- Fall 2025 trip to the Smokies
- Thursday, Oct. 16, to Sunday, Oct. 19, 2025
- Abrams Falls area, Great Smoky Mountains
- Hikers: Paul Guenther, John, Curtin, Bill Ankenbauer, Bob Pauly, and Mark Neikirk
IT’S ALL ABOUT THE NIGHTS OUT, PEOPLE
By Mark Neikirk
Our little hiking group, the Patio Boys, was launched – though not yet named – in the spring 1996 with an 18.2-mile hike from Pickett State Park in Tennessee to Peters Mountain in southeast Kentucky. Three people, Bob Pauly, Bill Ankenbauer, and Todd Martin walked those first miles and recorded our group’s first “nights out.”
I would not expect anyone other than actual Patio Boys to know the significance of an official night out. But among us, each night out is a badge of honor. We collect them and discuss them the way, as actual boys, we once collected and discussed baseball cards and toy soldiers. While we, like everyone, value life and liberty, we also value our nights out. It is our pursuit of happiness.
Among the Patio Boys, the most nights out is an esteem held by Bob, whom we consider our commissioner. He is self-appointed, but unlike in the current national democracy, no one marches against his presumption of power. No one takes him to court. No one posts nasty memes to denigrate him online. No one goes on MSNBC to analyze and condemn his faults. It is not necessary to storm the Capital, the gates of hell, or even Herb & Thelma’s Tavern to depose, or retain, him. We are at peace with our despot.
We permit him his indulgence because the post of commissioner, while more than ceremonial, is thankless and unpaid.
Bob, as of this telling, has 151 nights out. Second is Bill at 142. I’m a distant third at 105. So, just as a matter of nights out, Bob has earned his elevated position; but beyond the math, he also has contributed 30 years of flawlessly planning trips. As an aside, we say flawless. He would not. Bob is his own worst critic. In one recent example of what he considered a flaw, he planned a trip using a ten-year-old map, which failed to take into account the fact that the trail involved had been rerouted and about ten miles added. No one faults Bob but Bob. He penalized himself for the error. Bob is the guide of autarch who dispenses his harsh justice without fear or favor.
I would give that night out back to him because there is nothing like adding mileage to add drama. The more drama, the more material for me, the Patio Boys’ scribe. You can read all about extra miles trip on the Patio Boys’ website, but the quick summary is the misery of it as the sub of the distance, the rain, the big hills, the ticks and chiggers, a strenuous detour because of a damaged bridge, and the dire warnings of trespassing, one of which was delivered by a woman cradling a shotgun. A loaded shotgun. Or as Jack Nicholson in the role of Colonel Nathan R. Jessup might put it his icy voice dripping with dismissal of lesser humans, “Is there any other kind?”
That accurst trip, taken last spring, proved consequential for the two Patio Boys who were in fourth and fifth place on the all-time nights out list, John Hennessey and John Curtin. It was planned as a three-night trip. Hence, John Hennessey stood to go from 97 to 100 and John Curtin from 95 to 98. However, they got behind on the hike, stranded in the unrelenting rain, and made an early exit, only adding two nights, not three, to their tally. Their third night was spent in a Whitley City, Ky., hotel watching the NFL draft. No nights out for that. The commissioner’s rules forbid such compensation. Harsh. The score at the trip’s end: Hennessey 99, Curtin 97.
This, the Fall 2025 trip, was to be the one to push both in the Century Club. There would be celebration and libation. However, in the words of the great Scottish poet, Robert Burns, “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men. Gang aft a-gley.” Or, translated into modern English, the best laid plans still go awry.
∆ ∆ ∆
As we typically do a week before a trip, we had a planning meeting for this hike to confirm who was going and to pick a destination from options preselected by Bob. We met at John Curtin’s backyard fire pit. He supplied the bourbon. I brought some ballpark peanuts retained, and unopened, from Cincinnati Reds game. Bob brought the choices: A section of the Appalachian Trail ending in Damacus, Va., where we could enjoy beers and burgers and soak up some AT vibe; Dolly Sods in West Virginia, where we have been before and this time could explore new trails; the Red River Gorge, a standby; and the Great Smoky Mountains, another standby.
We discussed, debated, weighed pros and cons, made passionate arguments, and then voted. Dolly Sods was edging its way to the front. It’s exotic, and we loved our time there. I like the AT idea, as I would like to see Damascus. Bob favored the Rough Trail in the Gorge, which, as you might imagine, lost votes because its unfortunate name.
Everything stayed in play for the better part of an hour until, in the end, trails in and around Abrams Falls in the Smokies won out. Bob, Bill, both Johns, Paul Guethner, and me committed to the trip. Mark McGinnis, a stalwart of the Patio Boys, could not go because the weekend was also his wedding anniversary. Others, too, had conflicting obligations or, for reasons of their own, no interest.
Everything seemed set. Paul would pick up Curtin, Hennessey, and me, and then meet Bill and Bob at Bob’s house in time for an 8 a.m. departure to Tennessee. And then, well, to quote Burns again, “Gang aft a-gley.”
Paul arrived at John Hennessey’s house to find John in the driveway, his pack packed and by his side. But, he reported, developments overnight had disrupted his intentions. His grandson, Cameron, was going to need an emergency appendectomy later in the morning, and the young man wanted his Papa there. John Hennessey might not be going.
Or maybe he would. On the drive down, Hennessey sent texts that, assuming Cameron’s surgery was without incident, he planned to rise early, be on the road by 4 a.m., and join us on the trial by midday on Friday. Since he was just one night out from 100, he would get his Century pin. If he made it to Tennessee.
∆ ∆ ∆
The parking lot at the Abrams Creek Ranger Station rests in meadow along a tree-lined stream. The Smokies rise above all of that in every direction. The lot should have brought back the memories of the Patio Boys spring hike in 2013, when John Hennessey and I had to wait to leave town until after work, and didn’t get to this parking lot until after dark, hours behind the rest of the group. We slept in his SUV as a gentle rain pitter-pattered through the night and the occasional bright beams of headlights stirred us from slumber. Nothing about the parking lot looked familiar to me this time. Seeing it in the dark 12 years ago had left no lasting impression about the actual look of the place.
In 2013, we headed out on a short, 3-mile walk along the Little Bottom Trail to Campsite 17. This trip, we headed to Campsite15 along the Rabbit Creek Trail, which was 3.7 miles from the parking lot. The distance doesn’t do justice to the difficulty. The trail was uphill for most of the way and when it did go downhill it did so partly over a creek bed that was rocky and slick. At the bottom, the trail crossed a small stream. The crossing involved hopscotching over misshapen boulders. We would cross there at least ten times, including twice on Friday morning when Bill and I went over, then back, in order to climb to the trail’s highest point where there was cell service.
Bill, ever the techie, has an app on his iPhone that tells him where there is cell coverage. Our camp was a dead zone, but 1.5 miles away atop a labeled on the map as Pine Mountain was service. We needed to know if Hennessey was on the way down or not. He was not. As you might expect, Papa knew where he needed to be. As long as he had a signal, Bill took the opportunity to get the score for the Thursday night NFL game. The Cincinnati Bengals, our home team, had defeated the Pittsburgh Steelers 33-31. He headed back to deliver the news, I stayed high long enough to call home and check in.
∆ ∆ ∆
Our plan on this trip was to keep our tents and gear at Campsite 15 and day hike on Friday and Saturday, then hike out on Sunday. Four days, three nights. It would add up to a comfortable total mileage under 30 and only 7.4 miles with a full pack. The rest would be with day packs for rain gear, lunch, and water. There were hikes in the Patio Boys’ earlier days that we called “Pauly Death Marches” because Bob had us hiking 25 miles or more over two days with full packs. Now, everyone is over 70 and slowing down a bit. We take it easier. We have among us a couple of artificial knees, at least one hip that needs to be replaced, and, collectively, required daily pills for cholesterol control, blood pressure control, diabetes control, thyroid health, sleeping assistance, and lord knows what else. We even had some turmeric tea for the evenings, once reserved for bourbon. Not that bourbon was absent on this trip, but the quantity familwas less than in the old days. The quality was not. Woodford. Four Roses. Knob Creek. Because they like a little of it with their bourbon, Bob and Bill each brought small bottles of Coca Cola as mixers. We don’t camp in luxury but we do camp with some comforts.
This was not an eventful hike, which is just as well since “eventful” typically means trial and tribulation. The main tribulation was the elevation. On Thursday, we walked uphill from the parking lot at the Abrams Creek Ranger Station, elevation about 1,100 feet, to the top of Pine Mountain at 2,100 feet. That’s about 1,000 feet over 2.7 miles, so it was steep in places. On Friday, we hiked a side trail that had some climbing, too, and Saturday’s hike also had hills.
That said, the trip’s biggest hardship was getting John Curtin’s sleeping bag zipper back on track. It has come off at the bottom and resisted every attempt at repair. All of us tried on Thursday without success, so John used his bag like a quilt that evening and stayed warm enough. Next day, I had the idea of lubricating the zipper to see if that would help. Paul, a retired doctor with a small medical kit, had a tube of Neosporin, and we thought that might do the trick. As he went to get it, I tried aligning things once more and, presto, everything worked, and John’s zipper was returned to functionality. He slept warmer on Friday night than he had on Thursday.
This was not a hike ladened with sights to see. The forest is calming, lovely. The leaves are starting to turn. Fall is late. But there were no spectacular overlooks or the like. We did make it to the touristy Abrams Falls on Saturday, and the place was hopping. We came off our trail to a big parking lot, packed to the gills. I saw plates from Tennessee, Ohio, and Kentucky – all expected – but also from Nevada, Mississippi, Maryland, Pennsylvania and a few other states that have since slipped my memory. Should I start on Prevagen? The park service outhouse – the restroom equivalent of a Last Chance Liquor – had a long line outside. John Curtin waited his turn but later report the interior to be perhaps the most disgusting 10 square feet on the planet. Peeing in the woods was a superior experience, though it was bit too crowded to accomplish that in this immediate area. The choices were either hold your nose or hold it.
From the parking lot, the trail is wide, clearly marked, well-traveled. Even at that, one man coming back reported seeing a bear grazing above the trail. That made three bear sitings for us. Bob and Bill had each seen one scurry away on other trails. None of them seemed to pose any threat and, if they’d had their druthers, would have gone unseen.
The falls themselves are scenic. No argument there. Roiling water shoots over staggered stairsteps of sandstone into a great, calm and shallow pool, and its shoreline is lined with boulders perfect for sitting and taking in all in. There are nicer falls in the Smokies, and certainly less crowded ones. But if you are people watcher, and I am, this is a good place to come. There’s reason to believe, as Paul Simon sang, that poor boys and pilgrims with families will be received at Graceland. Here, 350 east of where Elvis lived and died, they are being received by nature and the music of a woodland waterfall. Like Graceland, this an All-American destination.
I’ll paint the scene for you: It is a sunny afternoon, just past noon. No clouds. The temperature is in the 70s (ha, like us). People are putting their feet in the water. One man takes off his shirt and wades in, his pasty white torso a sight the public deserved to be spared. His belly flab floats on the top of the pool, like the carcass of a small, hairless mammal. When he comes out of the water and stands, or I should say, poses, on a rock, he sucks in his belly as his companion, perhaps his wife, takes his photograph. He cocks his head back photogenically with his thinning grey hair wet and slicked back like a model’s. What he sees in his imagination is not what the camera sees. Not what the public sees.
Nearby, a young couple both dressed in NYC black, her in yoga pants that celebrate her youth, and giggle at matters known only to them. Were there a fashion shoot here, they actually might make the cut. Among the rest of the visitors, about half are overdressed in their REI finest and the other half in ill-fitting shorts and t-shirts with slogans or place names. As you can tell, I’m a judgmental people watcher. In spite of that, I’m happy for these people. They are here. They are seeing this. They are not at home watching college football and eating Doritos. They are not trolling their political opposites on social media. They are not buying cigarettes and lottery tickets. Or bullets.
∆ ∆ ∆
There are rules about what constitutes a night out, although so far as we can tell only Bob Pauly knows those rules. They seem to change to suit his mood. We tried once to codify the rules. This was on the Spring 2016 hike, also in the Smokies in an area called Deep Creek. You can read a full account of that attempt. First around a campfire, and then, the next day on a 15-mile day hike, we convened a sort of ad hoc rules committee and began to discuss a succession plan for the Patio Boys. We are not going to live forever, right? Maybe our children or grandchildren will pick up the flame. They will need guidance, including what exactly qualifies as a night out.
The discussion would continue over the years and here is what I think lives on as common law:
- To be an Official Patio Boy Hike, participation in which would allow the accumulation of nights out, the hike must first be open to all Patio Boys. Planning a trip without room for everyone is not going to cut it.
- A trip must have at least two ambassadors, and an ambassador is defined as someone with at least 48 nights out. That’s the number of nights out that Sean Hudson, one of the Patio Boys’ earliest members, had when he died.
- Along with the ambassadors, there must be a “plus two.” That is, at least two more actual Patio Boys. Non-Patio Boys can come along, and, in doing so, become Patio Boys themselves by accumulating their first nights out. But on their first trip, they don’t count toward the plus two.
- No car camping can count toward a night out. This is a backpacking group, and so to be a night out the night must be spent at least three miles from the cars. You must put on a pack and carry it at least that far. I say three miles but in fact this distance seems to vary each trip according to Bob’s whim. His whims cannot be appealed. It might be five miles the next trip. Or one.
- Patio Boy is gender neutral. Women are welcome and can earn nights out. A few have although three now have asterisks because their nights out didn’t meet rules one through four. They were grandfathered (grandmothered?) in. And, of course, they are invited back to earn non-asterisk nights out.
I list these rules with one significant caveat: Bob Pauly can change them unilaterally. The rest of us can bitch about his changes. He will insist he is changing nothing. We will insist he is. It won’t matter. If he says it is a rule, then it is. That’s really the only rule.
∆ ∆ ∆
The hike back from Abrams Falls to Campsite 15 was the trip’s highlight, at least if measured by natural beauty. The trail was a sharp left off the tourist trail and, almost immediately, got wilder and more isolated. Paul and I took off together. One of the joys of a hike with several people is that at any given time, whether at camp or walking, you are likely to be in the company of, and in conversation with, a different person. Paul and I talk family, world affairs, gear, past and future trips. He hiked the Camino de Santiago in Spain with his wife, Sharon, and with the Curtins, John and Maryanne. I never tire of hearing about that trip, which is one my wife, Kate, and I considered joining but did not. Maybe one day. Until then, I love walking in a beautiful place like the Smokies and hearing Paul tell of the good people he met along the Camino as well as about the wine, the food, the beauty of Spain, and the spiritual connection.
The trail back to Campsite 15 followed Abrams Creek, which is a trout stream of some renown, and I had a pack rod with me and flies. But the trail is high above the stream here, and you would need ropes and a harness to get down what is essentially a cliff. But oh my, it is tantalizing to see the pools and rapids below. Rarely have I seen a more trouty looking body of water. Earlier, on the tourist trail, there was a young man fly fishing with a dry dropper – that a dry fly to float and a bit of leader tied to it with a wet fly, a nymph is this instance, to tempt trout below the surface. He said he had caught a few small rainbows and indicated with two fingers that they were maybe four inches. I could pass that up easily enough, but walking now above this wilder water I was wishing I had wings. Surely the big fish hung in those pools below, secure in knowing they were out of range of all but the most dedicated fishermen.
Eventually, the trail came down to the stream, which was wide and would require that we take our shoes off to cross. I got my rod and reel out of the pack and fished a small dry fly for a bit. I got strikes immediately and often but only from minnows, too small to even wrap their mouths about my fly’s hook. They could tug it under water, and did so repeatedly, but then they had to let go. They bit off more than they could chew.
∆ ∆ ∆
Above the stream are the mountains. The great and granda Smoky Mountains. People come for those. I get it. They are breathtaking, and especially so in the morning when the fog that accumulates overnight is lifting, and you know exactly why they are named as they are. Misty and mystical. Smoky.
But honestly, people should come for the streams, and even for this particular stream, which, humble though it, its tributaries and all like them may be when measured against the majesty of the mountains, they are what cut the mountains, shaped them. And in the streams is the infinite evidence of the water’s billions of years of work. That is, there are stones.
Some are smooth, rounded ovals — polished by the flow of water. Some are rough, suggesting maybe they are newer to the stream’s bed, having fallen or been torn from the substance of mountain more recently, like maybe just a billion years ago or whatever increment of geological time it might have been.
Paul and I take off our boots and socks and walk across. Paul brought sandals for this. I am barefooted. For whatever reason, the rocks in the water are more gentle on the soles of my feet than are the rocks on the shore, where we must take a few steps first before stepping into the water.
It’s cold, the water. Not ice cold. Nice cold. Our feet are a little beaten up from the walking up and down these mountains, and the stream’s cool water is a balm. Maybe we should just stay here and soak. Why not? The sun is shining after all, and we have time. But the climb calls. You can see it on the other shore. The trail rises, steep and insistent, and though we cannot exactly hear a clock ticking, the sun is lower in the sky, and it will set in a few hours, so we must keep moving. There is no time to contemplate rocks
Well, that’s not exactly correct. There may not be a lot of time. But there is some. Look at this one. It is perfect. I pick it up, place in my pocket, and will take it home to my sister, who collects rocks — as does this stream. It will collect another to replace the one I have taken. And another. And another. And…
∆ ∆ ∆
The trail is immediately uphill as it leaves the stream, probably the steepest rise we have encountered on this trip. We are across as John, Bill and Bob arrive, and we start up the hill as they take their boots off and cross.
The grade steals your breath, elevates your heart rate, burns your legs; but it is short-lived, and the trail settles into a gentler slope. We’ll be going uphill until we get to a junction about a mile from Campsite 15. From there that rocky, watery downhill awaits. We’ve timed this hike well. We’ll get to camp around 5 p.m., enough time to gather some firewood, start a fire, and kick back for a bit before dinner. I’m planning ramen noodles and freeze-dried chicken with peas and carrots tonight. Others have prepackaged freeze-dried meals. Chili. Lasana. Chicken and dumplings. Boil water, add to the pouch, wait ten minutes. Consume.
There was a young couple camped near us, and they possessed a unique talent for campfires. They stacked thin slabs of what seemed like split wood around the edge of the campsite’s metal fire ring, then started a fire that burned toward those. The slabs are upright. Imagine cutting boards – each slab is about of that thickness – standing side-by-side and upright, each with a rounded, almost spoon-like end. Wherever they learned this, it makes for an interesting and long-lasting campfire. They appear, and speak, as if they are from India, and maybe this is a technique there. I don’t know. But the woman came to our camp and presented me with what looked like a meatball. It was strands of wood fiber and leaves and pine needles, balled up and held together by some bonding agent. “Pine sap,” she told me. “There’s a lot of pine sap around here.” Curiously, she presented this ball to me on a long, green leaf – from what plant I don’t know – that cradled the ball as if for some sort of ceremony. I thanked her and probably looked a little befuddled doing so. Never, in all my years, have I been presented with such a gift. She walked back to her campsite, I put the ball in our fire pit and lit it. In short order, we had a blazing fire.
It was appropriate to have a ceremonial fire starter, because this night would have ceremony. John Curtin took a seat by the fire, pulled out a Nalgene bottle with his remaining bourbon, and announced there would be a celebration of his 100th night out. “My 100th anniversary,” he called it. “John, it’s not an anniversary,” Bob told him. “Well that’s what I’m calling it,” John replied, unmoved by the commissioner’s dictatorial dictionary. There was some lament that John Hennessey wasn’t with us to mark his 100th too, but we resolved to celebrate again once he reached his benchmark. John Curtin next pulled out a cigar of uncertain age – it is a little dry, he explained as he unwrapped it. He was instructed (call this “unsolicited advice”) to dip it in bourbon to moisten it. This he did not do, following the ancient wisdom of the ancestors: “Never waste good bourbon on a bad cigar.”
And then we marked John’s achievement, “Here, here,” each of us chanted with bourbon extended as a toast, and John with his bourbon and his cigar, which he lit and puffed for a time – something for which he would soon pay a price. If you don’t smoke cigars often, and we don’t, the tobacco can be nauseating. It was. But let us not detract from the moment. One hundred nights out. The Century Club. Cheers, Johnny.
“It was my goal,” John tells us. “I don’t care about nights out anymore. I don’t’ think I’m going to get to 200. I just wanted to get to a hundred.”
Want to comment on this story? You can do so at