The Potent Power of Fantasy
Fantasizing simply for the pleasure of mental transportation is highly underrated. I don’t advise anyone live in a fantasy world, or lose touch with reality, but oh to relinquish oneself to the power of a daydream.
The potent power of fantasizing kept me warm and walking forward in the dense greenery of the Appalachian trail, backpacking in the Smokies, drowned rat in a rainstorm. I carefully picked my way through rivulets in the mud, the boggy ground unable to defend against the rainfall any longer and giving way to thick, slippery puddles taking over the trail. It became impossible to side step them, lest I risk sliding off the mountainside, and my ever moistened boots splashed in the water.
I knew I had somewhere between three and five miles to reach the road crossing. THE road crossing, for on the AT through all of Smoky Mountain National Park, there is but ONE.
Having been on the trail for three days at this point, the road crossing had built up a folkloric legend in tales from other hikers, in the fading blog posts I’d read, and in my own fantasizing mind.
“It’s an easy place to hitch a ride,” one of the “AT bros” at the shelter told me that morning. He and his pals had met last year, through hiking the AT. They were friendly and loud, had names like Laugh and Pokey from their time on the trail. They had no shortage of AT stories and knew about THE road crossing well.
“I might hop off,” I told them. “The trail has been a little boring so far, not many views, and it looks like rain for days.” They nodded in understanding and warned me to hitch a ride to Gatlinburg and not Cherokee. “Definitely not Cherokee” the third one emphasized.
I held this thought, I could get off the trail today, throughout my morning hike. Unrelated to the pending storm and the upcoming road, I was also climbing to the highest peak on the AT that morning, Clingman’s Dome. Here, I had been promised views, but the foggy forest whispered differently.
The ecosystem of the trail also changed that day, and my mood and senses were lightened by thick moss and a fairytale forest, the scent of spruce and Christmas permeating each step. I started thinking I’d like to stay on the trail.
Clingman’s was a washout, and the view was shrouded in a thick white blanket of moist air. I asked a tourist to snap a pic of me anyway, and carried on.
I hiked for eight or so miles and knew the road crossing was approaching. Maybe in one mile, maybe in three. My digital map wasn’t great at honing in on the distances, and signs on the AT were few and far between. The rain was coming, and my legs were tired. The magic of the misty morning fairy forest had ebbed, and I began to dream of the road crossing in earnest.
In my mind, a gracefully curved parking lot edged up to a gentle yet stoic stone wall. The lot was empty, except a car or two, tourists huddled in or braving a snapshot in their ponchos and parkas then jumping back in their cars to avoid the rain. Large drops splattered through my face and hair, I felt the moisture hit my socks. “Almost there” I told myself, no idea if it was true. Either way, I had to keep going, so I carried on.
The bathhouse at the parking lot was modern, with running water, fresh pink soap in agreeable dispensers. I pleaded in my mind for this washroom to have hand dryers, and thought I could hold my now wet boots up under the warm stream, maybe smile sheepishly at the mother and daughter who entered and wondered what I was doing. I could almost feel the heat of the dryer on my boots, even as they dampened on the trail.
As the sky darkened and a distant clap of thunder sounded, I came to a clearing close to a road. Having not seen a road in days, I exclaimed, ‘holy crap is this is, did I make it?” and immediately began trying to enforce my mental picture on the area. No nothing. Just a clearing with a wooden sign and more forest on the other side. I hurried to the sign before the rain washed over me in long, sweeping torrents, unprotected as I was in the clearing.
“Newfoundland Gap (this was the road!) 1.75 miles,” declared the sign. Unmoved by my exasperation of nearly two more miles to go, the wind kicked up and the rain poured, I raced for the trees.
“Less than two miles,” I told myself, “Easy. Just watch your step, the roots are slippery.”
I carried on, slowly, doggedly, squishily. Sodden and just a touch downtrodden. I returned to my vision of what was to come, of the roadway fantasy. Maybe there was an awning, or an overhang, off the side of the bathroom. A large enough covered area I could sit down, rest my pack on dry ground and rifle through for my stove. Have a late afternoon coffee and a hot meal. Smile at the day trippers and tell them how far I’d come.
The clouds would clear and late afternoon sun would streak through the dense fog, lightening it to ghostly wisps, streaking color and subtle warmth. Perhaps a view would open up, and I could sit there, sipping coffee, with hand dryer-ed boots, my phone charging in an electrical outlet, my hands clean, and oh, boy, if this wasn’t enough to make my heart leap with joy, maybe this is when I would see a view. A rainbow would light up the sky and the Tennessee valley would smile up at me.
Step, squish, pole, rock. Root, root, rock, root. “It’s slippery” I whispered to myself. “Be careful.” I took innately good care of myself on the trail, encouraging myself along, coaxing myself, speaking softly and gently and reassuringly to myself. “Almost there” was a daily mantra, particularly in the evenings, my last four miles inevitably harder than my first six or seven.
This elaborate fantasy of the rest station was some of the best self-care I conjured up. It carried me slippery and wet 1.75 miles to Newfoundland Gap. It carried me past the day hikers I began seeing on the trail, ponchos on, smelling clean, un muddied sneakers.
It fortified me through and beyond the road crossing. For when I reached the promised land, reality was loud, cars whooshing by on the road I staggered across, blisters now forming on my soggy feet. Pink Jeep Tours jauntily positioned on the side of the packed parking lot. The tour guide looked at me amusedly (or so it seemed) “how ya doing?” he asked in neatly pressed khaki shorts, visor just so over his gelled hair. I nodded back, maybe smiled, and tried to get my bearings.
There were people everywhere. Large people, loud people, motorcycles revving and trucks lumbering. No dry spots to set my pack. No gentle overhang I could retreat under. I didn’t WANT a ride with anyone here, that I was clear on. I located the ongoing AT, heading into the other side of the forest, across the road, and knew that was my destination for the evening.
I held out hope for the bathroom and was utterly disappointed. No electrical outlets, no hand dryers, no running water even. A large stinky room with loud stinky people and forlorn hand sanitizer stations bolted into the wall. I sanitized, threw out the three days of trash I had accumulated, and precariously balanced my pack on a high ledge that was partially covered. I found my map, double checked the distance to the next shelter. Three miles. Ok, three miles. I can do this, there’s enough daylight, the rain is slowing.
I ate another fistful of nuts, awkwardly donned my pack, and headed back into the forest, my fantasy was dashed, but even as I retuned to the woods, I recognized how well it had served me, carried me, held me in imaginary comfort and pseudo distraction as I picked through slippery puddles and sharp rocks.
My story of the fantasy ends here, but I will leave you with the essence of my remaining trek for that long day. The trail pulled away from the road in about a mile, day hikers thinned out then disappeared, and the mystical layers of fog and moss and deep, penetrating stillness settled in. The air was fresh, humid, clinging somewhere between just after a rainfall and almost dusk. My fresh fantasy of a fire was halfway met, and I dried off and dined in a covered space with fellow hikers when I reached the shelter. All of us smelling bad, cheerfully exhausted, and relieved to have a place out of the rain.
