The drizzle grew to an official downpour. Drops of precipitation pelted our rain fly, then slowed, then surged again. The powerful wind was coming in like a tide. From my down and polyester cocoon I observed the rise and fall. The mountains were a giant stadium, the trees were doing the wave and I was wrapped in a whisper of fabric somewhere near the 50 yard line. Starting from miles away, the gusts would ripple and roar until they reached our campsite. The tents would shake and the hammocks would sway and a wild rumpus would begin, then end just as quickly.
The swells kept coming for hours. I’d doze off for a few minutes only to be jolted awake by an explosion of cool air lifting our tent cover and unearthing the stakes around us just a hair. You think about things in moments like that. Things like, “What’s my move here if the rain fly blows off?” And “Are my boots really under the cover? What else did I leave out there?” And “I’ve probably slept for 2 hours, right? At least 2 hours.”
I opened my eyes at one point and the sky was a pale pewter, just light enough to prompt conversation from the tents around us. I listened from the protection of my personal pouch as Just Matt and Bambi worked on getting out of the tent to go pee. I felt my husband shifting intentionally beside me. His tender back was killing him.
“It’s a beautiful morning!” someone cheerfully announced from across the trail. It was Rainbow, the female half of the chipper couple I’d met the night before.
“Shut up!” my brother answered from our cranky quadrant.
Thus the tone of our morning was set. For breakfast, Just Matt would be serving a cocktail of bah humbug and go F yourself, and he had plenty to go around.
I stayed in my sleeping bag as long as I could, until I heard someone announce it was close to 9 am. We had 12 miles on the agenda for the day and if the terrain was anything like yesterday we were going to need every bit of daylight. I pulled my legs up into my chest and pushed the slick fabric down over my toes. The morning nip jumped down my shirt. The air was heavy with moisture but bitter like the bite of a deep freezer.
We were partial statues in a fog, working methodically to break camp using frozen fingers and concrete toes. Everything was damp. Ever wonder what hell is really like? Hell is changing out of a sweat-crusted top into a slightly wet, semi-frozen sports bra when it’s 36 degrees outside. Hell is forcing your feet into frigid cinder block boots. Hell is biting into a protein brick and waiting for your saliva to thaw the almond butter casing.
We were all in a temporary hell, but I believed it would pass. We just had to get moving. Restless and thorny, I took off out of camp first. I had to. The longer I stood, the larger the gap got between my mental prompts for my extremities to move and the actual ability to move them. I was turning to stone. I picked up my poles and walked off into the fog. Bambi passed me within minutes, followed shortly after by Gravy.
See, the way the mountains break you, is they don’t believe in easing their visitors in to their most obnoxious attributes. They just put themselves out there, big and bold, and if you can’t handle it, it’s just too damn bad. The ridge we encountered that morning, just out of Addis Gap, was a beast. For nearly two miles, we climbed, muscles tender, fingers like ice cubes formed around the handles of our trekking poles. One-two, one-two, one-two …
The wind punished the sides of our faces like a dragon’s fiery tongue. I turned toward the mountain to protect my cheeks, paralyzed and strawberry red from the unforgiving slaps of air. I finally reached the top. I could see Bambi and Gravy ahead of me. We snaked down the mountain’s backside and arrived at Deep Gap Shelter.
“Do you guys want to go down and make some breakfast?” Bambi asked.
“Yeah, we can do that,” Gravy answered. “Let’s give it a minute and see if your dad comes along.”
After about 10 minutes, I saw a figure dressed in gray making his way down through the trees. It was Just Matt.
“Dad!” Bambi yelled. “You want some food?”
“That’s fine,” he said.
On the Appalachian Trail, thru hikers will often take a “zero day”. This means they get off of the trail and treat themselves to a hotel room or hostel, a shower and a warm meal prepared by somebody else’s hands. On our second morning in the mountains, my brother decided to take a zero day, for the rest of the trip.
He threw his hands up, bringing his poles out and making a giant “M”. “I’m done,” he declared.
“What?” Bambi yelled back.
“I’m done. I’m getting off this mountain.” No one said anything. “You guys can stay on and I’ll come back for you on Tuesday.”
“OK,” I managed.
“This is supposed to be fun, and I’m not having fun. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to stay out here when it’s 20 degrees and freeze my balls off.”
“Right,” I offered.
And then we stood there, forming a box and unpacking what this declaration meant for the rest of us. A few minutes later, The General came through the garden of bare branches.
“Hey man, I’m done,” Just Matt said.
“Oh yeah?” he asked. “I’m just not feelin’ it this year, either. And I don’t know what it is. I’m just not feeling it.”
Two down.
“Well, I could carry the tent and stuff,” Bambi started.
“If you want to stay out here, I’ll come back and pick you up,” Just Matt said, “But I know I will be freaking miserable if I have to hike 9 more miles and sleep outside when it’s below freezing. This morning sucked.”
“Yeah … let’s get out of here,” Bambi conceded.
Three down.
“So, that’s it?” I asked.
“I mean, like I said, I’m not tryin’ to ruin anybody’s trip. But I’m done.”
I looked at my husband, weighed down by gear he’d spent hours sorting through and assembling. He wore a look of simultaneous relief and disappointment. There just no way to get yourself through an ice cold night in the mountains when you know the rest of your group is sleeping in a temperature-controlled room with a memory foam mattress.
Five down.
The Captain soon followed and we went about the business of finding a signal and calling shuttles. On the trail, you have to get to a gap where there’s an access road in order to drive out of the mountains. We would still need to cover 3.5 miles to get to Dick’s Creek Gap and meet a shuttle by 3 pm.
As much as I loathe the thought of being a quitter, my brother was ultimately right. With the conditions we’d been given, it wasn’t fun. And it was only going to get worse as the temperatures dropped. There was a lightness to the ground we covered that morning, knowing it would be our last for that particular trip to Georgia. It was like the minute we reached a consensus, the gray turned to blue skies and the birds began to chirp. The promise of warmth and beds and dry clothes was all the gas was like jet fuel in our tanks.
We made it to Dick’s Creek Gap with nearly an hour to spare. Gravy pulled the JetBoil out and we mixed up mugs of instant coffee. The sun was shining as if to endorse our decision. We sat at a concrete picnic table on the mountainside and let the finality of it sink in. Less than 48 hours into our latest adventure, it was ending with a bittersweet prematurity.
Three hours later my brother, nephew, husband and I were checking into a hotel in Newport, Tennessee. We showered, changed and drove to a Mexican restaurant where we proceeded to fill every inch of the table with soda, queso and burritos of every sort.
“I just said what everyone was thinking, and no one wanted to say,” Matt said between dipping his chips. “I don’t feel bad about that.”
It was true. No one wanted to spend another night in the cold, wet, unforgiving conditions we’d been in. It was a spot we’d found ourselves in before, at Hickory Flat Cemetery, on Roan Mountain. We’d experienced the type of discomfort your body never forgets, hard as your mind might try to. And the truth is, with as little vacation as we all take in our full time working and parenting lives, it’s far too precious to spend praying for the sun to come and the time to pass.
We were home by dinner time Monday evening. It was a whirlwind four days, and while our time on her trails was brief, the AT left us bruised, battered and sore for a respectable amount of time. We have just nine miles left to cover to complete Georgia, though Just Matt says he won’t step foot on the trail before mid-May ever again. A week after our return, he finally went to the doctor. He has a torn meniscus in his right knee, which explains why it was the size of a basketball.
I’m not quite sure what this year means for our annual spring adventure, but I’m confident we’ll find our way back to the white blazes one way or another. Until next time … XO, Biscuits.
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