Browsing Tag

Georgia

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 39.5-44.6

May 3, 2018

I have always gotten car sick. Always. Green-faced, barf-in-a-grocery-bag car sick. I can remember hanging my head out the window on the 4-minute drive from my elementary school to our then-house because I was certain my square pizza was going to come back up. If it’s hot, if it’s going to rain, if it’s going to snow, if I’m in the back seat, if I’m facing backward, you name it, I’ll puke all over it.

So when we started out that Thursday morning at 10am, the six of us, all crammed into Tank, barreling toward Hogpen Gap, I knew my dramamine wasn’t going to be sufficient. I think the people of north Georgia purchased all of the warning signs for a double bend in the road ahead that have ever been made. And I’m pretty sure we passed each and every one of them that morning.

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the window as Just Matt called out, in a light, annoying tone, “‘’Nother squiggle sign!” “Op, and another squiggle.” What started as a joke for the men in my company soon soured, as I began whining and snapping in my discomfort. If I had to suffer, they all had to suffer. My nephew, crammed in the middle of the front seat next to me, inched closer to his dad, terrified of what might come erupting out of his ancient aunt.

“Just 21 more minutes,” The General offered from the backseat. How could one road bend so damn much and go on for so damn long? We were working our way around a mountain and, if anyone was keeping score, I assure you, the mountain was winning. The curves were kicking my ass.

After the longest drive of my life, we made it to the parking lot at Hogpen Gap. I barrel rolled out of the front seat, the sky and earth a swirling mass of blues, greens and browns circling my head. I knew I was standing still, but I could have sworn I was swaying like a drunk man on a carnival ride.

Everyone gave their packs a once over before positioning them to carry their full weight for the first time since we’d arrived in Georgia two days ago. My brother drug his from the back of his truck cab and wrestled it onto his shoulders.

One thing you might not know is that the backpacking industry is big business. There are countless accessories and gear options all engineered to be as lightweight and functional as possible. When you have 30-50 pounds pulling on your shoulders, you feel every ounce, and so, those who enjoy a nice mountainside getaway will spend big bucks for featherlight products. Unless, of course, they are built like Shrek and stubborn as Trump’s combover. And that, my friends, is my brother.

In the weeks leading up to our trip, I’d check in with him here and there … “Do you have everything you need?” “Sure,” he’d say. “I just need to run out for a few last-minute things,” he’d say. One of those last-minute items was a properly sized sleeping bag. Turns out, the man-child had been carrying a women’s sleeping bag for the past 2 years. Since he forgot to grab one at the camping store, he made an emergency run to the nearest big box outdoor vendor and purchased a synthetic 8-pound sleeping bag (to compare, mine weighs just under 3 pounds). It was huge and heavy and all wrong. Add to that, he was carrying most of the food and a two-person tent for him and his son, a full water bladder, insulated thermos mug and camping stove.

As he heaved it onto his broad back, the straps slapped in front of him with a thud. An involuntary sound plunged from his mouth. He would never acknowledge how uncomfortable it truly was, but he didn’t need to.

His speed that Thursday would tell the story for him. One step at a time, he lugged his tarp-sized sleeping bag and all his essentials up and down, up and over, up and down. To add to his discomfort, the straw of his water bladder was releasing a steady leak of fluid down onto his chest, making it appear as if he were lactating on one side. By the time we found a small campsite to stop for lunch, just over an hour into our day on the trail, he was already drenched.

The boys were checking scores from the Masters as thru hikers sporadically passed by and I wondered if they even realized the tournament was taking place that weekend. As the day went on we’d leapfrog with different groups of three or four backpackers aspiring to go all the way, chatting about trail names and weather conditions. I placed bets in my head about who would endure and who would throw their boots in the tree, so to speak.

We passed a man and his 6-year-old son taking a break after a semi-brutal climb. The boy was smiling, sitting proudly next to his dad. We’d hear the next day they went well past us and camped on ahead, and I couldn’t help but think of how our girls would do out here. If I would want to bring our girls out here. They say the mountains call them, too, and I just hope that desire stays in their hearts long enough for us to feel confident enough to entertain it.

We only had 6 miles to cover for the day, so we reached our campsite at Poplar Stamp Gap (elevation 2990’) at a decent hour. The General and Captain Cordage had been ahead of us for some time and greeted us with the stark white skin of their bare chests. The General, you must understand, is all about “airing things out”. Clothes, skin, gear … whatever it is, he’s airing it out. Moisture is the enemy of hikers. It means chafing and blisters and other unwanted afflictions.

And so the grown men went about hanging their hammocks and pitching their tents, blinding torsos on display for all humans and wildlife who passed to enjoy. I left my sunglasses on and helped Gravy set up our modest little two-person living quarters.

Our tent isn’t much to look at. It’s incredibly light and easy enough to set up, but certainly leaves something to be desired in the square footage. There is room for two sleeping pads, bumped up next to each other, two sleeping bags on top of the pads and two bodies inside those bags. That’s pretty much it. Boots stay outside, and only my bag of clothes comes in and hangs out on top of my feet. Sometimes it literally feels like Gravy and I are just breathing each other’s air.

We noticed the older gentleman from Canada we’d seen the two days before leaning against a log just outside of our camp area, his wife nowhere in sight. Gravy went over and spoke to him. He was feeling a little depleted from their adventure and we worried about how much further he could go. Eventually, he gathered himself enough to press on, his sweetheart from the north waiting up the trail.

Our suite for the evening came together rather quickly, so, when Gravy went to refill our water bladders, I hit a different bladder. Our bag of wine. The crimson juice filled my stainless steel mug and the aroma of alcoholic grapes rushed to my nostrils. I sipped the warm fermented treat, fantastic even at body temperature.

The small bladder was deceptively generous. Gravy and I each had a few cups and, being dehydrated as I was, it didn’t take long for me to feel loose and tingly. I noticed The General’s backpacking chair, a squatty seat with fabric, a frame and two legs, made for balancing by the fire. I’d been wanting to try it since our mountainside evening last year. Two mugs in, the opportunity was now before me, calling to me like a Sharpie to a toddler.

I held it under me, hovering above the weak frame while Just Matt sat scrolling through the Masters scores on his phone. I committed. Dropped my ass down into the seat just in time to see my camp sandals, feet inside ‘em, come up over my head. I don’t know if I even made a noise, but the zip of my puffy down jacket sliding across the twigs on the ground was enough to steal my brother’s attention.

“Jeeeezzzzuusss,” he said. I heard it in my head before he actually said it. I stayed on my back looking up at the darkening powder blue sky for a handful of seconds. It felt so vast up here. From this angle. My flip and my thoughts finally caught up to each other and I started laughing hysterically. What it must have looked like from a sober side view …

Gravy, Bambi and The General came back and we started preparing our dehydrated dinners. Spicy chicken from Hawk Vittles for us, Lasagna for Just Matt and Bambi, homemade chicken tacos for the General and a vegan meal for the Captain.

“We are going to eat every single thing in this bag,” Just Matt said to Bambi, showing no sign of sarcasm. “I’m not carrying all this out of here tomorrow. Here, have another Snickers.” He tossed the brown wrapper to his son.

It was fun for me to watch my big brother and his “little” boy out here. To be a fly on my sibling’s shoulder as his kid pushed himself and found his way was kind of cool. I’ve shared a birthday with this young gentleman for 13 years now, but this was the year he finally surpassed me in height. This was the year he stopped acting shy. This was the year he came out to the woods and killed it, like a teenager on the brink of independence. Bittersweet for sure.

Around 9 o’clock I peed off the trail and the boys peed all over the fire. As soon as I got settled into my sleep bag I talked myself into going No. 1 one more time, just to be sure. In order to get out of our tiny tent I actually had to sit on my husband’s stomach, get my feet out and then maneuver my torso through the door. He grunted underneath me as I searched for my camp sandals in the moonlight.

Empty and slightly buzzed, I got back into my grape-colored Kelty and closed my eyes. I’d opted to carry the weight of both an extra blanket and an inflatable pillow this trip. Totally worth it. I let out a sigh of submission and closed my eyes. Just then, the sounds of wild yips and howls echoed somewhere in the distance. Coyotes, Gravy confirmed. They didn’t sound that far away.

“Um … are we OK here?” I asked.
“Oh, sure. Coyotes don’t want anything to do with people,” he said. I couldn’t see his face.
“Really?”
“Yeah, babe. Just go to sleep.”

And I did. I fell asleep to the sounds of a wild pack of dogs having a moonlight rave just a strong man’s stone’s throw away. At some point in the night I awoke to owls, hooting to each other from branches all around us. I pictured their cartoon-like faces conversing despite their unwanted guests.

The next morning Gravy would tell me the coyotes were “eery” and actually kind of freaked him out. My brother didn’t hear a thing. He was sound asleep under his eight-pound sleeping bag. Not a care in the world.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT Miles 31.7-38.6

April 27, 2018

Here’s a fun fact: A gale is officially defined as a wind of between 32 and 63 mph. A wind blowing from 4-31 mph is a breeze. Interesting, huh? And you know when a gale really feels like a freaking gale? When you’re standing on a mountain ridge with nothing between your pale Midwestern face and the gusts of hell arriving in ripples like mini needle tsunamis crashing against your cheeks. .

I must tell you before you read on, that if you’ve ever associated any of the following adjectives with our group – ”brave”, “tough”, “badass”, “resilient”, “resolute” – those titles will undoubtedly cease after you read this. I apologize in advance for the cowardly, wussified recount that is about to unfold in these paragraphs. Our mismatched posse ranges in age from 13 to 47, and, while not an excuse, it does play a part, though mostly for the four fools who fall in between those outliers.

We woke up to catch the first serving of the Best Western’s finest again at 6:15. Today would be egg rounds and sausage patties on a bagel, with some Kashi on the side. Again the weak coffee. Again the headlines. The softest mist of rain was spraying from the navy sky. I could barely feel it, though I saw the gentle spray falling in the parking lot lights. I recalled hearing thunder the night before, a familiar sound I hadn’t heard since winter’s arrival in Indiana back in November.

I got back to the room and assessed my condition: Small blister on my right toe. Stiff. Definitely dehydrated. I threw a hotel towel on the disgusting carpet and started a weak excuse for a sun salutation. (Sidenote: Who is making these hotel towels and who the hell are they making them for? My left leg? My kids’ Barbies? But like, for real, who is their sample group? I’m all … is this one the rug?) My nalgene bottle was in the fridge and we had a gallon of water we hadn’t used the day before. I started pounding the H2O. I threw down water shot after water shot after water shot. Was there a danger to hydrating too quickly? I figured the benefits outweighed the risks of going back out in my current state. My insides felt like a desert. I pictured tiny vultures circling my deflated organs as I inhaled cup after cup.

The plan was to get dropped off at Neels Gap with our day packs, hike to Hogpen Gap, where we would meet up with The General and Captain Corden, saddle up with our full packs and then hike a few miles until we found a good place to camp for the night. That was the plan.

We made a pit stop at Cabin Coffee Co. on our way out of Blairsville. I’ll go on record as saying it felt a little like a vegan eating a turkey leg. There we were, five tough-as-nails hikers sipping our various milk foam-topped beverages with one pump of this and a frothy dollop of that as we drove toward the mountains to disconnect. That being said, my breve was an absolute delight.

When we got to Neels Gap, I didn’t really have to pee yet, but I figured I should use the port-a-potties while they were there. The door to the soft blue stall slammed behind my husband, who emerged taking a noticeable inhale. Perhaps the first breath he’d taken in 2 minutes. And with good reason. [Omit details here.]

The General pulled away as Just Matt, Bambi, Gravy and I assembled in a staggered line. A thru hiker was filling her dog’s dish with water and rinsing off her camp shoes. A gust of wind ripped through the only covered section of the Appalachian Trail as we passed underneath it.

“Oh shit,” somebody ahead of me said.
“That’s what I was saying all night,” the thru hiker offered. It had not been a pleasant evening in the woods, it was safe to assume.

We began with a manageable incline. I stopped about 20 steps in to adjust my gear. I zipped my raincoat all the way up, pulled the hood over my hat and cinched the cords to secure the material around my face. This wind was going to hand me my ass today. No doubt about it. How could I be sure? If the rainflies on the tents of last night’s scattered campers whipping and thrashing to our right told me anything, it was that Mother Nature was feeling feisty. I imagined the poor thru hikers underneath the chaos – their protective layer the cape, the wind the bull – waiting in their sleeping bags for a sign it was safe to come out. Or that they had to come out.

When we reached the crest of the first hill, it hit me.

“I have to pee,” I said to Just Matt.
“Already? Damn.”

I had him turnaround and watch for other hikers. I’m tellin’ ya, you haven’t lived until you’ve had an arctic blast go blowin’ up your southern hemisphere at 30+ mph with your older brother standing guard. Once i broke the seal, I was stopping every 10 minutes or so. I believe that’s what they really mean by “yellow blazing”. I had over-served myself.

Now guys, when I say the wind was strong, I mean you could lean into it and it would hold you up. Fight you even. It lashed out at my face and bit my ears. There were a handful of times I had to turn my back to the surge and brace myself. One of these instances came before the second climb, immediately following my second pee of the day. My brother and I had this conversation, his phone in his hand. Wind at his back.

“We aren’t sleeping out here,” he said.
“We aren’t?”
“No.”
“The General is going to be so disappointed.”
“No he won’t.”
“Yeah right.”
“He already knows.”
“He does?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
“I told him at the car when he dropped us off.”
“Oh.”
“I said, ‘If it’s windy as shit out here, we’re staying in Blairsville tonight.’”
“And …”
“And it’s windy as shit.”

Wind from Courtney Leach on Vimeo.

As he spoke he was texting his friend, confirming the Best Western would indeed be hosting us for a third night. I couldn’t say I was disappointed. I mean, I don’t take a ton of time off work, so this is one of like three mini vacations I would take all year. Did I really want to spend it getting tossed around on top of a mountain like a pebble in a giant’s boot? Not really. We could afford the hotel, we didn’t want to freeze and we wanted the youngin’ (Bambi) to come back next year.

We pressed on to the top of the next climb and found Gravy and Bambi standing next to a tree. At the base stood a tiny fairy house. Flat JoJo was hanging out there for an impromptu photo shoot. I turned and found a second. What an adorable little wink from a past hiker. The dainty, colorful display was such a vibrant contrast amidst the sea of brown trees willing themselves toward spring.

We broke the news to the other fellas. We’d be getting off the trail at Hogpen Gap. Gravy seemed a little disappointed. The kid was just fine with it. Television and restaurants trumped dehydrated lasagna and gusts that rivaled the breath of Satan.

We came to the base of the next mountain and found a heart someone had drawn on the ground.

“It’s that couple from Canada,” Gravy said. “The ones we saw yesterday.” We’d passed the husband just minutes before, and would soon meet up with his wife, about a half a mile between them.

As we caught up to her, she smiled and said, “Is he back there?”
“He is,” Gravy told her. “He’s about 10 minutes from ya.”

Another display standing out among the bare branches; A Canadian love story. Who’d have guessed?

We came to a large rock with a phenomenal view. We were two hours into the day and had reached the first photo-worthy overlook. We sat, congregated on the rock’s ripples and ridges, chomping on protein bars, taking in the blue mountains in the distance and listening to Just Matt bitch about a very intense discomfort he was experiencing (top secret trail talk). His booming tone cut through the majestic scenery like Andrew Dice Clay at a poetry reading. Though you’d never know it from the pictures.

Eventually, we would work our way around to another large rock overlook straight across from where we stood in that moment. It’s interesting, when people ask us why we come out to the AT and squander our hard-earned vacation hours on no running water and a backpack full of jerky, I want to take them to these humbling views that reach in and press reset on your perspective. Hiking is a microcosm for life, as I’ve said here so many times. If you show up, and you do the work and you challenge yourself, eventually you’ll reach the reward. And that reward will be more beautiful than you could have imagined; A masterpiece in God’s greatest art gallery.

Sore and satisfied, we climbed into Tank and drove through the winding pavement back the way we came. We couldn’t get into our rooms until 4pm, so we went to Copeland’s, a short walk up the road. We smelled like 5 days of hard work on bodies that hadn’t been washed in 10. I went to the restroom to wash my hands and held them under the warm water, letting them start the healing process after the morning’s bitter beating.

My brother and nephew split an order of chili cheese fries and then Bambi ordered a burger with chili on top. Let the record show, Biscuits and Gravy cautioned against this bold move. All I could hear in my head was the lady from Mr. Mom … “You fed a baby chili?” He could not be deterred.

We checked into different rooms at the Best Western and went about the business of hauling in packs, redistributing food, etc. My left calf was so tight I was walking like Snoop Dogg. I tried foam rolling it on my nalgene bottle, but it was no use. It felt like I’d been kicked by Clydesdale.

Around 5, showered and somewhat bored, we decided to walk to the local cupcake place, which was open for exactly 2 hours a day. We’d missed the window. So we walked down to some fancy coffee place and picked up a few slices of cake, a scoop of gelato and, what else, more coffee.

When we got back to our rooms, a new neighbor had arrived, as had a certain skunky smell I remembered well from the crowded parties of my youth. Every 10 minutes, like clockwork, he would come out of his room, go get into his truck, start it, and then smoke. Only to repeat the whole ritual 10 minutes later.

By 8, my darling husband and I made the executive decision that our bodies needed greens … roughage … fiber. So, we ordered a salad from Copeland’s to split and Gravy walked down to get it. It was not great and we’d probably have been better off just hydrating the heck out of ourselves, but it was too late for rational decisions. I turned on My 400 Pound Life and drifted off.

Around 3 am I heard the truck start up again.
Then at 4:30 …
Then at 5 ….

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 22.1 – 30.7

April 16, 2018

“Was this the spot?” Hank asked, pointing to a stair step series of stones on the side of a semi-steep mountain.
“Maybe,” I said, slow and uncertain. I didn’t want to admit that these dusty beige stones looked like other stones, like so many stones I’d stepped on today and the two trips before.

It was April 3, and we were doing something no one with an insurmountable goal wants to do; We were retracing steps we’d taken nearly 364 days ago, back on the Appalachian Trail in northern Georgia. It was on this stretch of dirt and rock where I’d wiped out last year, poles flying, palms screaming across the earth. It was a slow motion fall, according to my brother. I’d had enough time to make a sandwich before actually coming into contact with the unforgiving stone, he’d guessed. And the way I remembered it, he was right.

So why would we take a second pass on a path when we had so many miles yet to cover? The very stretch where I’d kissed the ground no less? Well, last year, because of rain, we made our first day an impromptu jog north to south (the wrong way) from Neels Gap to Blood Mountain Shelter and back down the way we came, which we’d intended to do on our last day. If you’re a frequent flier here, you may recall my recount of tornado sirens and slick-ass stones. Well, that left us with 10 miles to make up for from Woody Gap to Blood Mountain Shelter (ending up back at Neels Gap). In other words, we had to do the other side of the mountain. Confused? Me too. That’s why I just show up with my shit and start following everybody.

Unlike 2017, there would be no rain on this visit to Blood Mountain. In fact, it was arguably perfect hiking weather. Low 70s, blue, sunny skies and a slight breeze.

The day had announced its perfection early.

We woke up in Blairesville around 6:10. Enough time to hop in the shower and meet the crew in the lobby of the Best Western for a continental breakfast. Random sleepy eyed strangers stared up at the local news – someone crashed into a pawn shop, a man was shot standing in his front yard – the usual uplifting headlines. I poured a plastic cup full of batter into the waffle iron and turned it before administering my drug of choice: dull brown coffee with one creamer pod. The sweet, synthetic stuff. The waffle iron beeped aggressively. I worked the utensil under the crispy bread pockets, adhered stubbornly to the worn, ungreased machine. The struggle would be worth it. Real butter, fake syrup and not an ounce of regret.

After I’d had my fill of complimentary pastries, cereals and empty calories, I walked up the stairs and across the second floor a few steps. The neon orange sun sent sloppy, glorious brushstrokes across the horizon, just above the mountains in the distance.

I see you.

I’m coming.

We filled our water bladders, tucked them into our day packs with some snacks, lunch and just-in-case items, and threw them in the back of Just Matt’s truck next to our hiking poles. The General drove us to Woody Gap (where we finished last year) and then left Tank (Matt’s truck) for us at Neels Gap. He and his friend, Captain Cordage, had finished this leg of our trip the day before, and his subtle limp now told me it wouldn’t disappoint.

We would be climbing to 4461’ elevation by lunch time, eventually reaching the highest point on the Georgia section of the AT. I needed to use the potty before the impending summit. People always ask me about the bathroom situation on these little adventures, and honestly, it’s a lot of cold pit toilets and pissing so the wind doesn’t blow it back on ya. It’s drip-dried everything and tense thigh muscles. It’s humbling and hilarious and likely exactly what you’d imagine.

We posed for a quick first photo before we officially stepped onto the trail to start Trip No. 3; me, Gravy, Just Matt and a new addition, my nephew, “Bambi” a.k.a “El Nino” a.k.a. “Just Sam”. Four family members with one big ass hill to climb.

They say it takes at least a week to get your trail legs. That is, to get to a point where your quads don’t sting and your calves stop locking up after a few hours of relentless elevation. We would have four days. I watched Just Matt’s mini me stumble and fumble with his poles.

Sweet little beginner.

It felt so good to use my body in the middle of a Tuesday. Everything was tensing and waking up and starting to fire. The intricate matrix of rock and roots reached out to remind me how the trail demands attention at all times. I looked up just in time to see my big brother catch the tip of his steel-toed boot and fall forward.

“Gah! Shit!” awkwardly flew from his mouth.

Sweet big beginner.

Just Matt had officially kicked off his third visit to the AT with a little twist and shout south of his ankle. He was dragging behind a bit, and eloquently expressing his discomfort (read: cussing like a lemon squeezer with a papercut). We were about ¼ of the way through our hike for the day, but he was already telling me I’d have to call Mom that night and thank her for our weak ankles (which I did).

After a lung-piercing climb, we reached a beautiful overlook. I picked my chin up and remembered why people go up toward the heavens in the first place. You don’t get views like this in the office. Or the gym. Or standing at the kitchen sink. We walked onto the rock to take a picture. Hank pulled off his day pack to retrieve Flat JoJo.

Ahhhhh Flat JoJo.

Our oldest daughter’s second grade class was doing a project where they had to make a Flat Stanley version of themselves, give it to someone and have them take the paper person on an adventure. There had to be pictures and a note from Flat JoJo recounting the excursion. This would be the first of many times her dedicated father would pull a one dimensional replica of his firstborn out of his pack and place it carefully into the scenery.

By the time we came back down the other side of our first major climb, I was ready for fuel.

“I’m gonna have to go full lunch,” I announced, to the surprise of no one. “I was gonna just do a protein bar, but it’s not going to cut it. We’re goin’ all in.”

We sat down on a square of downed tree trunks and started retrieving our snacks from our packs. I grabbed a pouch of tuna, condiment packs and tortillas.

Here’s a little inside scoop about my portable trail pantry. The last Friday before we take off, I spread the word around my office that I need everyone who goes down to the cafeteria to grab and extra (or 3) pouches of the following: mayo, mustard, salt, pepper and ketchup. I love this good-natured thievery for so many reasons. 1) It’s an excuse to have one final chat with my coworkers before I leave them for a week. They slide a few packs onto my desk while we rap about spring break, the weather, podcasts, whatev. And I really love those people. 2) It doesn’t make me look like I have a raging mayonnaise habit. And 3) Whenever I pull a condiment out to whip up a gourmet pouch of shredded slop, I think about how someone cared enough to swipe it for me. It truly takes a village to feed a starving domesticated hiker on the AT.

Anyway, back to the tuna. I stirred and mixed it up and then handed the pouch to Gravy so I could fetch a few tortillas. I held them out, one in each hand, and he started spooning it on. And spooning … and spooning … and spooning.

“Jezus!” Just Matt remarked.
“What?” I asked.
“How much GD tuna is in that frickin pouch, man?”
“A lot,” Gravy offered.
“Psh … yeah. Boatloads of tuna,” Just Matt agreed. “I mean, those are literally the biggest tuna piles I’ve ever seen.”
“It said ‘serves 2’ on the package,” Gravy explained, before ending with, “I don’t even like tuna.”.

For some reason, there, sitting on a log with two ginormous tuna burritos weighing down the palms of each of my hands, I started laughing, and I couldn’t stop. It was absurd. The sheer mass of fish I was holding. I finally managed to eat half of it before handing it to Bambi.

“Can you toss this way off down that hill?” I asked.
“Sure,” he agreed, before standing up turning and throwing it right into a tree, about a foot from where some unknowing hiker would pitch his/her tent that night.

That was the day I earned the temporary trail name Big Tuna and likely the night someone got eaten by a bear fresh off hibernation and achin for some fish salad.

We walked on. Just Matt was slothing behind the pack, his tender ankle screaming at him with every stone and every root. I decided to hang back so he wouldn’t feel self conscious. We were working our way through the approach to the top of Blood Mountain when we saw a pair of teenage girls sitting on a tree taking a breather.

“How’s it goin’ –” came cooly from my mouth as we passed, inches from them, and just as the sole of my boot hooked the rubber on my left pole, pulling my torso forward like a 10-foot giant with his shoelaces tied together falling from the beanstalk. I saved myself from a full face-plant, but guys, it was close. Basically, I had looked them in the eyes, spoke to them and then nearly catapulted my body into their laps. All that tuna swimming around must have thrown me off. My cheeks burned from laughing at my brother’s verbal instant replay behind me. Of course, he saw the whole graceful exchange.

Gravy and Bambi were way ahead of us now. We were winding through whimsical green rhododendrons and nearing the top of Blood Mountain. We could hear a loud group hollering from the top. I got eyes on him as we reached the peak. One of my biggest pet peeves is people who like to throw parties in the middle of other people’s backyards. On this sunny day, it was a family from the south, drinking beers and murdering spam sandwiches. This one guy in particular was just shitting all over the scenery with his obnoxious, booming voice box.

We parked on the rocks for a bit, but didn’t linger thanks to Jethro the Jolly Drunk.

The descent was laced with large, flat stones that forced you to shuffle down sideways. I could hear Just Matt behind me, in agony. I caught up to my husband, which brings us back to the stair step stones.

“I’m pretty sure this is where you fell last year,” he said. More than once. “I remember you had a lot of momentum going down and then ‘bam!”

We came across on older couple. She was leaning restfully between two handmade wooden poles, each about 6 inches taller than she was. Her husband was about 10 steps behind her. Day hikers, I assumed. But still, that had to be a challenging climb for them. They stepped aside and smiled as we passed.

Our 11 miles ended at Neels Gap. As we approached the store and hostile, we noticed the tree filled with boots, dangling eerily by their tied laces. Depending on who you ask, you’ll get a different story about the shoes. I first heard that this is where a good number of thru-hikers call it quits. They give up the fight, remove their footwear and toss them into the tree to formally announce the end of their journey. I also heard it’s where they realize they purchased the wrong style, throw them into the tree to demonstrate their hatred for their soles, and then head into the store – Mountain Crossings – which has a surprisingly wide array of gear, and buy new boots. But the store’s owners claim those shoes are the trophies of those who finished the entire Appalachian Trail. Choose your own adventure here, friends.

Gravy had gone ahead to get the truck from the parking lot where The General left it that morning, about ¼ mile from where we were. Just Matt collapsed onto the ground under the boot tree to wait, which wasn’t long. He got up and walked ahead of me to mount his trusty Tank and pound some Powerade.

“What’s on your ass?” I asked.
“What?” he responded, drunk on a dopey cocktail of discomfort, endorphins and exhaustion.

It turned out to be gum, spearmint he thought. It got on the seat of his truck and his hands, among other surfaces.

After driving back to Blairesville, we showered and ate at Monet’s Italian Grill and Pizzeria next to the Best Western. I was famished coming off of the Big Tuna incident and ordered my own 12-inch Margherita pizza, which I ate in its entirety. It was delicious. My nephew, who ordered a stromboli the size of his torso, stuffed with every meat known to man, fell way short.

But the 11-mile day had left us with bottomless guts. At the waiter’s recommendation, we went across the street to Sammie’s Sub Shoppe for brownie hot fudge sundaes because, you know, calories burned must be replaced. It was here, in an establishment operating under wonderful alliteration, where I had possibly the most awkward exchange of my adult life. The gentleman behind the counter, came over as we were paying and handed me a plastic spoon covered in hot fudge.

“Go ‘head,” he said.

I grabbed the handle of the utensil hesitantly and looked back at him.

“You can have it. I get so much of the stuff,” he continued.

It was becoming nauseatingly clear that this mountain man wanted me to lick the spoon in front of him, my husband and 13-year-old nephew looking on. I did what any sugar addict would have done in this situation and I sucked the syrup clean off that puppy, for fear of it going to waste otherwise. But, I admit, it was weird. Really weird. A sentiment Bambi shared as soon as we got back in the truck. Small southern towns, man. Ya just never know.

With a full tummy and a splash of shame, I fell asleep just after 8 to the Roseanne reboot. It just couldn’t hold me, and tomorrow would bring more hills and a face lashing I just didn’t see coming …

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 6.2 – 14.3

April 26, 2017

Morning came.

That’s right … By the grace of God, the sun rose sheepishly above the trees just beyond the pavilion and each of us had all of our limbs, and a pulse and a different theory about the headlights from the night before. It’s funny, in those startling moments when the lights crept in and filled the thin fabric walls of the tent, no one had uttered a word. But now, come dawn and the promise of another day, we were discovering that each of us had been awake. And each of us had entertained our own demented impending plot twist. (Granted, some more dramatic than others.)

After a few minutes of lingering in the sticky, sour-smelling warmth of our sleeping space, we emerged, one by one, out onto the cement carpet. When you’re frozen, everything feels hard, unyielding. I turned my face toward the morning sun, which was doing everything in its power to heat the pavilion where our dewy gear laid about on high picnic tables, and sipped my coffee. Maybe if I imagine a beach … if I focus on each stream of light, I can fabricate warmth, I thought.

My mind was weaker than my coffee.

History told us that movement is truly the only cure for numbness, and my lifeless extremities were screaming, demanding, I take my first steps. When we left Hickory Flats, we had just over 8 miles ahead of us. It was our third day on the trail and the first time we would walk without rain.

As our frigid, pathetic parade made its way down the path and past the white blazes, my fingers and toes slowly came back to me. I can’t say for sure, but it seems as if almost every morning on the AT begins with an incline. I see it as Mother Nature’s bitch slap to your lungs, heart and legs, and a great way to get the blood pumping. This ridiculously crisp morning was no different. As I put one heavy foot in front of the other, I felt my internal temperature rise and sweat start to gather under the lining of my wool cap. One extreme to the other. Perfect.

Not long into our walk, we came to a breath-taking babbling stream. It was the kind people write poems about. The current made the water twinkle and wink beneath my feet. I stood on a rock and looked down to chaperone the elements’ dance. As the guys went about attaching hoses and filling water bladders, I observed the incoming traffic. It was a busy morning at the stream, as thru-hikers who stayed at nearby Stover Creek Shelter came by in pairs to fill up.

A pair from South Africa stopped first. The one had just finished a temporary position as an auditor in New York and hit up his buddy, who was currently residing in Canada, to try the trail before he had to return. They’d made this plan just two weeks ago on a whim and the idea that it “looked neat”. My eyes were wide with astonishment and jealousy. Next came a cavalcade of lively, starry eyed youngsters. Most of them just two or three days into their attempt to cover the entire AT, optimism clung to their faces like shiny makeup. They were high on the newness of their endeavor … the buzz of this temporary and rugged minimalism. I got it. I was rooting for them. We indulged their chatter about breakfast and trail legs before parting.

The warmer I got, the more I relished this dry, sunny day. We came to a crossing with a wide log, and I decided to express the turn in my mood through the universal language of dance. I hopped up, Gravy and Just Matt behind me, The General already across, and started recreating one of my favorite scenes from the iconic, never-to-be-forgotten chick flick, Dirty Dancing. “Heeeeeeey, hey, baby! I wanna know-oh …”. I gingerly maneuvered back and forth with the necessary pep to really sell it. “Do you have your phone out, Matt? Are you getting this?” I asked, like a 6 year old attempting her first cartwheel. “No.” he said. Flame completely extinguished, I dismounted the log on the other side. “Dick.” I whispered to myself but also, I kind of thought, loud enough to reach The General’s ears. But the face I found when I looked up was not that of our dear old family friend, like I’d been expecting. It was a stranger. Dressed in neon yellow. A stranger who had been waiting for our group to cross and witnessed my Baby moment in all its glory.

The boys had a field day with that one.

Whatever. My performance was on point, and everybody knew it.

We stopped at The Hawk Mountain Shelter for breakfast. Hank and I whipped up some oatmeal while Just Matt raised the waterline in the privy. The General sipped on a mug of hazelnut instant coffee as we chatted about the logistics of ick spreading on the AT. See, hikers’ hygiene isn’t exactly a gold standard out there, and if one person gets sick, and they stay in a shelter, and what comes with a sickness comes out inside the three walls, chances are someone else is going to come into contact with that mess. Then they get sick and the gift goes on, and on and on. I remember talk of a nasty strain of the stomach flu going around the Tennessee and North Carolina sections when we went out last year. Nasty stuff. I stood down on the ground, out of the shelter that morning. I mean, I only had so much toilet paper and tolerance for bodily functions behind tree trunks.

It was windy, but a beautiful day to walk in the woods. The temperature seemed to rise with the mountains’ inclines, causing me to peel off layers, and drop as the wind whipped through, bringing my hood back up to intercept the chill. We stopped for lunch at a clearing along an access road called Coopers Gap. The strong breeze bullied my empty mayonnaise packets as I pulled my jacket up around my face to shield my skin.

The magical thing about being out on the AT is the diverse landscapes. You never know when you turn a corner or come to the top of a mountain what you’re going to find on the other side. After several miles of pretty-but-predictable mountainside woods, we came upon a Secret Garden-style labyrinth of lush greenery. The trunks of the trees twisted and jutted up against each other, flirting, mingling. The roots rose out of the ground, each set forming an enchanting wooden helix. The verdant leaves were a deeper hue than any of the growth we’d seen up to this point, drawing our eyes upward with their rich, emerald presence. The sunlight poked through keyhole openings of various shapes in the canopy covering this charming section.

We worked our way through the maze, admiring its intricacies, until we came upon a clearing. Below us, a stream rushed across perfectly distributed stones. It was picturesque, perfect. This was Justus Creek, where we would be camping tonight. It was a pleasant upgrade from the cement slab we merely tolerated the night before. We crossed the water and marched our way up a steep elevation to the campsites; six flattened planes on the side of the mountain. We picked our square and went about setting up. The sun was bathing us in luxurious heat now. A branch that died months, maybe years, ago cracked and fell about 4 feet from our spot on the ledge. A good sign, indeed.

I changed into my sandals, grabbed a mug full of red wine and my notebook, and ventured back down to the steps beside the stream. I sat to collect some thoughts, the comforting soundtrack of the stream in the background fueling my recollection. This, I thought, is why we do this. This is the prize.

I felt silent inside. Clear. Calm. For perhaps the first time in months.

“Where’s your dog?” an approaching thru-hiker inquired.
“Me? Oh, um … I don’t have a dog.”
“Oh, sorry! You look just like this other girl on the trail. She has a dog.”

I wish I was a thru-hiker out here with a disciplined, friendly pup, I thought to myself. But no. I am a suburban mom with a corporate job and an old bitch of a dog who whines at the wind and drags her butt on my carpet. Close, but not quite there. They moved on and I disappeared again into my stream of consciousness.

I loved to listen to the waves of wind crashing through the forest. The tops of the trees, still barren from winter, would rub together like a group of bucks locking antlers, generating the most peculiar sounds.

About 20 minutes later, a young woman and older gentleman approached the stream. She was wearing a blue raincoat and coaching her adorable little shepherd dog, Maggie, across the rocks.

“Hi there,” I greeted.
“Hi!”
“You must be the other me,” I joked. She just looked at me indulging my eye contact out of sheer kindness. “A couple that came along earlier mistaked me for you. We must look similar.”
“Oh!” she sighed, and smiled.
“You look tired. Come a long way today?”
“Kind of. We go pretty slow because my dad has bad knees. We stopped for breakfast at the Hickory Flats Cemetery, but didn’t linger.”
“We stayed there last night.”
“You did? Was there a young guy there?”
“Actually, yeah!”
“Well, he was still there. He kept packing and unpacking his gear.”
“He was doing that when we were there!”
“Yeah, I teach mentally challenged kids and that’s a huge sign that something’s going on. My instinct was to move on, and my instinct is usually pretty dead on.”

Oh. My. Lanta.

I knew it. I knew there was a Stephen King vibe coming off that lil fella. I would say 98 percent of the people you meet on the trail are a delight, but the other 2 percent are scary AF, my friends.

Biscuits No. 2 walked up the trail to the campsites, my mind like the exploding car behind the badass in an action film in her wake, still reeling at her observation. I sat for a few more minutes, until the sun touched the top of the treeline and threatened to disappear completely. I walked back up to have dinner with Gravy. And maybe two more mugs of wine. And maybe a chewable melatonin.

My entire body was a pool of content, peaceful jelly. I was on the side of a mountain with some of my favorite people on the planet, dulled by a few mild sedatives and downright jubilant. We sat, the four of us, chatting and giggling. Just Matt from his sleeping bag inside the tent. The General balancing in his squatty, collapsible chair. Gravy and I perched on a log dressed in an inch of dirt. Our faces were pink from wind and early spring rays, and the blush that comes from sipping a cheap red blend dispensed from a bladder that once lived inside a box.

The boys were having the same argument they’d been having for three days now: What do you call a group of bears. We’ll call it 45 bears, for good measure. We asked Ridgerunner Lydia, who guessed a pack. I, too, guessed a pack. Herd was thrown out there as a suggestion. Still, the debate raged on for the entirety of our time in Georgia, and via text all the way back to the Midwest. (The answer is actually a sloth, in case your curiosity is killing you.)

A tiny mouse scurried by and earned a huge reaction from our group. People always shudder when I mention the critters known to make their way into the shelters and campsites. But truth be told, they didn’t bother me much, because they weren’t much of a bother. This little guy was the first true wildlife we’d seen up close, and he was gone as fast as he’s arrived.

He was turning in and, after a walk down the trail for a potty break and tooth brushing, so were we. I nestled in next to my husband. “Do you hear the water?” he asked, a few minutes after we’d settled. I did. And that was the last thought I had before I drifted off.

Read about Springer Mountain + Miles 28.3-30.7

Read about Miles 0-6.2