have fantasies about hiking the Appalachian Trail. In these fantasies, I carve three months out of my life and spend each day in a meditative, Zen-like trance climbing along the great winding, rocky path traversed so long ago by my forefathers. Well, not my personal forefathers, who probably were somewhere in Finland at the time, tanked to the gills. But somebody’s forefathers. Somebody from Virginia, I bet.

Anyway, like my other fantasies—say, the ones involving Jake Gyllenhaal and furniture made of cheddar cheese—this will never happen. I don’t have the knees for it. Come to think of it, I don’t have the legs, arms, chest, or back for it, either. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a little bit of the pilgrimage. So on my second day in the Great Smokies, I hit the mountains for a five-hour hike at the point where the Appalachian Trail hugs the North Carolina-Tennesse border. It’s exciting to set out on this kind of all-day outdoor adventure. The landscape can be transcendent—the milky blue haze of the mountains, the moss thick and brilliant—and it’s a great excuse to eat beef jerky.

I wasn’t 10 steps in, however, before the heavens began to rumble. Lightning stabbed the sky. No problem; I’m a scrapper. As it began to sprinkle, families at the mouth of the trail scurried to their cars, but I merely shrugged and draped myself in the 99-cent poncho I bought at Target—kind of like being swaddled in giant yellow Saran Wrap. I felt strong and powerful: Rain pelted the ground and dripped off my back, and yet, like the forefathers of those people in Virginia, I perservered. Why? Because I had to. No: Because I could.

But an hour later, as the rocky grew slicker and the path turned to mush, I began to feel a bit like a dipshit. Who hikes in the rain? What if I got lost? What if I broke my leg? I would end up like those poor fools in The Blair Witch Project—without the video camera, or the map, or the Blair Witch—and some ranger would find me, 10 days from now, sucking on leaves and talking to my pinky finger. I don’t have to do this crap—this is the 21st century, for Christ’s sake. I was cold, and wet, and shivering, and I wanted nothing more than warm shelter and email.

In the end, I settled on a bar called Puckers in the hideous tourist enclave outside the park entrance. (Tackiest piece of clothing displayed in nearby shop window: A pair of men’s underwear with the phrase “The Fartbeat of America.”) There’s no Internet connection, but my rather alarmingly endowed waitress agreed to unplug one of the TVs so I could use my laptop. When she did so, she called me sugar. One of the mullet-ed men at the bar just played Great White on the jukebox. On purpose. So I don’t feel that much more comfortable here than I did on that wet, rocky trail. But at least I don’t have to wear that yellow Ziploc baggie over me. And the view from this booth, while not exactly beautiful, is still mighty impressive.