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Halfway through the night, I was woken by gusts of wind thrashing at my tent. I could hear the currents approaching and crashing like waves into the thin shelter walls.

My eyes were heavy, but the violent wind kept me awake. To make matters worse, as the night progressed, I started to hear small ice pellets bounce off the sides of my tent, and even in my stupor I became concerned.

I grew up relatively close to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and I recalled annual spring newspaper reports of hikers trapped or killed in the park due to late-season snowstorms. I worried that, instead of hiking north tomorrow, I might have to retrace my steps out of the park in a snowstorm. It was an answer to my prayer when I peered out of my tent the next morning to find that the icy weather had subsided into a cold rain.

I knew that my second day in the Smokies would take me to the top of Clingmans Dome, the highest peak on the Appalachian Trail, but the white clouds that infiltrated the forest made it difficult to tell how far I had hiked and where the trail was leading.

I decided I must be getting close to the summit when the hardwood forest gave way to small brushy evergreens that smelled like a fresh-cut Christmas tree. I hadn’t seen a view all day, but the mist wrapped around the saturated alpine limbs of the spruce trees formed an image more tangible and mysterious than any mountain panorama.

When the trail stopped angling upward, it also split in two. I stopped to look around. This couldn’t be the top of the mountain, could it? I didn’t feel like I had worked hard enough to reach the tallest point on the trail.

Then I saw the sign a few feet ahead: CLINGMANS DOME 6,643 FT. The bleak isolation of the fog had masked the distance and effort it took to reach the mountaintop, and now I had it all to myself.

I followed the signs to the observation tower and, laying my gear on the wet ground, I slowly climbed the spiral ramp to the top. I don’t know why I walked to the top. I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me, let alone the distant peaks, but there was something about coming so far and still not being at the highest point that made me want to go farther.

Descending from Clingmans Dome, I found patches of ice and snow still covering the trail. The winter sun doesn’t shine on the north slope of the mountain and as a result, snow remains on the ground until late spring.

Instead of risking a dangerous fall, I chose to sit and carefully slide down the ice on my bottom. During one particularly long and steep slide, I lost control and skidded off the trail. When I stopped I found myself five feet downhill from the trail tangled in a web of evergreen branches. I wasn’t hurt, but I had little desire to stand up and continue hiking. I propped myself up amid the tree limbs and dug through my pack for a snack.

I sat still for nearly an hour, nestled against the trees, watching the mist particles dance and swirl in the breeze. Finally, the darkening sky prompted me to rise and walk—or rather skate and slide—to the lonely Mount Collins Shelter. I don’t know where the thirty hikers from last night’s shelter had disappeared to, but I now felt like I was the only one left in the park; me and whatever animals roamed in the darkness outside the chain-link fence.

Generally, I’m a positive person, so the next morning I awoke hoping for a warm, clear, sunny day. However, when I looked out on the same cold, wet fog, it shattered my optimism. I was starting to feel like a cartoon character who was followed everywhere she went by a storm cloud overhead.

Besides affecting my attitude, the cold, damp weather had greatly increased my appetite. I still had a day and a half left in the park, but I was down to a few remaining Pop-Tarts, some crackers, and the dregs of my peanut butter. I would need to start conserving food to make sure I would have enough to get me through the park.

It was disheartening to struggle through another day of cold rain. My clothes