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.
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