. They came from everywhere, young and old, male and female. After relating my background, many would ask questions about the AT up north, the White Mountains, and about Katahdin. I felt connected to my roots during these discussions, and greatly enjoyed these meetings and conversations on the trail.
 
On Christmas Day, I would hike up Blood Mountain with my thermos full of Jamaican Coffee (a dark roast brew augmented with Myer’s Rum and Tia Maria) and a bag of small chocolates to share with the many people who hiked to the shelter on that holiday.
 
The AT in Georgia was facing the same challenges as the AT in the White Mountains, the popularity of the backcountry had led to an explosion of numbers, and more hikers and backpackers were looking to the wilderness as an outlet and a release from the pressures of modern life. Trails on popular routes became crowded and eroded. Shelters that once provided emergency cover for a small number of through-hikers now became weekend destinations for large numbers of trampers, and many of these new hikers had little respect for the wilderness ethic of leave-no-trace hiking and camping, and of carrying out the trash that remained from whatever a person had carried in with them. In the White Mountains, the Forest Service removed many shelters because of overuse and damage to the surrounding environment.
 
The Blood Mountain Shelter was no different; its solid construction, wood sleeping platform, and front room with a fireplace made the shelter a popular destination for weekend outings. The trees around the summit were taking a beating at the hands of those armed with hatchets and handsaws that were out looking for wood. With that thought in mind, Peggy and Lee (and I am sure others from the Walasi-Yi) completely stuffed the fireplace and chimney with rocks and so made the fireplace unfit for use. These rocks were large and jammed in with the skill of a New Englander making rock walls. Many is the time I overheard some weekend warrior complain about the fireplace and rue the fact that they would have no fire, and see a long collapsible Sven saw or other cutting implement tied to their backpack. This always brought a smile to my face.
 
The Autumn Days Grow Short
 
The autumn of 1997 arrived and for me change was on the horizon. I had accepted a job offer from a firm in Northern California, and I would soon be making the long journey west once again. One Saturday in October, I stopped at Neels Gap, walked into the Mountain Crossings store, and saw Elaine helping customers on the floor. She saw me and smiled. When she was free she came over to talk, and I asked her if she could come out on the patio for a minute. We walked out into the autumn sunshine and sat on the stonewall looking out to the south from Neels Gap. Holding her hands, I told her I would soon be leaving Georgia, others now knew about my new job and I wanted to be sure that she heard the news from me. I wanted her to know how much I cared for her and how important her friendship had become in my life, how much it meant to me. Elaine knew I was talking to other companies about jobs and contemplating returning to the West, but this offer came quickly and with time constraints, it surprised both of us. She was happy for me, but between us was the melancholy of endings and of possibilities left unfulfilled.  
 
I left Georgia on November 9, 1997, three years to the day after I arrived. I spent my last night at Brian and Juliana’s house in Marietta, and left for California in the morning. The following years were good to me, and as I approach the end of my working life, I am now grateful to live in the West. Yet I remember those years in Georgia warmly, and I carry wonderful memories of the time I spent there and of the friends that shared those special moments with me.
 
For a time, Elaine and I carried on a long distance relationship. After I left Georgia, she made two trips to California and I made several to Atlanta. In California, we had two fine hikes on Mount Diablo, an area that became the next ‘Blood Mountain’ in my life. On an autumn visit, I took her to Yosemite, and we visited the valley floor, Glacier Point, and hiked down to Illouette Falls. The highlight of that trip was when we climbed Mt Cloudsrest from the Tioga Road. We stood atop the narrow 9926’ summit and gazed down at the top of Half Dome some 1100’ below us. Later, acknowledging our situation and where we lived, we came to the realization that each of us needed to get on with their own life and let this relationship go. We have remained friends through the years, and I have been grateful for that. Elaine is now retired and a proud grandmother, and has discovered the joy and camaraderie of motorcycling.
 
Jeff Leggett has visited me in California, and we had the pleasure to share one of the finest California wines I have ever tasted, a rich Niebaum-Coppola estate cabernet. Jeff owns a home in Atlanta and still hikes the trails of North Georgia.
 
Elaine brought me up to date with the activities of Jeff and Dorothy Hansen since they left the Walasi-Yi. After taking a well-earned break, Jeff became the owner of the Book Nook in Blairsville, and Dorothy is teaching English at the community college. The daughter is an adult now and actively supports environmental issues, and Elaine says she “is Doro made all over again”, which I take for the highest praise Elaine can give. Their son Chris is currently spending a year in China teaching English. Jeff and Dorothy were more than just storeowners and caretakers at the Walasi-Yi; they lived the life and walked the talk. For almost 20 years, from 1983 to 2001, they were the face and the conscience of the AT in Georgia. One has only to search the internet to find a myriad of stories attesting to the friendship, help, and compassion shown to so many AT through-hikers over the years by this industrious and loving couple.
 
Peg and Justin bought a house near Blairsville, Georgia. Justin was working as an electrician; Elaine has not talked to them recently, so she is not sure if Justin is continuing with his metal sculpture and fabrication.
 
Buddy Poe is married and living in Georgia near Atlanta.
 
Darrin Kerrigan is currently living in Scotland and plans to marry next year. We trade emails and talk every year or two. I still have a 1985 Taylor-Fladgate Vintage Port that Darrin gave me on my birthday in 1995.
 
Lee Evans and Elaine have stayed in touch over the years, and Lee now teaches high school English in Portland, Oregon.
 
Brian and Jules remain friends and still live in Marietta, Georgia, although they have changed houses since the time I lived in the South. Brian has visited me in California, and we also made an autumn trip to Yosemite. We took one hike up to Mono Pass where we spent a wonderful sunlit October afternoon at the crest of the 10,600’ mountain pass. The next day we took the trail from the Glacier Point road to the summit of Sentinel Dome. We could see a storm approaching us from the high-peaks region, but we continued down the trail to Glacier Point and it began to rain. Climbing back towards Sentinel Dome the rain changed to snow. We continued on the trail toward Taft Point and found ourselves lost in the blizzard when we could no longer follow the trail in the drifting snow. Although we were never in real danger, the snow turned a simple Yosemite outing into a grand adventure. The last time I saw Brian and Jules together was in December of 2005, when I spent a week at their home in Georgia.
 
Now it is 2008, and a bad knee injury two years ago has put an end to my hiking adventures. I am now pushing sixty years of age with a short stick, a short flaccid stick, as PJ O’Rourke would say. Yet I remain grateful that the lure of the wilderness and the joy I found on a mountain trail played such an important role in my life.
 
I remember how I felt on that first trip to Neels Gap, how friendly and familiar it was to once again see the white blaze of a painted AT trail marker, as if coming across a long absent friend by chance, and the onslaught of memories and emotions that came along with it. Some will understand, and some will not. My first visit to Neels Gap and Blood Mountain was the beginning of a special love affair with North Georgia, and of a period that saw my life enriched and broadened by the beautiful people I met, and all of the wonderful experiences that I enjoyed in the mountains of the South during those years.
 
Leaving Neels for the last time in November of 1997, I stood in the dark parking lot and looked wistfully at the small white blaze of paint that marked the AT’s passage through the property of the Walasi-Yi, then drove back down the hill and headed for Atlanta.
 
To date, that is the last white blaze I have seen.