(The following story ran in the Daily Item on June 7, 1998)

HOT SPRINGS, N.C. — It was 10 o’clock in the morning as I reached Thunderhead Mountain in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

I know that only because I looked at my watch.

The way the clouds cloaked the upper reaches of these mountains, it could have been dawn, it could have been dusk, it could have been high noon. For when the thick fog rolls in thick as pea soup on a stiff northerly breeze, daylight in the Smokies is one uniform shade of gray.

As I hiked along the Appalachian Trail in the Smokies, I did so with increased awareness.

This is bear country, and the evidence is everywhere.

Posters at the park entrance warn visitors of possible interaction with bears, and the Appalachian Trail shelters — three-sided huts elsewhere on the trail — feature chain-link front gates in the Smokies to protect against bears.

Those hikers not staying  in shelters must “bear-bag” their food by hanging it from a small branch of a tall tree. That way, a bear can’t climb out onto the limb and get at the food. Bear-bagging doesn’t always work, though. One hiker I met had hung his food in a tree before going to bed, but a pear climbed a few feet into the tree and began shaking the trunk. The food bag started swinging like a pendulum. When the bag got close enough, the bear pawed at it, knocked it to the ground and ran off with it.

So bears were on my mind as I trudged through the mid-morning fog east of Thunderhead Mountain.

Then I saw it.

A large, dark shape ambling across the trail 15 or 20 yards in front of me.

“Oh my gosh,” I thought (in approximately those words …), “it’s a bear.”

It was large. This was good. Where there is a cub, there is usually a fiercely protective mother. So I was actually glad to see it was a full-grown adult.

I froze. My knees shook and my throat went dry.

It’s one thing to see a bear from the safety of a shelter. It’s quite another to see one while hiking alone in the fog. I was on the bear’s terms. As my brother Mike would say, it’s human against bears and the bears are definitely the home team.

I quickly tried to recall what I knew about bear encounters. Bears generally avoid contact with humans. Well, let’s home this is one of those bears. Keep your distance… no problem with that, I thought.

I realized the wind was blowing from left to right. Had it even sensed me? I sure didn’t want to startle it. So I held my ground, and, it seemed, my breath.

I watched the bear cross the trail and head downhill into a patch of rhododendron. But I could tell it had stopped just a few yards from the trail.

Dare I walk right by it?

Then I heard a rustling of leaves, and I could tell it was running. Toward me? No, I realized it had moved further down the slope. Now it was maybe 20 yards from the trail.

I lightly — but quickly — hiked by the spot and kept right on walking. Fast. After hiking a few hundred more yards, I stopped, sighed, and realized what an intense, thrilling moment that had been.

The scenic Great Smoky Mountains National Park — a 500,000-acre park that straddles the Tennessee-North Carolina border — caps a grueling 150-mile stretch that is considered some of the toughest of the entire 2,160-mile Appalachian Trail. Clingman’s Dome, at 6,643 feet the highest point on the entire trail, lies in the Smokies.

Before entering the Smokies, the trail climbs above 5,000 feet, then drops 3,000 feet into a gorge carved by the Nantahala River. It crosses the river and immediately climbs 3,500 feet over an eight-mile stretch that is almost entirely uphill.

A 15-mile hike out of the gorge, in 90-degree heat, left me as exhausted as I’ve ever been while hiking. After that day, I just wanted to rest and recover. But I knew that to reach Maine, I had to get up the next morning and move on. The Appalachian Trail isn’t long on sympathy.

Through the first three weeks on the trail, I’ve covered 270 miles and should reach the Virginia border in about 10 days.

That reminds me of something Larry Jolley told me a couple of weeks ago. Jolley, an engaging, retired man who volunteers his time with a North Carolina hiking club, had given me a ride back to the trail after a resupply stop in Franklin, N.C.

“Once you get out of North Carolina,” Jolley said, “you’ve got it made.”

Well, I’m not sure about that. According to my guidebook, once I get out of North Carolina, I have 1,708 miles to go.

Still, it’s nice to have the Nantahala River gorge, the Smoky Mountains — and that bear — in my rear-view mirror.