Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 22.1 – 30.7

“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 …