Hump Mountain, Little Hump Mountain

 12/03/25

It was 28℉ at the trailhead, the ground coated in a thin layer of crunchy ice. I had pulled off the 19E into a small dirt lot only big enough for 2 vehicles. The only other spot was occupied by a sedan, that, like the ground surrounding it, was covered in ice. Yep, this was gonna be a cold one. Good thing I brought mittens.

The goal of the day was to follow a chunk of the Appalachian Trail all the way to the summit of Hump Mountain, a place that's known for having incredible views. Being an Appalachian Bald, the summit is free from any trees that would normally hinder visibility. Unobstructed, 360° views for miles and miles and miles. Sounded like a good deal, so I went up to take a look.

The weather that day was supposed to be sunny and clear, perfect conditions for a trek to a place such as Hump Mountain. Though overcast at the moment, I imagined the sun shining happy and bright above the clouds, waiting for the right chance to break through and say hello. But in the meantime I had to shiver under this blanket of gray, following the AT as it slowly wound its way up into the mountains. 

The crunchy ice turned into crunchy snow, no more than an inch deep. Everything in sight was completely frozen stiff: the ground, the dirt, the leaves of the rhododendrons, sticks, branches, moss. It was a frozen, silent landscape, one that said little and left much open to interpretation. I followed frozen footprints in the snow, no doubt made by the owner of the frosty sedan. Would I ever meet the creator of these tracks? Only one way to find out: I kept chugging along. 

Up and up, slowly but surely, the trail cut deeper and deeper into the mountains. I could not believe how quiet it was. Perhaps sound itself was frozen too, but if that were true I'd probably be dead. My footsteps crunching in the icy snow sounded like firecrackers they were so loud, echoing off into the cold, barren trees. Every now and then I'd stop and listen for a few moments, trying to perceive any sound other than those I made myself. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Pretty trippy. 

The trees were covered with the aftermath of Ol' Jack Frost's wild midnight party in the mountains. Bark powdered with snow and large, half-inch ice crystals growing off of the thinner branches made these trees look like something otherworldly, like some strange land-dwelling coral that crawled out of the depths of a spunky sea. I stopped often to take photos of the trees, listening to their utter silence, petting the delicate ice crystals that disintegrated as soon as I touched them. Sometimes the sun would punch a hole through the cloud cover, a circle of blue shining through the gray. The blue reflected off the snow and ice, making everything look all the more cold. Everywhere I looked: gray, blue and white. Yup. Them's winter colors right there. 

The farther I walked, the colder it became, although this drop in temperature was only noticeable when I stopped to take a breather. I was plenty warm walking uphill, having to shed a few layers in the process.  A trickling stream, the only thing seemingly left unfrozen, provided the first sound of the day, drip dripping through the silence. Icicles, some more than 2ft in length, dangled from a huge boulder just off the trail, the whole thing looking like some huge, icy fortress. Higher and higher I went, following well-graded switchbacks through frozen trees, climbing up through the cloud layer in search of the sun.

I walked through the clouds and into the sun, finally escaping the freezing grayness somewhere near a place called Doll Flats. I reached a level area with plenty of fine real estate for pitching a tent, as well as a small break in the trees offering the first views of the day. Walking along, I passed a sign marking the border between North Carolina and Tennessee. Ahead, down in the lower elevations, expanded a massive gray blanket of clouds, covering everything except the taller peaks. Moving ever so slowly, these clouds looked like a massive glacier slowly carving away the valleys of Appalachia, imperceptibly receding as the minutes slipped on by. 

I walked on, the snow now slushy and wet. The sun had quite the powerful effect on the landscape and was already busy destroying all of Jack Frost's hard work. I could already tell that most of that winter wonderland would be gone by the time I got back. Oh well. Such is the way of the world.

The trail, instead of directly ascending Hump Mountain from Doll Flats, takes a longer route that makes the elevation gain less onerous. It heads away from the mountain, slowly ascending through the woods. This section, in my opinion, wasn't nearly as interesting as the winter wonderland of which I'd just experienced. The sun shining bright, the clouds far below, the snow steadily melting—all of it offered a cacophony of noise to my previously sound-deprived ears. Melting snow, chirping birds, a slight breeze rustling through the forest; the sounds had a numbing effect, making me less alert, affirming that I was no longer alone. 

I eventually entered a shady section of mountain, and here the snow was nice and crunchy, about 2 inches deep in some places. I trudged along, my feet a wee bit wet, walking up a few switchbacks through the dwindling canopy. And then, all of a sudden, the trail spit me out and I was on the bald; nothing but frozen grass and sticks in all directions. I ascended a small bump and finally got my first view of Hump Mountain, a mellow looking mound of ice and brown grass jutting up out of a long ridge made up of other small bumps. And, wouldn't you know it, off in the distance, wearing a big ol' pack and dressed in gray, was walking the owner of those footprints I'd been following all day. Seems like we both had the same idea. I kept going, heading towards the summit, the breeze having now upgraded to "wind status."

Hump Mountain right

I caught up to the owner of the footprints near the base of the final summit push, slowing my pace to chat for a few moments. The footprint god was an older guy wearing boots and a gray long-sleeve shirt, carrying a pack large enough to hold overnight supplies. Said he'd started super early that morning, before the sun came up. We talked and walked the rest of the way to the summit, topping out in blustery winds and icy cold. I touched the sign marking the summit, doing a quick sweep of the 360° views. I was still feeling pretty good at this point, so I decided to keep going down the trail, maybe even climb a second summit. I said something like, "Well, I'm gonna keep going" and he said "Ok. Have fun." We said our goodbyes and I headed off the mountain, breaking trail through clean, unblemished snow. 

Clouds

West

I quickly discovered the western side of Hump Mountain to be much steeper than the gentle southeast slope I'd just climbed. 'Twas a long, steep descent through fresh snow and brittle grass; the wind frosty, my shoes crispy with ice. I stopped at one point to check out the frozen grass, which looked like a field of white ocean coral standing stationary and uniform in the weak winter sunlight. I could only imagine how cold it must've gotten the night before; the grass appeared to have been flash frozen, with a clean layer of crystal clear ice jutting out of it before mixing with regular snow. 

I reached a saddle, finding a wooden fixture stuck in the ground with the words "Bradley Gap" inscribed on its surface. And then I started going up again, heading towards a smaller bump on the ridge known as Little Hump Mountain. Like its bigger neighbor, Little Hump Mountain has the distinction of being an Appalachian Bald as well, even though this doesn't appear to be the case when viewed from Bradley Gap. I soon entered a small patch of trees, walking through a quiet forest devoid of most foliage. Clean, unblemished snow all around me. Back to silence, back to solitude.

I walked at a steady pace, noting a small trickle of water cutting through the snow like a black scar in the ground. The trees became shorter in height and more sparse in concentration, the blue sky opening up overhead. I briefly left the trail to check out this nice looking camp spot; nothing but smooth snow and stillness. I imagined what the place would look like in 6 months time, with green leaves and wet soil, birds and critters and bugs and warmth. It would be a whole different vibe; it's crazy how something as simple as the weather can drastically change the essence of a place. I walked on, leaving the trees, heading towards the small summit of Little Hump Mountain.

The silent campground

I should've just stayed on Hump Mountain. The summit of Little Hump didn't really have much to say; I found it to be a wind-swept, barren, icy, cold spit of earth with inferior views and hardly any personality. I stood in the wind, munching on a rock-hard protein bar and sipping icy water. Looking around, I saw much of what I'd already seen over on Hump Mountain, including a view of Big Yellow Mountain, another little bump on the ridge of never-ending bumps. I considered checking it out, but the day was already growing long and I'd already hiked over seven miles so I decided to save it for later, most likely for the spring when everything is green and nice. I packed up shop and started my way off Little Hump, retracing my steps to Bradley Gap.

Little Hump Mtn, view west

View southwest, Big Yellow Mtn left

View northeast, Hump Mtn right

Headin' back...

I trotted most of the way, sometimes slipping in my own footprints. My feet were pretty soaked by this point, but luckily this wasn't my first rodeo, hahaha. All those trips to the Bluff, to Reyes Peak, to the Nordhoff Lookout tower after a fresh snow—all of these silly little excursions more than prepared me for days with wet feet. But I gotta admit, it is getting a little annoying. Perhaps I should invest in some good boots. Or perhaps I should keep complaining. I'll probably go for the latter. Complaining is much more fun. Plus...it's cost effective!

Back at Bradley Gap, Hump Mountain gently rose in front of me, a huge, tan mound of frozen grass and ice. I trudged along, slipping in my footprints, my shoes wet and muddy. The wind blew steady now, saying hello to me in quick, icy bursts. The clouds were receding, pulling away from the mountains, revealing more of the valleys and hollers with each passing minute. By the time I reached the summit, most of the cloud-cover had disappeared, revealing a dark landscape that looked like it wanted to go back to sleep. I threw my pack on the ground, stretched my legs, and took in the views for the second time.

Hump Mountain

Hump Mountain Summit

The footprint artist was nowhere to be seen. Had the whole place to myself, so I took my time absorbing the crystal-clear views that sprawled before me. Off to the west rose some of the higher peaks of Southern Appalachia, Grassy Ridge Bald and Roan High Knob clearly visible. Moving my eyes ever so slightly to the southwest gave me views of Mt. Mitchell and Co, standing tall and stoic against the winter sky. Miles upon miles of hills, hollers, creeks and roads stretched off to the south as far as the eye could see, the views terminating in a weird, translucent haze near the horizon. Table Rock Mountain, the only landmark clearly visible, looked like a small thumb jutting out of the earth. And then I turned my gaze to the southeast, were the peaks of Grandfather Mountain rose in the distance. Looking east revealed more of the same, snow-dusted mountains and roads and valleys. I could even make out Mt. Rogers in the distance; weird to think that I was just there a couple of days ago. 

South

East(ish)

Northeast

I spent a good ten minutes up there, watching as the clouds continued their early afternoon disintegration party. Satisfied, I picked up my stuff, waved goodbye to the sign marking the summit, and then made my way back down the trail, back into the woods. 

I took my time descending through the bald. These were some of the best views I'd ever seen in my life, and I'd be darned if I didn't enjoy them. But all good things must come to an end, and soon I was back in the woods, back in the slushy snow and spindly branches and chirping birds and trickling streams. 

I trotted down the trail, careful not to slip in the slick snow and ice. I made it back to Doll Flats in good time, stopping briefly for a quick water break. And then it was all downhill, down the switchbacks, down the trail, down, down down all the way to the 19E.

Heading down, I was surprised to see a thick chunk of cloud cover still lingering against the foothills. I walked straight into it, walking through its depths, listening as everything around me dripped and melted, the pitter-patter of the thaw the only sound to be heard. Sunlight flickered and danced upon the barren trees as it filtered through the dense clouds, casting strange shadows on every available surface. And there in the distance, moseying along at a leisurely pace, trudged the footprint lord himself. I caught up to him and he asked how far I went. I told him where I went, and then said, "peculiar weather around here, huh?" And he said "yeah" and then we parted, never to see each other again. 

I eventually broke through the fog, now finding myself underneath the clouds. The snow here hadn't melted yet; everything looked exactly the same. I was back to the good ol', gray winter wonderland that I'd seen all morning, crunchy snow and powdered trees and ice crystals and all. I walked down the trail, taking pictures of the same things from different angles. Other than the footprint deity, I hadn't seen a single person all day. And it remained that way as I made my way back to the car.

I made it back to the car in good time, the whole hike taking just about 5 hours to complete. I sat in the car and waited for it to warm up as other vehicles darted this way and that up and down the 19E. It had been a good walk through the woods, filled with plenty of interesting sights and sounds. I'll have to agree with what I've heard about Hump Mountain; the views up there—especially on a clear day—are pretty dang nice. But views ain't the only reason to climb a mountain. This one's got it all: a nice approach, pretty scenery, and ample time for self reflection and introspection and all that or whatever. I don't know. I just like walking. 

Haven't been back out to the woods since doing this hike. Been a tad busy as this year comes to a close. But I've got a taste of the country now, a basic grasp of the terrain, my bearings are straight and shoes muddy and I'm ready for more. There's a much more to see out there in the country, much, much more. And next year, I intend to see as much of it as I can.