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longest continuous uphill so far, going from 1,723 feet to 4,750 feet in six miles. The downside of dropping into towns is the climb outtrail is a stream. Rain comes down in a heavy, continuous barrage. My defenses--a hooded rain jacket, gaiters, and Gore-Tex pants and shoes--only hold for about two hours. My shirt, pants, and socks are all wet.
    I feel strong, even with a load bulging with six days of food. The half-day rest did me good. Thunderless lightning illuminates the sky. These flashes don't alarm me; I don't even know if they present a threat. I walk nonstop for three and a half hours to get to Sassafras Gap Shelter. In some ways, this weather is conducive to such a march. There is nowhere to stop, not much can be seen, and walking is the only way to stay warm.
    This is a wonderfully large shelter with two levels of bunks, a large covered area in front, and clerestory windows. Two hikers are already here. They've been holed up since last night, having better sense than to venture out in the rain. Four more soaked hikers drag in after me. Most everyone I'm seeing on the trail is a thru-hiker.
    The rain continues and shows no signs of letting up. I get chills once I stop walking, so I have some hot food and jump into my sleeping bag with wet clothes, testing the theory that body heat dries them out.
    At 8:00 a.m., it's been raining for more than twenty-four hours. Sleeping in wet clothes is good for the clothes but bad for the sleeping bag. My brand-new down bag kept me warm, but it is now dank and smelly. Walking in the rain is doable, but my wet feet will get more blisters (I now have three blisters on each foot), and even with a rain cover my pack slowly absorbs water from the space between me and the pack. I have to be careful to keep my sleeping bag dry. I'm going to wait for the rain to stop.
    I spend much of my rainy day talking with Mike, a robust, round-faced, bearded technical writer from Minnesota. He has a technical approach to thru-hiking as well. He has studied the trail guides and maps and can recite the elevation gain and loss that we will face in the Smokies. He knows the pros and cons to all the equipment choices. His soft-spoken demeanor reminds me of football announcer Merlin Olson, and he has wizardly acumen. I think he should have the trail name "Merlin," but I am inhibited about telling him so.
    Due to my rain-shortened walk yesterday, I will abandon my plan to travel six days without resupplying. I set my sights on Fontana Dam, two days away. I need to move on at least nine miles to the next shelter to make that happen, but it is well past noon and it is still raining. Mike bemoans being "stuck" for another night, since he doesn't have the speed to move on so late in the day.
    At 2:30 the rain stops. I pack and make a break for it. Running scared that rain could start again, I do the nine-mile stretch to Brown Fork Gap Shelter in four hours. This late-day burst saves me from losing another day on my schedule, and puts me in good position to head into the Smokies. I'm happy, opportunistic, and lucky to make it here. Pulling off a move like this gives me confidence. I suspect I won't see Mike again, so I leave a note in the shelter register, suggesting the trail name "Merlin." I hope he sees it. 9
    I lay in my sleeping bag reading by headlamp. A section hiker is at the other end of the shelter, and a mouse crawls over the foot of his sleeping bag and crosses the sleeping platform diagonally toward me. He peers into my headlamp for a moment and then scurries past, behind my head. Hours later, after I am asleep, I wake to the sound ofcelebratory whoops coming from the trail, and look out to see the flicker of headlamps. I see the silhouette of two small bodies outside, whispering to each other in a foreign language. One head is hairless; the other has short curly hair. I can't tell if they are women or boys, and won't know until morning. They slip inside and go to sleep.
    The hikers are Snail and