Playing with Peter

“I’ve done very little hiking so you should use your best judgment and not take on something too difficult for a beginner,” I reminded Peter, whom I had met recently and who was anxious to recruit someone to join him in his forays into the wilderness.

Enraptured by his recounting of week-long adventures on trails in the mountains of Idaho, his home state, I had marveled at his photographs of jagged, snow-capped peaks reflected in perfectly still waters of lakes fed by their melt at 10,000 feet. Other pictures dramatized a landscape strewn with boulders high above the tree line where a meandering trail threads toward a distant valley dotted with silvery lakes. A few pictures included well-equipped backpackers pausing at a summit, intoxicated by the scenery and the physical exertion that was a part of the experience. Clearly, here was an accomplished hiker who understood how to navigate the wilderness, who relished going “off trail” to a col (a term used by Peter and other mountaineers to refer to the lowest point along a ridge joining two peaks) guarded by talus and scree (large and small rocks, respectively) to gain a vista (view) seen by only a handful of human beings.

Oh, sure, I’d been in the woods before. Growing up five miles from town, I’d wandered through the woods within a mile of home. My brother and I discovered a small waterfall of about two feet fed by a ditch along the highway. After a rain, we could slide down it. In college, some field trips for biology courses required tromping through mudflats or measuring the diameters of tree trunks along transept lines established in a forest near the campus. After graduation from college, I’d done a little hiking. For example, in Missouri, I had enjoyed strolls along the river’s edge with my wife and three children, none of whom (the kids) had reached the teenage status of whining and complaining. We’d have to walk slow enough for my three year old son to toddle along. After moving to South Carolina, the kids and I would set out on Sunday afternoons armed with a tank of gas and a cooler of Kool-Aid in search of some mild adventure along the border with North Carolina where waterfalls are numerous and accessible with minimal effort. Again the pace would be slow as the kids investigated every snail and raccoon track. My son paused often to collect stones which I lugged the short distance back to the car.

One Sunday we found ourselves marveling at the view of the rolling Piedmont from a windy perch safely behind the guardrails protecting the tourists at Caesar’s Head, a rocky chimney hanging over a wild valley immediately below. In the gift shop, a topographical model of the entire park revealed a reasonably flat trail leading to an overlook from which Raven Cliff Falls could be seen on the opposite ridge. With three kids in tow, I led the way and we were eventually rewarded a view of the falls, only partially obscured by other tourists and trees.

I had noticed on the model numerous other trails that snaked up and over and around the mountains and ravines that constitute the Mountain Bridge Wilderness of which Caesar’s Head and Jones Gap State Parks are a part. These more challenging trails appealed to me, yet I knew better than to attempt those with small children.

My interest in hiking was kindled by watching episodes from “The Travel Channel” depicting mountaineers enduring high elevation white-outs as provisions dwindled to critical levels. These harsh conditions seemed to beckon to me. Those manly men and masculine women dealt confidently with unforeseen obstacles, uncooperative weather, as they crept along treacherous trails under the wild eye of a man-eating predator emboldened by hunger. That’s what it means to be fully alive, fully in touch with nature. I found myself leaning forward in my recliner, nearly spilling my Coke and potato chips as I strained along with the hikers on TV who teetered along a nearly rotten tree-trunk spanning a bottomless abyss. I wanted to experience this kind of excitement. So when Peter expressed a longing to get away for a day hike without the kids, I agreed to join him.

He seemed to know the area well, having tantalized me with a description of Raven Cliff Falls as viewed from the swinging bridge which sways directly above. The account of the Dismal Trail completely discredited those responsible for naming it thusly. Peter can describe even the most unpleasant situation in such a way that his audience is fascinated and titillated. He could infuse a description of a root canal with such romantic flair that I’d be eager to try one myself.

“We’ll have a great day! I have a topographical map with the Caesar’s Head trails. I’ll choose a route so that we can walk a loop and not have to backtrack,” Peter stated confidently.

I have come to understand that “backtracking” for Peter has the same appeal as repainting a house on which the last coat of new paint has not even dried.

On the appointed day, a Sunday, I arrived at Peter’s house at about 8 a.m. in my VW convertible. He tossed in his backpack and away we sped to our destination an hour and a half away. During the drive, Peter reviewed the map and settled on a route that promised excellent scenery. I trusted he would choose a route not too difficult for me yet providing the kind of stimulation he finds so pleasurable. Along the way, we stopped for coffee and a sweet roll. As we lingered to enjoy these treats, I imagined that the remainder of our day would be equally pleasurable and unhurried.

At the Caesar’s Head trail parking lot, I shouldered my backpack loaded with several cameras and lenses. Unsure of what photographic opportunities might appear, I brought along a close-up lens for wildflowers and lichens, a wide-angle lens for recording sweeping panoramas, and a telephoto lens to zoom in on distant subjects, perhaps birds or waterfalls. My bulky tripod was in a separate bag which had a long shoulder strap. My full-size backpack contained food and water. Unfamiliar with what and how much food is appropriate for a day hike, I erred on the side of excess. Two bottles of water, a can of mixed nuts, two apples, an orange, and a banana. Two ham sandwiches, plus two Snickers bars for quick energy.

My boots were cinched supportively to protect my weak ankles. Peter wore low-cut shoes that provided no ankle support which suggested to me his plans for a mild stroll through these woods. His pack was small and light, with one camera, perhaps two lenses, plenty of water, an apple, some energy-dense trail mix, and a sandwich. By the end of the first segment of the hike, my pack felt as though it contained enough consumables to lavishly feed a wedding reception of approximately 600 guests.

We disappeared into the woods, an unmatched pair. Our destination was the “Rim of the Gap Trail” which according to Peter’s map climbs and plunges along the ridge just south of the Middle Saluda River. Other trails, each color-coded, formed tangles like strands of yarn tossed on the topographical map. In the fine print, I noticed that trails were classified as easy, moderate, strenuous, and very strenuous. Rim of the Gap was labeled “very strenuous.” Trying hard not to sound wimpy, I reminded Peter that this was to be my first attempt at serious hiking.

I voiced my reservations by saying “Do you really believe this trail is appropriate given my lack of experience?”

He dismissed my concerns and attempted to reassure me with “You’ll be fine.”

We crossed US 276 and walked 0.8 miles along Frank Coggins Trail to access the Rim of the Gap Trail. Soon I discovered that the map makers had indeed mislabeled the trail. The path led between boulders so closely spaced that at times I had to remove my pack, stoop low to inch through, and then drag my pack through the crevice. At other locations, cables spanned nearly vertical ledges over rocky ravines slickened by seeping water. To traverse these obstacles required hand-over-hand grappling along the cable with feet scrambling wildly for purchase on moss-covered rock. We encountered several ladders of tubular rungs suspended between parallel strands of chains hanging off cliffs and serving as bridges between portions of the trail consisting of rocky earth. Added to these challenges was the fact that, to my recollection, there was no segment of the trail that was horizontal for more than two consecutive strides. In other words, the trail required either vigorous uphill climbing or thigh-straining descents without respite. Upon review of the map, the Rim of the Gap Trail looked like a zig-zag stitch of orange thread superimposed on tightly woven fabric consisting of topographic lines. Were I to classify this trail “perilous” would be the most accurate descriptor.

My attention was narrowly focused on the meager footpath and nothing more. To my left, the view consisted of nearby treetops supported by trunks 20 or 30 feet tall emerging from the cracks in rocks immediately below the trail. Somewhere beyond, according to the map, lay Cleveland Cliff and Rainbow Falls. I recall no views of the valley below. The trail itself was barely obvious and little traversed. It consisted mostly of jutting rocks and uneven stones interrupted by springs of water and was marked intermittently by a swath of paint on a tree trunk or boulder. I was unable to enjoy any scenery as my thoughts were more concerned with not embarrassing myself by appearing unfit or unworthy. I struggled to suppress my discomfort and tried not to reveal my anxiety. My knees began to ache. I sweated profusely under the cumbersome weight of photographic equipment and excess food. Ruts were forming in my shoulders from the straps of the pack. On those rare occasions when Peter paused briefly, I tried to catch my breath without showing the panic and pain that I was now trying to squelch. I was relieved that he did most of the talking. In my breathless state, talking would have revealed my fatigue.

To me, the trail was the sort of obstacle course that humbles and humiliates even the most aggressive soldiers. With his small pack and legs possessing the strength and agility of a mountain goat, Peter glided along with only the slightest evidence of exertion. Meanwhile, I huffed along behind, gasping for air through open mouth, hoping that my panting would not betray my sorry condition to Peter.

In the afternoon, we reached an intersection with another trail high on Pinnacle Mountain above the Middle Saluda River. Here we reclined on rocks and ate our lunches. While rummaging through my pack, I discovered that my well-meaning wife had hidden a full quart jar of peanut butter along with a knife and half a loaf of bread. Beneath them lay a jar of strawberry jelly. Annoyed that I had brought too much, I ate as much as I could simply to reduce the weight of my pack. Meanwhile, some of the sweat which saturated my clothes evaporated and I was thankful for that minor weight loss as well.

After his customary 15-minute post-lunch nap, Peter consulted the map. From this point we would return via the Pinnacle Pass Trail, an orange dashed line squiggling along the southern slopes of the Pinnacle Mountain above Oil Camp Creek. To my eye, this trail appeared to be twice as long as the segment of the Rim of the Gap Trail we had just completed. Trusting that Peter had taken my cautions into account when planning the route, I expected the return portion of the loop to be “easy” or no more than “moderate.” To my horror, the map indicated that our return trail was “very strenuous.” Suddenly, I lost all confidence in Peter’s judgment.

“Looks like the return trail is twice as long as what we’ve done so far, and yet it’s also labeled “very strenuous,” I said, no longer able to conceal my concern. “I thought we’d be on an easier trail going back.”

Peter took another look at the map. “Hmm,” he mused. “I didn’t really pay attention to the ratings. Pinnacle Pass Trail doesn’t look to be so difficult according to the map, but it is longer,” he admitted.

Having apparently succeeded thus far in hiding my distress, I realized that Peter was unaware of the extent of my fatigue, the burning pains in my shoulders, and most of all, the searing ache in the tendons behind my right knee. Perhaps I shouldn’t have misled him by acting so nonchalant. Perhaps if he had seen how grueling the experience for me had been thus far, he would have turned back long ago and we could have retraced our steps back to the parking lot where EMTs or coroners could attend to my body depending on the outcome. Alas, my deceitfulness was now my disaster. To get back to the car would require backtracking on the Rim of the Gap Trail, which I had barely survived, or taking on an unfamiliar trail which appears to be twice as long and equally as difficult. I could only hope that the return trail was not filled with cable crossings, slick rocks, ladders, and watery inclines. (It was.) There was never any doubt in Peter’s mind. Backtracking, like repainting, was not an option.

We rose from our late lunch in very different states. Peter had found the Rim of the Gap hike to be exhilarating, just the type of challenge he relished. At each overlook, he had drunk in the scenery, had savored the view across the valley to the mountain beyond, unaware that in my breathless condition, I considered it quite an accomplishment to remain upright. He eagerly anticipated the adventure that lie ahead on Pinnacle Pass Trail. Completely refreshed by a light lunch and restorative nap, he slipped on his lightweight pack and energetically started down the slope.

I, on the other hand, felt that I had escaped the Rim of the Gap Trail with my life but not my health. I dreaded the long tortuous journey ahead. The additional exertion of extracting a camera from the massive pack had dissuaded me from even considering taking any pictures. I cursed the enormous pack bulging with unused cameras and heavy lenses that now compressed my spine. At this point, it felt as though the pack still swelled with enough food to lavishly feed a wedding reception of six hundred people. I wearily rose to my feet to begin the interminable slog back to the car when my misery was compounded by the pain originating from my right knee. I had unknowingly abused that knee all morning by consistently using only my right leg to push me (and that leaden pack) up every step and the same leg to lower my weight over every ledge. I was now painfully aware of that inadvertent mistake and resolved to be more equitable in the use of my left leg for lifting and lowering in the few remaining hours of my life.

I struggled to keep up with Peter who joyously scampered over obstacles like a child entertaining himself in the play area at MacDonald’s, carefree and completely oblivious to the passage of time. My pace was that of a weary wounded veteran, stiff and sore, slow and sad. With trepidation I encountered the narrow tortuous trail. I discovered that going uphill was only slightly less excruciating for my knees than trying to control my balance and speed on the downhill stretches. Up and down, left and right, twisting, turning, stooping, slipping, sliding, pushing, tugging, reaching, grasping, gasping, sweating. Each movement rasped the nerves in my knees and compounded the ache from my back and shoulders. My ankles felt like uncontrollable swivels at the ends of my trembling legs, which I realized were the only means I possessed to deliver me back to civilization.

It was now late afternoon. Occasionally we would pause to consult the map but there was little to indicate how far we had progressed along the trail. There were no clear landmarks or crossings with other trails to provide points of reference. The sun was much lower in the sky and the heat had mercifully abated. During these brief stops, the pain in my knees relented. But the pain returned multiplied once I resumed hiking. It appeared that resting my knees made them stiff and any additional activity aggravated those nerve endings. I discovered that during rest stops, the pain could be minimized by continuing to move about and not allow the knees to stiffen.

The light faded and yet it was unclear how close we were to the end. Since neither of us brought a flashlight, I suggested that we use this last available light to consult the map and try to commit to memory those features that were essential. Sure only that our progress had been slow and relentless, we were nevertheless uncertain of our location as the forest grew ever darker. It became more difficult to discern the trail as colors faded. Yet on we walked, I in agony and Peter blissful to have crammed so much adventure into a single day. He seemed only mildly concerned that daylight had ended before our hike was complete.

Another issue now festered in my mind. I had indicated to my wife that I expected to be home before dark. Now darkness was here and even if the parking lot appeared around the next curve, I’m still almost two hours from home. She would be worried. Very worried.

Fortunately, we encountered an abandoned logging road that meandered along Oil Camp Creek. Wider and flatter than the trail, we moved westward, or what we hoped to be westward now that the sun no longer provided orientation. Recalling the lines on the topo map, I realized that our elevation was now perhaps a thousand feet lower than the parking lot and a strenuous climb would be inevitable.

It was almost dark now. Only shadowy shapes were visible. The forest was eerily quiet. No matches to light a fire. No flashlight to consult a map. No extra clothes for warmth should it be necessary to overnight here. No way to contact my fretting wife, whose vivid imagination is at this very moment creating scenarios belonging only in horror movies.

Yet darkness turned out to be beneficial. Standing perfectly still, relying on sound instead of sight, we heard the faint hum in the distance of a car engine lugging up switchbacks of the paved road that crested at the Caesar’s Head parking lot. For a few seconds, we caught glimpses of its headlights in the gloom, flickering past the dense forest that separated us from the highway. Then lights were gone and the sound faded. With renewed energy we abandoned the old logging road and headed straight toward where we had glimpsed the car. No longer on a trail, we pushed our way through underbrush and over rough terrain, invigorated by the prospect that our hike would soon end. Aided by several more cars which provided orientation, we continued until finally only a steep embankment separated us from the two-lane road.

I felt great relief at having emerged from the wilderness. Though I would have been quite content to stand by the road waiting to be picked up by a passing car, my knees would not cooperate. To prevent my knees from stiffening, I had to keep moving so we continued walking up the mountain, thumbs outstretched to passing motorist until at last a pickup truck pulled over. We tossed our packs into the bed and pulled ourselves in. A few minutes later we arrived at the parking lot. I’ve never been so grateful for a ride.

I could barely bend my right leg. In the convertible, I was too weary to enjoy the cool night air of the mountains and the stars beyond. With headlights on, I sped down the mountain, anxious to find a pay phone to report in to my wife. It must have been about 9:30 when I called her from a gas station at the foot of the mountains.

Fueled by worry, I could sense the anxiety and anger in her voice. “You said you would be home before dark,” she fumed. “Are you OK?”

“Yes,” I lied. “The trail was longer and more difficult than I thought it would be. It was after dark when we got off the trail. This is the first phone I’ve found. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

The arrival of darkness in the midst of our hike appeared to be of little concern to Peter. In fact, it was clear that the combination of difficulty, duration, and darkness is what made this hike most enjoyable for Peter.

By the time I arrived at home, my right leg was immobile. I slid out of the driver’s seat on to the ground and then pulled myself upright without bending that right knee. Once inside, I ascended the stairs slowly like a person on crutches. I staggered into the bedroom where Tia lay awake in anger. Seeing my predicament and pain, she softened slightly.

“I’m sorry, dear. This was not what I expected. I told Peter I wasn’t used to hiking and he chose two very strenuous trails on my first time out. He’s so experienced. I thought I could trust his judgment. The trail in was tough enough, but the trail coming out was just as tough and twice as long. My knee is killing me.”

I was too exhausted to take a shower but too dirty to climb into bed. I sat on the edge of the bed to remove my pants but was unable to bend my right knee. Sensing my agony and that her anger was unnecessary and unproductive, she unlaced and removed my boots and socks, simple actions which now were feats I was incapable of accomplishing without her assistance. She pulled my pants off and helped me into the shower. As I twirled in the pellets of hot water which converted dust on my skin to mudslides, she thrust a glass of water and two aspirin into the shower. “Here, take these!” she scolded, sounding like a nurse annoyed by the infirmities of her patient. “Did you have a good time today?” she snarled.

“It would have been fine if we hadn’t hiked so far and if I’d known not to overuse my right leg. And I didn’t like being on the trail after dark. That wasn’t fun. Would I do it again? Probably, but I’d be sure to check the trail ratings carefully myself. And I wouldn’t be so ambitious. I thought I could trust Peter’s judgment.”

“Well you don’t have to worry about any of that! I don’t like seeing you in this condition,” she announced making no attempt to conceal her anger. “You’re lucky that God looks after children and fools. You qualify in both categories. Apparently Peter doesn’t have the sense God gave a gnat, and you’re no better,” she vented. Asserting her role as wife and mother, she concluded “You’re not allowed to play with Peter anymore.”

I was too tired to argue, too exhausted to explain, too sore to do anything but seek the comfort of sleep, which arrived almost instantly.

With every step I took on Monday and Tuesday, my right knee reminded me of the abuse it had endured on Sunday. As I hobbled across campus, Tia’s command seemed to harmonize with the sizzling pain emanating from my right knee. “You’re not allowed to play with Peter anymore.” Why would I want to, I thought to myself, and yet I’ll have a tale of adventure to tell long after the pain subsides (if it ever does.) I’d rather experience humiliating discomfort in wilderness than the humiliation of spilling Coke and potato chips in my lap while watching those people on “The Travel Channel” have all the fun.

G.R. Davis, Jr.

5 July 2006

Postscript added in September 2025: Who knows how many miles I’ve walked, hiked, and backpacked with Peter since that first outing? Over the years, we camped dozens of times at Looking Glass Rock. I’ve become one of the regulars included on Peter’s summer wilderness backpacking trips to Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, Oregon, and California. Peter and I led seven different trips in January for Wofford College students. We strolled streets and countrysides in The Netherlands, France, Belgium, Spain, Italy, Malta, and Greece. Peter arranged a most memorable pilgrimage hike to the Orthodox Greek monasteries of Mount Athos where he, our friend Dave Whisnant and I experienced unique opportunities to backpack and be hosted by monks. Wherever we go, Peter and I enjoy making photographs. One of the greatest pleasures of my life has been playing with Peter!