Throughout the night wind howled in the trees.
I half-dozed for short periods, repositioned myself often to get comfortable and warm my feet. But my feet stayed cold and I remained uncomfortable. I listened to sounds of large drops of water hit the rain-fly, concerned that a downpour would soak the tent any moment.
Daylight, along with Primate's insistence, "Gotta pee," forced me out of the tent and to the restroom.
"It's foggy," I told Dr. Bobo.
"The water drops are condensation getting blown from the trees," Dr. Bobo said, getting dressed, when I returned from the restroom.
I shivered. "I wonder how cold it is."
"I'll check the temperature," he said.
I sat in the car to escape the chilly wind, found for my small thermometer, looked to be 47 degrees.
"My thermometer said 40 degrees in the car, but dropped to 37 degrees outside," Dr. Bobo said.
Tired of the damp and cold, "Let's break camp and get out of here," I told Dr. Bobo.
With the car's heater pumping full blast, we warmed our hands at the vents before we stuffed tent and sleeping pads into the back seat and trunk. Fog.
Next stop - NC high point.
We descended below the clouds. Trees in the valleys wore coats of young lime-green leaves. Pink and white blossoms punctuated the greenery, announced the promise of a new crop of fruit.
Fog slowed our drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway towards the NC high point. Drizzle joined the fog for the last four miles.
We parked in the summit lot, donned wet gear, prepared for cold wind, the gusts sounded ominous. A gift shop and restrooms nearby enticed a visit.
"I'm going to the restroom," I said, "two birds with one stone." I meant relieve Primate and be out of the wind while doing it.
"Hey, look, ice," Dr. Bobo said.
Ice covered trees and safety rails. "This ain't like winter, this is winter," I said.
"Too cold," Primate said.
Heads down, against strong wind, we hurried up the concrete sidewalk to Mount Winchell's summit at 6,684 feet. We didn't linger at the natural highest spot or on the man-made observation platform. Ice covered trees and railings. I kept a close watch to avoid slipping. Conditions warned visitors away, loitering not advisable.
"Let's get off of here," I said.
Back at the parking lot, we perused the gift shop.
"Do you know what the temperature is?" Dr. Bobo asked an attendant at the cash register.
"There's a thermometer outside." She pointed.
I wiped a wet coating of ice off a protective glass cover. "Looks like 29.75 degrees." But that partly sheltered thermometer couldn't factor the wind chill.
Once more along fog-shrouded roads we drove, farther south towards SC.
From the parking lot we hiked the final hundred yards up the gravel road to SC's uninspiring high point, Mt. Sassafras, at 3,560 feet. Quick photos and we left.
We continued onward after our second high point of the day, in rain and cold wind, but didn't want to endure more of the same over night.
"We can do Georgia's high point and drive to the vicinity of Atlanta, get a cheap motel room, and stay dry and warm tonight," I suggested. "It won't matter so much when we get there."
"Yeah, sounds good to me," Dr. Bobo said.
Rain hounded us off and on as we made our way towards GA's highpoint. High gusting wind with rain greeted us at the empty Brasstown Bald parking lot and made our hike up the 6/10 mile paved walkway to the summit, at 4,784 feet elevation, a minor challenge.
We reserved a cheap room on the west side of Atlanta by phone, checked in late, mused at the men's clubs in the surrounding neighborhood, one with a neon sign that proclaimed NUDE in big letters.
"We could consider this our moral low point," Dr. Bobo said.
Rain continued. The weather forecast on TV indicated better weather to our west tomorrow, the newscasters told stories of downed trees and flooding around Atlanta.
Even through rain and fog on Appalachian mountain roads behind slow traffic, we drove 489 miles, crossed the Eastern Continental Divide twice.
Low points - nine; high points - six.
I half-dozed for short periods, repositioned myself often to get comfortable and warm my feet. But my feet stayed cold and I remained uncomfortable. I listened to sounds of large drops of water hit the rain-fly, concerned that a downpour would soak the tent any moment.
Daylight, along with Primate's insistence, "Gotta pee," forced me out of the tent and to the restroom.
"It's foggy," I told Dr. Bobo.
"The water drops are condensation getting blown from the trees," Dr. Bobo said, getting dressed, when I returned from the restroom.
I shivered. "I wonder how cold it is."
"I'll check the temperature," he said.
I sat in the car to escape the chilly wind, found for my small thermometer, looked to be 47 degrees.
"My thermometer said 40 degrees in the car, but dropped to 37 degrees outside," Dr. Bobo said.
Tired of the damp and cold, "Let's break camp and get out of here," I told Dr. Bobo.
With the car's heater pumping full blast, we warmed our hands at the vents before we stuffed tent and sleeping pads into the back seat and trunk. Fog.
Next stop - NC high point.
We descended below the clouds. Trees in the valleys wore coats of young lime-green leaves. Pink and white blossoms punctuated the greenery, announced the promise of a new crop of fruit.
Fog slowed our drive along the Blue Ridge Parkway towards the NC high point. Drizzle joined the fog for the last four miles.
We parked in the summit lot, donned wet gear, prepared for cold wind, the gusts sounded ominous. A gift shop and restrooms nearby enticed a visit.
"I'm going to the restroom," I said, "two birds with one stone." I meant relieve Primate and be out of the wind while doing it.
"Hey, look, ice," Dr. Bobo said.
Ice covered trees and safety rails. "This ain't like winter, this is winter," I said.
"Too cold," Primate said.
Heads down, against strong wind, we hurried up the concrete sidewalk to Mount Winchell's summit at 6,684 feet. We didn't linger at the natural highest spot or on the man-made observation platform. Ice covered trees and railings. I kept a close watch to avoid slipping. Conditions warned visitors away, loitering not advisable.
 |
| Dr. Bobo on Mt. Winchell. |
 |
| Connard on Mt. Winchell. |
Back at the parking lot, we perused the gift shop.
"Do you know what the temperature is?" Dr. Bobo asked an attendant at the cash register.
"There's a thermometer outside." She pointed.
I wiped a wet coating of ice off a protective glass cover. "Looks like 29.75 degrees." But that partly sheltered thermometer couldn't factor the wind chill.
Once more along fog-shrouded roads we drove, farther south towards SC.
From the parking lot we hiked the final hundred yards up the gravel road to SC's uninspiring high point, Mt. Sassafras, at 3,560 feet. Quick photos and we left.
We continued onward after our second high point of the day, in rain and cold wind, but didn't want to endure more of the same over night.
"We can do Georgia's high point and drive to the vicinity of Atlanta, get a cheap motel room, and stay dry and warm tonight," I suggested. "It won't matter so much when we get there."
"Yeah, sounds good to me," Dr. Bobo said.
Rain hounded us off and on as we made our way towards GA's highpoint. High gusting wind with rain greeted us at the empty Brasstown Bald parking lot and made our hike up the 6/10 mile paved walkway to the summit, at 4,784 feet elevation, a minor challenge.
We reserved a cheap room on the west side of Atlanta by phone, checked in late, mused at the men's clubs in the surrounding neighborhood, one with a neon sign that proclaimed NUDE in big letters.
"We could consider this our moral low point," Dr. Bobo said.
Rain continued. The weather forecast on TV indicated better weather to our west tomorrow, the newscasters told stories of downed trees and flooding around Atlanta.
Even through rain and fog on Appalachian mountain roads behind slow traffic, we drove 489 miles, crossed the Eastern Continental Divide twice.
Low points - nine; high points - six.
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