Holly Kays
Lost in the Blue Ridge Triangle
At 5,000 feet, the first of the rhododendrons were just blooming by Memorial Day Weekend.
Armed with enough food to feed twice our number, two different methods of water purification, a brand new tent, a detailed map, and even bear spray in case we proved to be the 2 in 10 million hikers to encounter an aggressive black bear, it’s safe to say that my sister and I were more than prepared for an overnight backpacking route.
Or at least, we would have been, if not for the Blue Ridge Triangle.
Like its mysterious cousin the Bermuda Triangle, the Blue Ridge Triangle — apparently — causes inexplicable disorientation for hikers attempting to traverse its domain in North Carolina’s Middle Prong Wilderness.
The route seemed simple enough.
We would get on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail from its intersection with N.C. 215 and hike about 6 miles west before turning right to take the Haywood Gap Trail down to the Forest Service Road where we’d left a second car.
The weather was nothing but encouraging, a picture-perfect spring day with the first rhododendrons just beginning to bloom. We let our pair of wiggling terrier mixes off-leash to run in joyful circles, and we were all feeling confident enough to take a brief detour on a side trail that soon brought us to a grassy summit, views of blue-ridged mountains spreading in the distance.
After we rejoined the main trail, however, we encountered our first signal that something strange was going on — a signal in the form of a hiker and his son.
We stopped to exchange the typical on-trail pleasantries, which the hiker followed up with a question about our distance from the trail intersection he was looking for. I pulled out the map with a flourish, eager to show off my preparedness in packing such a detailed portrayal of the area.
I pointed out our location and his destination and informed him that he was probably headed in the wrong direction.
He disagreed.
Laurel and I were the ones who were turned around, he said, fishing out his own map to prove the point. That’s when a third hiker with a third map stumbled upon our little powwow. He agreed with the other guy.
“Listen to where the traffic sounds are coming from,” he said. “Look at the direction the sun is setting.”
We couldn’t deny the logic, but we were also at a loss to explain where we could have gone wrong.
We’d been walking the same direction on the same trail the entire time — how could we possibly have reversed direction without realizing it? It was impossible. We decided to keep going, talking the decision through on repeat as we walked, again and again concluding that we’d been right.
Before long, however, we started to recognize the places we were passing. There was a marshy area with a boardwalk over it, a twist in the trail with an especially noticeable old tree, the side trail we’d taken a couple of hours ago.
The hikers had been right. We were backtracking.
It was hard to believe. We stopped the first hikers we came upon, a young couple with a fluffy white dog, to double-check. They, too, assured us that we were closing in on the trailhead. We tried our best to laugh off the embarrassment.
It was now mid-afternoon. We’d lost a chunk of time, but at least we were finally headed the right way.
It was still possible to reach our intended campsite. We proceeded as carefully as possible, taking pictures at intervals along the trail and constantly stopping to examine the map. There was no way we would let ourselves get lost again.
Except that, once again, we spotted that same marshy area with the boardwalk.
Then the old tree. The side trail.
And the same young couple with the white dog, returning from their venture on the side trail. If we were embarrassed the first time we spoke to them, now we were doubly so. For some reason it felt important that these strangers understand that we really did know how to read maps, that we really had hiked before. Pride is as funny thing.
Finally, we were forced to admit that we wouldn’t be hiking the Haywood Gap Trail that weekend. Dinnertime was coming, so we kept our eyes open for a good camping spot and, when we found one, headed off to get water.
With trust in our navigational skills at an all-time low, we carried our packs with us instead of dropping them off at the campsite. That turned out to be a good thing, because the site seemed to have disappeared when we returned with the water.
The Blue Ridge Triangle had struck again. We wound up camping somewhere else.
There’s nothing quite so frustrating as walking in circles, especially when there truly are “miles to go before I sleep.”
The amazing thing was that frustration dissipated in short order as we pitched the tent, hung our bags and got dinner ready for ourselves and the dogs.
June was just days away, but nighttime was chilly at 5,000 feet. We stayed warm with the help of my new backpacking wine carafe and laughed over the day’s misadventures.
The Blue Ridge Triangle may have swallowed our pride, but we’d still gotten what we came for — a night in the woods surrounded by happy dogs amid the fresh greenery of mountain springtime.
Besides, when it comes to the wilderness, a dose of humility is rarely a bad thing.