Hiking Archives - Page 2 of 3 - Desperately Seeking SuperwomanDesperately Seeking Superwoman

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

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 0 – 6.2

April 19, 2017

“When I os taken him up pear, he told me he a, he had the cancer. So, I stopped anduh got him a gallun a whiskey anda carton a cigarettes and I took him up air to-a the mountain anda I’m not sure but I think he died in August dat year … Me and my partner hada motel we ran and it was fulla, pardon my french, prostitutes and druggies when we bought it and a, we bought it on April 2, 2009. And we ran it and that. And then a, my partner, he died on April 2, 2011, see. … Now, you guys look strong, but they call me Don’t Give a Damn Sam and ifya need me to come getcha, I’ll come up ear and getcha. Just not when I’m fixin to go to bed, em k? I take 5 Benadryl and 3 Unisoms, and I ain’t gettin’ outta my bed once I’m en dare. … Oh yeah, we had a guy die of a heart attack right dare and a girl hung herself on a tree right over dare and uh, yeah, the trail can be a lonely place. I mean, I’d be lyin if I didn’t say I hadn’t thought about it myself. Well, y’all member that girl and her dog, dontcha? Someone took her from the mountain and, uh, well, he cut her head off. Yup, he de-cap-a-tated her.”

I could hear Sam Duke, our colorful chauffeur through the mountains, from the back seat, where I sat staring at Just Matt’s hairline trying not to vomit. Sam was from Louisiana, and his personal slogan was, “Let er rip, patata chip!”, a phrase we uttered no less than 89 times over the next three days. He’d picked us up at the Woody Gap parking lot, where we left Tank with the promise we’d return at a reasonable hour on Saturday. In our 45 minutes with Sam on the winding service roads of the Appalachian Trail en route to Springer Mountain, we discovered that everyone who had ever come into contact with Sam Duke had, shortly thereafter, died. Small talk with the Grim Reaper was not how I’d envisioned starting the rest of our section hike. Nonetheless, here I was.

Despite the disheartening development that we were now destined to be eaten by a bear or snatched by an escaped serial killer, it wasn’t all bad news for us. Because of our last-minute change of plans, Gravy and I were able to unload some clothing items and a day’s worth of meals from our packs. When you’re shouldering 30+ pounds and 50+ pounds, respectfully, every ounce dropped is cause for celebration.

Here’s what we ended up with:

And:

Gravy carried much of the same, plus our tent and water pump. We split the weight of the food right down the middle. There are always things you’d adjust after the fact. I would have upped my coffee game, especially given the afternoon I was walking into. A few extra packets would have been a real morale booster; the more toxic sugar, the better. Speaking of, I picked up some Trader Joe’s Instant Coffee with Cream and Sugar and those packets were like drops of what the angels drink. Much better than the straight Via packets, in my opinion.

We exited Sam Duke’s mini van and stepped out into the parking lot at the trailhead. It was 30-something degrees, blowing and sleeting. It’s never good when you hold your hand out to gather precipitation and ask, “What is this shit?” Of course, I had to pee. I wandered off down a trail to find the widest tree and watched Sam drive away. Ah, fudge. We’re really doing this. The rest of my crew was standing by the Springer Mountain map, filling water bladders and situating gear. Lydia, a young female Ridgerunner, walked up from the general vicinity of the grass I’d just watered. Lydia’s role on the trail was to stay on a section to answer questions about gear, shelter and strategy, and educate hikers on the Appalachian Trail Conservancy initiative, Leave No Trace, their effort to minimize damage to the natural environment along the AT. (The jobs you wish you’d known about 12 years ago, right?) As she engaged in polite small talk, all I could hear was the sound of my inner girl crushin’ on her pants. They kind of looked like equestrian riding pants, but stretchier and warmer; Much cooler than my traditional cargo mom hiking pants. They must be a thing now because a bunch of chicks we saw had them. I was putzing around in farty fashions, showing my age for sure, at least from the waist down. It all felt very first day with a headgear to me.

We started down the trail and took our first steps in a three-day adventure. I followed behind Just Matt and The General as they perfected their Sam Duke impersonations and tallied the body count. The laughter worked as a warmer to counteract the piercing snow-water sludge diving at my face, and I was thankful. Not far in, we stopped at Stover Creek Shelter to make adjustments and get a little snack. Lydia was there. As were her cute pants. Just Matt made no adjustments and just looked on annoyed as we made small talk about bear canisters, the weather the night before and traffic on the trail. See, Just Matt didn’t like this part of it. He packed only bars (no “dehydrated bullshit”) and reminded all of us regularly, through both his verbal and nonverbal communication, just how much he hates to stop for any reason other than sleep or shit.

Lydia predicted the Three Forks Shelter, where we’d planned to stay, would be pretty crowded that night given the chilly temps they were predicting. She mentioned the Hickory Flats Cemetery and Pavilion as a better option. It was just a couple miles away and we were making great time. I mean nothing will motivate you to move your ass like numb fingers and perilous mud puddles.

I disappeared into my head a bit, thinking about everything and nothing at all, and before I even found my stride, I came to The General at a service road crossing.

“What’s up?” I asked.
“That pavilion is right over here, if you want to check it out.”
“K.”

It was 1:40 pm and 36-or-so degrees.

I started counting the hours on my bright pink fingers as I shuffled toward the cemetery. If we left at 8 o’clock the next morning, we would be here for 18 hours.

18 hours.

At a cemetery and open-air pavilion.

In 30-degree weather.

We walked under the roof to assess our accommodations for the evening. There was a young gentleman sitting in a plastic chair facing the trees. He turned and acknowledged us in a polite but minimal way. At this point, the rain was really starting to pick up, so I assumed our pavilion mate was waiting out the storm. I set my pack down and walked over to the bathroom. It had four walls – four walls! – and stood as a literal symbol of the term, “built like a brick shithouse”. I stepped in, out of the wind and into an eery silence. It was a silence that almost had to precede something horrific. I more than half expected to find a friend of Sam Duke’s propped up in a stall. But spooky as it was, it was easily 10 degrees warmer than outside. I stood in the sturdy privy not sure where I wanted to go. I didn’t have to use the drop potty, necessarily, but I didn’t really want to stand around with the frozen sausage fest in the pavilion, either. So, I stood. I stood in a brick potty and just stared at the wall. I stared at the cobwebs in the corners. I stared at the names carved into the plank over the stall built for those with shower bags. I stood and let my frozen mind thaw out with concocted tales of terrible scenarios that played out within these walls. I just stood.

Eventually, I found my big girl parachute panties and pulled them up. I strolled out to the pavilion and started going about the business of making lunch. It was 2 pm and we were strategizing tent setup so we could – what else – turn in for the night. During a break in our chat, The General turned to the young guy sitting next to us, still staring off into the woods.

“You start the trail yesterday?” he asked.
“No,” the kid said.
“Tuesday?”
He shook his head, no.
“Oh man,” The General said. He then turned back around and gave us the big eyes.

It would appear this little guy was having a really hard time getting himself up the AT. Granted, the weather hadn’t been great, and there are a million factors that can crush people at any point in their hike, but one would likely be farther than this 3+ days in. Whatever his deal, it seemed like maybe his meditation was coming to an end and he would be moving on soon. He slowly, quietly stood and started meticulously packing up his gear. He rolled his sleeping mat smoothly and snugly. He checked his food bag and then reclosed it, twice. When all was said and done, he spent 2 hours pulling his shit together. Two hours. Then, he grabbed a water bottle and started off down the road. Huh.

Just Matt was antsy. He’d misplaced his gloves back at Woody Gap and, after finishing a mug of coffee (and sharing his extras with the group), he was ready to hibernate. He and The General put their tent up in about 15 minutes. Gravy, on the other hand, spent a good deal of time strategizing over our sleeping arrangements, since our modest two-person tent required ground for staking into. This was more of a concrete slab situation, so … And I’m not entirely helpful in these situations when I’m not frozen, so …

After several minutes of contemplation, it was decided that Princess Biscuits and Prince Gravy would be resting their royal heads in a makeshift tent under a large picnic table. Gravy draped a hammock tarp over the wood structure and used concrete blocks to hold it down around the outside. We put a tarp down on the ground, our mats on top of that, and we were all set.

Somehow we’d made it to 5 pm and so my counterpart and I decided to go ahead and start dinner. Just Matt and The General had been in their tent for almost an hour already, but Lawd knows I don’t skip meals. They’d turned into a mumbled screen of farts and giggles. (We’re talking about two 40 year olds here.) We boiled water for our freeze-dried Southwest Lasagna, cupping our hands around the scorching dew of the device for pleasure. The rain and snow had subsided, leaving just a straight up cold to harden the cemetery ambiance.

Our neighbor came back.

And then, just as carefully as he’d begun, he initiated the tedious process of unpacking his gear.

Yes, unpacking.

See, he packed it. And now he was unpacking it.

It was time for me to go to bed. I crunched on a 10mg chewable melatonin, brushed my teeth, and had a nonverbal conversation with my husband about the strange behavior playing out beside us before crawling under the table. I put the tarp door back into place and zipped myself into my wine-colored sleeping bag, secretly wishing I were drunk. I was wearing my wool cap, down accessories and long underwear. A sliver of early evening sunlight rubbed against the end of our “tent” to remind me it was approximately 6 pm.

But the sun’s light was a liar. I started to shiver about 20 minutes after I laid down, and began having flashbacks of Roan Highlands Shelter, also known as “the night mama almost died”. I inch-wormed my way backward out of our tent. Gravy was still cleaning up camp. Just Matt and The General were generating a massive amount of heat in their tent. I knew this only because I heard the expression, “sweating my balls off,” a handful of times from my icy cocoon. I stood up and looked at my husband, my trailmate, my life partner, and I told him the thing no one wants to have to tell their loved one.

“I’m getting in there with them,” I said.
“Like, for the night?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think so.”

His feelings of abandonment sliced through my whiny tone as I crouched down and unzipped the door to my brother and my almost-brother’s temporary bachelor pad. It wasn’t warm. But it wasn’t freezing, either. I claimed a spot on the very edge as the two nudged up against each other in their nylon encasings. After 34 years of friendship, I was confident this wasn’t the first time they’d spooned (heads on opposite ends, of course) but it was certainly the only time I would remember.

About 40 minutes later, Just Matt had to pee. Since he was the patty in the hamburger, we all decided to get up and try. After that, my chill started to subside and I was able to drift off to sleep. My husband’s head was just a tent wall, tarp and picnic table leg away from mine, so I could quietly check in on him. When everyone was finally settled, I drifted off to sleep. The crack of a grown man’s fart piercing the peace of the pavilion jolted me awake every hour or so, but still I was warm and mildly content.

At some point after the sun went down, the tent filled with the vibrant muted yellow tone of car headlights and the familiar sound of gravel popping under tires. Someone was in the pavilion parking lot. My mind started firing.

Oh my gosh, they’re looking for that kid. I wonder if he’s still out there. Or, maybe he called a shuttle to come pick him up because he’s freezing and ready to get off the trail. Or maybe it’s the police coming to get him because he’s wanted. Or maybe they’re looking for another hiker who got off the trail and is in trouble. Or maybe they’re workers using the bathroom. Or maybe that kid was a scout and he called some serial killer who is now here to kill all of us and leave our bodies in the cemetery. I hope he doesn’t look under the picnic table. Damn you, Sam Duke! Damn you.

I found myself again just praying to make it to morning.

To be continued …

Read about Miles 28.3-30.7 and Springer Mountain

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 28.3-30.7 + Springer Mountain

April 14, 2017

Despite the magenta and neon red splotches with flashing cores parading behind the weather gal delivering the national forecast with an exaggerated drama she’d clearly practiced the night before. Despite the warning from Sam Duke, our would-have-been shuttle driver that morning. Despite the daunting, lead-colored sky, on a Wednesday morning in early April, a humble but determined band of hikers found themselves scaling modest boulders on the side of Blood Mountain, the highest peak in the Georgia section of the Appalachian Trail.

I was the lone woman among this modest herd. Carbon fiber poles in hand, I heaved my weight up staggered rocks and scurried down slippery flat stones as drunken strings of the day’s downpour ran across and spilled over the bill of my hat and dropped onto my raincoat.

Oh, hello there, Mother Nature. It’s been too long.

The uncertainty of Her mood makes the vast wilderness both a magnet and a menace to me. She throws violent tantrums and then lures me back with fiery sunsets and soothing streams and masterful arrangements of stars. I liken her to the college roommate who said really beautiful things when she was stoned, but broke a lotta stuff when she drank.

So, why don’t I just break up with Her? Well, because as much as that bitch can break me down, she heals me, too.

If you’ve followed DSS for awhile, you might remember our hike on the AT last April. After nearly freezing to death in a tent on top of Roan Mountain, we made the collective decision to journey further south this year and knock out the start of the trail, beginning at Springer Mountain, in Georgia.

“I think you’re going to be pretty happy with the weather in those parts,” The General had said in February. “Real happy …”

As the week drew closer, we gathered our gear and laid out our freeze-dried dinners and watched helplessly as the conditions down south grew worse and worse. First, it was rain all four days. Then the declaration of downpours lessened, but the temps plummeted to the 30s. I thought we picked Georgia so we could get away from that shit! When you get one section a year, you hope to heck it’s a good one. It was definitely shaping up to be a long underwear kind of trip.

I pacified myself by cursing the Weather Channel app every day until the Tuesday we loaded our gear and our hesitant bodies into Just Matt’s big Ram truck (“Tank”) and hauled ass out of the Midwest to find solace in the great outdoors. Said solace wasn’t going to come easy. An accident on the interstate brought traffic to a halt for several hours around lunchtime. An eternity in Hell has nothing on the agony of spending that much time in crawling traffic with a full bladder, a Joe Rogan podcast where he’s more stoned than usual, and an impatient driver with a grounded lead foot. After a lifetime of slugging and snaking, we came to civilization again. Starving. Of all the options and all the restaurants, the men in the front seats chose White Castle for our late lunch. White Castle! Since I have tastebuds and my mother’s cantankerous intestines, I took it easy. But the boys didn’t hold back – a decision that would come back to haunt Just Matt the next day, to the surprise of no one.

After a quick REI stop in Knoxville, we pulled into Blairsville, Georgia around 11:30 that night. With lots of talk about town of tornado warnings and predictions of softball-sized hail, we knew it was time to check in with The General.

“Well, I called Sam Duke,” he said. (Sam Duke was our shuttle driver, scheduled to pick us up at 8 am the next morning.)
“Yeah?”
“He said, ‘I wuyundt duy it!’”
“He did?”
“Yup. He said, ‘Y’all can do whatcha whant, but the trail is alays gonna be dare. You won’t if ya dead.’”

And with that, the decision was made. We would meet Sam Duke another day.

Wednesday morning, over a cardboard continental breakfast Belgian waffle, The General, Gravy, Just Matt and I sipped small cups of coffee and listened to the local weather guy instruct Georgians to, “work from home if they could.” But we saw some windows, and gosh dangit, we came to hike.

The General went to work rerouting our course. We would get on at Neel’s Gap and slackpack Blood Mountain (which was intended to be on our fourth and final day) as a day hike, 2.4 miles in and 2.4 miles out. Once we conquered this summit, if there was still enough non-life-threatening minutes left in the day, we would drive over and complete Springer Mountain, which is technically, and I did not know this before that day, not part of the official AT mileage. It’s before Mile 0. The more you know [shooting star].

So, now we’re all caught up. The crew. Slippery rocks stacked on top of each other. Polls. Lightening.

One of my favorite things about hiking is the disconnect. I work in marketing, and I am responding to email, following up on Facebook messages, retweeting, typing, posting, fire extinguishing all day long. When you have to climb all the way to a mountaintop to get a signal, it’s really refreshing. But there, on a hill called Blood Mountain, under the ominous clouds of an unpredictable storm, these typically separate worlds collided. Up ahead of me I heard the distinct tones of a weather alert scream from Just Matt’s phone, followed by the rumble of thunder in the distance. It was so polarizing. We had made the decision to walk at the mercy of nature that day, but our modern day devices pulled and pleaded at us to rethink the vulnerability. We didn’t.

As we climbed up, it felt like the clouds came down to meet us as light fog enveloped our path. Eventually, we made it to the Blood Mountain Shelter, a magical-looking structure that rests in the shadows of Blood Mountain’s intimidating rubble. I used the privy and snapped some pictures of the overlook. My brother was ready to get moving. See, Matt was experiencing his White Castle sliders for a second time. I believe the comment was: “I’m scared if I fall on my ass diarrhea is going to shoot out of my mouth.”

I should have known better than to laugh. I mean, karma has gotten me before. But laugh I did. And on our squirrely descent back down the way we came, I ate shit. I felt my feet start to go, then there was a brief battle between my upper and lower bodies, and then, a second of serenity in that moment when I accepted the fate. I braced for contact. The group got quiet in anticipation of my ass’s connection with the stone below it. Had I been struck by lightning? No, oh no. Just a private demonstration of the grace God gave me. I made some indistinguishable noises in the space of their halted conversation. Then I crashed down, sending my poles flying off in both directions. My right hand and butt cheek took the brunt of it. Since people falling down is my favorite thing, I enjoyed a good laugh before I gathered up the puddle I had become and carried on. Then I laughed 50 more times as I replayed the scenario in my head.

Another window in the weather opened the door for a climb up Springer Mountain. But first we had to drive there. Every road in Georgia that leads to a trail takes 40 minutes or more and has more curves than a Playboy. Left … right …. Left … right … I took two dramamine and it didn’t put a dent in the dizzy. Every 5 seconds a yellow triangle with that damning squiggly arrow. Turns ahead. More. Turns. Ahead. I would pick a point on the horizon, but I was no match. The transportation part just destroyed me. Maybe that’s the cost of yellow blazing.

The rise to Springer was steady and manageable – Just one mile up and then back down. We posed next to the same plaque that Grandma Gatewood and Scott Jurek stood by. It felt like one of those moments where you should move something only semi-significant out of your memory so there’s room with extra padding for this moment, just to be sure. We lingered a bit. The smoky skies and gentle dew kisses suddenly felt fitting, rather than burdensome.

How do you end a day like that? When you’re going back to civilization to hide out from tornadoes rather than tent it? If you’re us, you eat 20 tons of Mexican food, clean up and climb into bed to watch My 600-lb Life with a king size Caramello. The rain and the cold and the fall all felt just fine given the promise of a hot shower, cable and two hotel pillows before sundown. Sleepless nights were tomorrow’s worry. And oh what a worry it would turn out to be …

Thoughts

Paul’s Boots

November 12, 2016

I don’t know about you, but this week left me feeling chewed up, spit out and nauseous as hell. I’m not going to talk about politics here because quite frankly I’ve exhausted my arguments and understanding, but I’ve slept, stayed off social media, gone for a run, and all I will say is that the world better just prepare itself for the shit storm of love I’m about to unleash on it, starting with this amazing short film REI released this week. Live this life. Love these people. Spend time somewhere magical.

Wanderlust

Giving thanks for Biscuits

May 5, 2016

“Just putting ink to paper to let you know how proud I am of you and how inspiring you are – because a text wouldn’t suffice. If you would have told me in college that you were going to carry everything you needed for 4 days on your back and hike a mountain, I wouldn’t have believed it. Proud of you for setting a goal and getting ‘er done. With hiking with half marathons. And those sweet babes of yours are watching their mom set goals and have great adventures and they are taking notes. I’m grateful for you and our friendship. It’s one that inspires and is forever fun. Cheers to you for lacing up your boots and going WILD! Here’s to your next adventure!” – My college roommate

“Wanted to send you some good luck wishes for your hiking trip! Hope your ankle is all healed up and you’ve found a way to pee in front of all the boys. Can’t wait to hear how it goes!! Not just the pee part, but everything, you know … Anyways, be tough, stay safe, don’t cry and have fun! Virtual side hug to you ?” – Friend and former coworker

I share these personal notes because I gotta tell you guys, as humbling as it is to have a steep-ass summit bring you to a quivering halt, breathless and intimidated beyond measure, it is far more humbling to have the people you love, in spite of all their own busyness, take a moment to show their support for your crazy exploits. Because so many people sent well wishes and sat through recounts of our journey, I would be remiss not to officially wrap this series up with some words of gratitude. Because no experience or blessing or accomplishment means a thing without gratitude.

Yes, I’m grateful for the hike. I think it’s safe to say the days I get to spend standing on a dirt path overlooking some of the most magnificent slivers of creation and not in a windowless office are few and too far between. Turning my face toward the thrashing wind on a wide-open bald made me feel alive and small and awake. It gave me perspective and appreciation for sweet simplicity and a natural majesty that’s so often out of sight and out of mind. “How could you see that and not believe in God?” my mother-in-law asked. And she’s right. I imagine the Lord carving and crafting and painting with a fine artist’s hand as he composed the trail. Knowing how special it was, he set it aside so only those who sought such beauty could set their eyes upon it. It’s a bit poetic, I suppose, but the scenery encroaches on your soul in a way that alters your perception. Food tastes different. The air smells alive. The terrain touches all of your senses.

There’s a saying for backpackers, “Hike your own hike.” It means go at your own pace, take it all in, make the most of your experience. I think, while we were almost always together, Hank, my brother and I did find ways to make the adventure what we each needed it to be. There were times I walked alone and I found a comfort in actually hearing the voice inside me for a change, rather than just dismissing it or making note as it dictates more tasks. There were times we hiked together, and I relished the support and the laughter. I asked myself, “When was the last time we laughed at something other than our kids?”

I loved our little group of AT misfits – the rookies with their stash of desserts, The General and his futile attempts to make my brother comply with the rules, the Lieutenant with his worldly stories and constant gear adjustments. People come into our lives in the strangest ways. Sometimes their role is small and sometimes it’s big, but I’ve learned that the amount of time someone spends in your life doesn’t directly impact their impression on your character. Tremendous change can come from a few brief moments, or days. The odds are somewhat decent I’ll never put my sleeping mat down next to these folks ever again. But one time I did, and it will stay with me always.

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I felt a little bit like a badass walking off the trail. It wasn’t an easy hike and it wasn’t the easiest weather, but there was a joy in the adversity of it all. My friends all say, “I don’t know how you did that.” But anything is possible when you have no alternative. You have to keep moving forward in order to meet your dream on the other side, to see it through to its completion. I found, just when I felt like I had nothing left, God gave me a reprieve. Whether it was a portrait-worthy overlook, or patch of flat land, or friendly passerby, something always saved me.

“Would you do it again?” they ask. And I answer with a self-assured, 100 percent, yes. I think in part because we’re so financially invested now (equipment is expensive as shit), but also I know what a few days in the woods really looks like. It was challenging and ugly and breath-taking. It was the craziest thing we’ve ever done that seemed oddly sane once we got there. My grand illusions were demystified, and I loved the true grit and glory that remained after the reality washed everything else away.

And finally, I often have friends ask what surprised me most about the experience. It wasn’t the sleeping conditions or the trailmates or the food – although there were a few thrills tied to all of those things. It was honestly the support I got from people who probably shouldn’t have given a shit. The first excerpt in this post is from my college roommate. She recently adopted 2 young children and has about as much spare time as Ryan Seacrest at the height of his career. When I found a hand-written letter in my mailbox from her after the trip, I sat down on my front stoop, read it, choked up and considered what her home must have been like when she made the time to send it. It isn’t easy in the chaos of playdates and preschool and snacks and spills and diapers and learning Bulgarian to push pause and acknowledge a life outside of your own. It just isn’t. But she did. I keep the note on the dresser in my bedroom as a reminder of how no one is alone in their ambitions.

Words of support came via snail mail, chat bubble, text and email, and I think it surprised me so much because in my mind this was just a little adventure we were going to go on. It only touched our small little snow globe of a life. But I think the truth is, when anyone chases down a dream, everyone celebrates a little bit because it means their dream is still alive. We rejoice when others remind us there’s more to our lives than the 6am-10pm grind. Because let’s face it, it can be hard to see the forest through the trees. It can be hard to step outside of the routine and freestyle for a bit, no matter how high the item is on our bucket list. But every once in a while somebody does it and all of the adult world drinks to the fact that their trip overseas or DIY project or race or girls trip is absolutely possible. It prompts us to pull out our journals or dream boards or Pinterest accounts and dust off our own dreams, and maybe even move just one step closer to checking them off.

I can’t adequately express how thankful and, yes, humbled I was by every single well wisher and congratulatory message before, after and along the way. I am grateful for the guys in our group. I am grateful that pieces of the planet that look like that still exist and I pray my children get to see them some day. I am thankful for your readership, comments and emojis. They have warmed my heart and reaffirmed my decision to document these moments in my life, no matter how self-indulgent it feels at the time. I’m grateful for the laughter, the climbs, the descents and, of course, I’m thankful for the chance to make Biscuits out there in the brilliant, vast wilderness.

Until next time …

Wanderlust

Makin’ Biscuits in the woods, Pt. 5

April 28, 2016

Day 4
Still cocooned in body heat and sleeping bag, I squinted one eye and opened the other. Sounds of zips and tarps and nylon folding filled the dusty barn walls as thru-hikers slowly started clearing out. Knowing we had our longest day ahead of us, with over 9 miles to cover to get back to the Mountain Harbour Hikers Shelter where we started, there had been some discussion the night before about hoofing it a bit before stopping to cook up breakfast on the trail.

My jaw worked vigorously on a peanut butter Clif bar as I went about my temporarily typical morning routine. I worked methodically – deflating my sleeping pad and rolling it tight, doing the same with my sleeping bag. Pulling on fresh socks and lacing up my boots. Putting everything back into my pack just the way it was the day before. Tightening the straps. Adjusting and stuffing and pulling. Less than a week ago, I’d been so intimidated at the thought of living out of this thing, and now it was second nature. It was familiar and starting to lose its fresh-from-the-showroom stiffness, which made me feel a sense of pride. Like I’d earned something. Like I’d dulled the giant scarlet letter that marked me a rookie.

I walked into the rousing, semi-frigid morning air, the sun boldly showing itself now over the picturesque mountains, to brush my teeth. This was it, I thought. It’s the last day of our big, crazy, I-can’t-believe-we’re-doing-this adventure. A few thru-hikers sat by the fire with their oatmeal and Oreos and coffee and I envied them. As far as they were concerned, this was just another morning in a 6-month-long string of mornings spent on a mountain somewhere on a seemingly endless trail. We would be getting off before the day was over. It was a bittersweet pill I wasn’t ready to swallow without any food in my stomach.

The General went ahead to start ticking off the mileage, and the Lieutenant, Just Mat, Gravy and I followed shortly after. If you’ve been following this series loyally, you might recall the hill we descended to get down to the barn. Hank called it a bitch and now, in the early hours of our last day on the trail, that hill was making us hers. After so many victories, I was humbled by Mother Nature for what would be the first of many times that day; My exhalations a mix of steamy fog and burning, strenuous gasps. The arduous climb from camp got us back on to the Appalachian Trail, but served only as an aperitif to the unrelenting slopes we’d soon be summiting.

It was roughly 8 o’clock in the morning and on any other Wednesday I would be settling into my cubicle with a thermos of hot coffee and an inbox full of asks. But not this Wednesday. On this particular Wednesday, I was gradually making progress on a steep gradient against a stiff, sharp, merciless wind. I wrestled my able-bodied opponent the best I could, but the beating was brutal. Lieutenant Blazer, true to form, went by. Just Mat faded first into a dot and then completely from the horizon. Gravy stood by me, I think only from the fear I would blow away or lay down and surrender myself entirely to the elements.

After nothing but up, we reached a bald that went, you guessed it, up a little higher. I shuffled like a snowbird on her way to bridge club and chipped away at the elevation in tiny, manageable doses. About a third of the way up I threw a message into the forceful wind and let it blow back to Hank, “When we reach the top of this thing … I don’t care what … it looks like … I’m stopping to make my fu@k!ng oatmeal.” After 15 years with a person, they become very attune to your signals. For instance, I know when Hank puts his hands on his hips, he’s about to call it quits on something, and he knows that if it’s been more than 3 hours since we had a sizable meal, I am likely a hangry, hangry turd.

Let me put this in perspective for you. When I was 3 years old – maybe 4 – my mom accidentally left me at home. She made it all the way to the ball diamonds before she realized that I, her baby girl, was still at home. The General and Just Mat, as a matter of fact, were both in the van that pulled away and left me, just a young pup, standing at the glass door. All because I didn’t get my shoes on fast enough. Anyway, my mother, who felt terrible obviously, still laughs about that fact that after she tore ass home, the first thing I said was, “I didn’t know what I was going to have for dinner.” Food – or the absence of it after a few hours – is a real source of stress in my life.

So, as I tortoised my way up that bald, there was no question about my resolve. And meeting my demand, the second we reached the top, I saw a handful of large boulders, dropped my back and fired up the JetBoil. It was like eating on the side of the road as a procession of semi trucks drive by at 80 mph, but I didn’t care. Wind be damned, my belly was empty. Lesson No. 8: Hiking before breakfast is not for everyone and can result in dramatic outbursts. In my blinding state of starvation I accidentally sporked more than my half of the oatmeal into my bowl without even noticing. “Man, you finished yours fast,” I remarked to Hank, not realizing my gluttonous error. I only found out I’d hogged the oats when he retold the story later.

We eventually caught up to the rest of our crew. “We stopped back there to eat,” I shared. “I knew it,” Matt said. “I told The General you have to eat. You always have to eat.” Hank just smiled. “Well, it’s good you did,” The General chimed in. “Because I think we have a big climb when we get out of this patch of woods.” Fine. Good. Bring it, you mother lovin’ trail. I got oatmeal in me now, son. And then I saw it. The bald, or mountain, or Everest, or grand finale, or whatever name indicates a monstrosity.

There was a long approach until you were actually on the incline. So you had plenty of time to anticipate the amount of suck you would soon be sifting through. “Find a rhythm or a count,” The General said. “I do a 1,2…1,2… and then I rest for 30 seconds when I need it.” On that final morning I learned a lot of things. I learned that the body will follow what the mind believes is possible. I learned that wind-burn is nature’s lipstick. And I learned what a false peak is. Do you know what a false peak is? Let me enlighten you. A false peak is when you work your ass off to get to what, you think, is the top of ginormous mountain, only to come around a turn and discover a mountain baby on top of the mountain you originally saw, and perhaps even more of an incline after that. See also: soul crusher, spirit smasher, and son of a …

After receiving my back alley thigh beating from the false peaks (they really did feel real), we reached the true top. It was one of those things where, in your mind, you’re thinking, I just wanna get there, I just wanna get there, but once we did, the wind was so deafening and violent, we just wanted to get outta there. We snapped some pictures and, as soon as The General made it, began the subtle descent down the ridge. We walked along a worn track, about 10 inches wide, through a vacant cattle pasture with rolling landscapes I’ve only seen on screens as part of other people’s lives. We endured a brutal wind bashing to earn those views, and I drank them in as deeply as I could.

When you left the mountain top, you entered into a completely different climate. Suddenly we were among giant rocks and mossy carpeting. This leg of the section was probably the most technical. Every step required a strategy and, though all of our legs were burning, the boulders demanded athleticism. There are certain things that stick, for whatever reason – the smell of your parent’s house, the lyrics to Let It Go. For me, Hank in that part of the woods that day will stay with me. Maybe it’s because his shirt perfectly complemented the emerald spring growth, or that he looked so happy in this final chapter of the journey. I don’t know.

Our descent was long and there was plenty of time to catch up with each other and chat. When we stopped for a quick lunch with just about 1.5 miles left (as a girl walks, of course), Just Mat decided to tell The General that he, Biscuits and Gravy would not be staying in the hiker’s hostel tonight as The General had hoped, but rather, driving to find a hotel with a hot shower and a decent restaurant, the likes of which we could completely destroy with our forks. The General didn’t like what he was hearing. And thus began yet another playful-yet-truthful spat between Just Mat and The General.

You see, The General has been in my brother’s life since before I was born. I would argue that no one on this planet knows Matt quite like The General does, and perhaps, no one ever will. They speak almost every day and thrive under a communication style that borders on verbally abusive and tough love. Backpacking is The General’s jam. And Matt was kind of like burnt toast; he was there for the jam, but he wasn’t into it enough to get out of the toaster on time. He participated for the sake of the participants, but served more as comic relief than an enthusiast. But I tell ya, there were so many times his sharp quips and stupid movie quotes broke up the fatigue. Lesson No. 9: When shit gets real, everybody loves a comedian.

They exchanged snarky jabs (hurt feelings under a veil of sarcasm, as identified by any woman who has ever been around any man) broken up by fits of laughter the rest of the way down the trail. The General felt it was typical of Just Mat to do what made him happy without regard for anyone else, and Just Mat hinted at the fact that The General couldn’t just be grateful that he joined them for the trip, regardless of whether or not he stayed in the hostel that night. I was just happy to have something to listen to, even if it was grown ass men bitching at each other one minute and regurgitating the Revenge of the Nerds song the next. Anything to take my mind off the lower half of my body. The exaggerated descent that made up the last part of our section hike was the part I felt the most the next morning. My knees and ankles screamed at me to stop. Every step down was like dropping an 80-pound bag of flour on top of your joints. They hated me. Lesson No. 10: Just because it’s downhill, doesn’t mean it’s easy.

After what felt like hours, we came to the road that led right back to Mountain Harbour. The five of us strolled down the shoulder of the somewhat-busy street, swinging our trekking poles and salivating over various rewards. I wanted to take my boots off and eat my Snickers. The General had a cooler of beer. Matt couldn’t stop thinking about a shower. In the movie version, we would come into the shot at a slow motion stroll for effect. Our heads would be high. The dirt smeared across our faces and elbows would represent the obstacles we’d overcome and make us endearing. Someone would start a slow clap. But this was no movie and the truth was, we were just a stinky, battered group of nearly middle-aged (some of us closer than others) section hikers from the Midwest.

We didn’t linger long in the hostel parking lot, which felt anticlimactic considering the feats we’d conquered together over the last several days. Our goodbyes were brief but sincere. My brother was a man on a mission. We piled into his truck. “Ya know,” I said, “the scary thing is I can’t really smell us.” Matt sucked down a Gatorade. “I can’t wait to ask for something and have someone bring it to me instead of pouring hot water into a bag of shit and then having everyone ask me how it tastes.”

We made it to Middlesboro, Kentucky, where we stopped for the night. The smell of a clean hotel room shook something loose in my nasal cavity and suddenly I had all the smells. We should have been ashamed. I’m not even sure what parts of the body those smells actually come from, to be honest. The warm steam of the showers combined with, 5 days of travel and hiking were nauseating. After transforming back into humans, we went back down to the desk and asked for a restaurant recommendation. “What do you have in mind?” the gentleman behind the counter asked. “Cheese fries, or a bloomin onion or …” I began to dream aloud. Turns out, Mexican was the popular cuisine in Middlesboro. They had 4 options in that category, all owned by the same family. We picked the closest one.

The waiter knew he had us very shortly into the meal. “We’ll start with queso.” I said. “How big is the dish?” He pointed to the salsa bowls. “Or I have a $12 one, but it’s huge.” “Yes, that! We’ll take that.” I said excitedly. Carnitas have never been that good. I cleared a good part of the cheese trough and my entire meal only to take 3 warm cookies from a display next to the hotel checkin counter for dessert. I didn’t hate myself. Full and happy, I had one place left to go. I think the boys were watching Wahlburgers, but I climbed into that bed, with its tightly fitted, clean sheets and, for the first time in almost a week, I drifted off to sleep with a single thought.

Wanderlust

Makin’ Biscuits in the Woods, Pt. 4

April 25, 2016

It was a seemingly uneventful Saturday night in early March. The chicks were having a sleepover with their little buddy from the sitter’s and everyone was chasing and screaming and actin a fool in the basement. After consuming half of a chicken club pizza and a warm chocolate chip cookie or 12, I figured it would be best if I went down and got in a workout. I grabbed my laptop and a big cup of water and headed south. I still don’t know if I missed the last step or I did all the steps right and am just my mother’s daughter or what, but I heard a crack! from my ankle region and went down. My water went flying and covered the wall … my laptop flew into the baseboard. Responding to my shrieking sobs, Hank came flying down the stairs from the kitchen. No words … I had no words. Until I managed to get out, “Is my computer OK?” “Let’s just deal with this situation first and then we’ll look at that, alright?” Then he half-joking, half-shitting-himself, looked up from my ankle and into my eyes and said, “We leave in 3 weeks to go backpacking. Three. Weeks.” A lot of ice, elevation and laziness got me in my boots by go time. But on the third day of our adventure, the crack! came back.

Day 3

I woke up from my last 20-minute stretch of sleep and heard footsteps and voices in the distance. The thru-hikers were breaking camp at Roan Mountain High Knob Shelter. I was alive. I looked over at Hank. “I don’t want to get out of my sleeping bag,” he said. “I thought I was dying from hypothermia last night,” I responded, in an I’ll-top-that tone. “What the hell were we thinking with this?” True to Princess Biscuits form, I grabbed what was mine and hauled ass to the shelter to get out of the thrashing mountain wind and in to Jetboil some coffee and breakfast. One by one our crew Frankinsteined their way into the small cabin; stiff and frozen and cranky in a way that the Starbucks Via just couldn’t thaw. I pulled a fresh pair of underwear and a new sports bra out of my pack and assessed my dressing room options. I could either go out to the tent or climb up a shady ladder to the formidable second level of the shelter to change. Based on my PTSD from the night before, it was looking like the attic had it. Let me ask you something … Have you ever stripped down to your birthday suit in a 30-something-degree log enclosure that’s too squatty to stand up all the way? Well, you’re missing quite a thrill. I gave those mice a show, I tell ya.

Between frozen water bladders and frozen spirits, it was slow going that Tuesday morning. The most exciting piece of conversation was around a splatter of spilled coffee on Just Mat’s boot tip that looked like an old man. The longer we stood, the more my 10 toes felt like 2 blocks of ice jammed into cement blocks. It was my brother who suggested he, Hank and I take off since we were packed up. Movement does wonders for numb appendages, I can testify to that. The three of us spent that morning alone, first strolling down a rocky bed under a canopy of soon-to-be green branches, frost from the night before blowing off the treetops, sending majestic flurries through the streaming sunbeams. Eventually the terrain turned to a more traditional forest. I spent those hours trailing my husband and talking to my brother. Really talking to my brother, without a million kids running around or tension about a businesses matter or softball schedules. I had drinks with a girlfriend after we got back and I mentioned this time to her. “That is such a gift,” she said. Kelly lost her brother when we were young and I’ve often thought what a slap in her face it is to waste my own sibling relationships. And it’s true, it was a gift. I’ll always have that morning to retreat to when I need it. A particular fondness, radiating that morning sunlight, will always coat that memory in my mind.

We passed a young man at a turn in the trail. “Go ahead,” I said. “We’re pretty slow.” “That’s OK, I’m waiting for someone.” he replied with a smile, and we trekked on. Eventually we came to a road. We crossed and searched for where the trail picked back up on the other side. No luck. A young girl emerged from the path we’d just left. “Huh,” she said. “My brother isn’t here and he usually waits for me. Having trouble finding the trail?” “Yeah. I think we did see your brother though about a mile back. Blue coat?” “That’s him! We must have missed a turn,” she concluded. She turned around only to save our bacon by yelling back down at us a minute later that we’d missed a redirect. In hindsight, the logs that were piled where we should have turned but didn’t were actually a fairly clear indicator. We probably gave ourselves an extra half a mile on the day, if that. The error wasn’t surprising given the fact that we were gazing down 90 percent of the time. Rule No. 6: Try to look up every once in awhile. You’ll like the view. That was one of the most disappointing parts of the journey for Hank. “You’re in this beautiful area, with these amazing views, and you spend the majority of the time looking one foot in front of you on the ground.” It was true, your best bet of avoiding injury was to constantly calculate your next step to avoid roots, rocks and ruts. A necessary evil if you want to stay upright.

A short time later, I heard a familiar voice, “Hey guys! There’s a real bathroom down here! It’s really nice!” It was Lieutenant Blazer. He’d found a visitors area for day hikers and took full advantage of the facilities. We were at the base of Three Bald Hike, a grassy section of the trail with vast views of purplish-gray mountains on every side. Almost as soon as we left the asylum of the forest, the wind began lashing out at my cheek pudge. I pulled the hood of my rain jacket over my ball cap and secured it to save my skin. The gusts carried any chance of conversation out of your mouth and back down the mountain like a dryer at the end of a car wash. Being as we were on a fairly challenging incline, I didn’t have much to say anyway. This section was interesting since, unlike when you were in the maze of the woods, you could see what was ahead of you, a feature that was both daunting and sobering.

It had been several hours since breakfast by this point and the balds led us down into a windy route with strange-looking scraggly trees. I was getting a little lightheaded and the twists and turns weren’t helping. Finally, I could hear The General’s voice. That meant they were stopped for lunch. I picked up my pace a bit and came down the muddy hill to where the men sat sorting through granola bars. I heard pack hit dirt behind me and turned just in time to see Gravy sliding down the path. First fall of the trip. “I’m OK!” he assured me as he pulled only half of his right trekking pole out of a mud puddle. The suction of the wet dirt clenched the bottom, stabbing side of the stick and offered only a slight struggle before he reclaimed it.

Of course any time we eat, it’s a highlight for me, but I have to ask: You guys, have you had Justin’s Maple Almond Butter? I don’t know if it’s really that good or it was just that good on the side of a mountain, but I’m telling you, we slapped some of it on a flour tortilla during lunch that day and it was like a creamy hug for my soul. With a full tank of gas and the promise of one more night sleeping out on the trail, we pressed on. The afternoon was a woodsy decline full of switchbacks and proof of Mother Nature’s sense of humor: roots. They are the bark that bites. Even if you’re looking right at them, you still trip over roots. I swear, they’re a magical height designed to hook the toe of your boot and send you hurdling toward the earth for one frightening flash of a second. All while, I imagine, the forest fairies point and laugh at this America’s Funniest Home Videos montage. I love it when they really fall, they say. But on that steady descent on the afternoon of the third day, I hit one of those stinkers and felt a familiar crack! Game over, I thought. Hank knew it, too. The sound, my obvious hesitation moving forward, the fact that we’d just been through this 3 weeks ago. “I was thinking about how I could throw myself down so we had an excuse to get rescued and no one would think you were wussing out,” he later told me. Did everyone think I was going to wuss out?

My ankle was sore but sturdy enough to keep me propelling forward. The rest of the afternoon was quiet for this girl. I focused on my steps and kept my fears to myself and soon we came to The General standing at a small side path. After 7.1 miles (plus our morning detour), we’d reached Over Mountain Shelter, a large barn that stood at the foot of a post card-esque panoramic view. We made our way down the steep hill to the building and I remember Hank noting, “This is gonna be a real bitch in the morning.” I filed it away in the folder in my brain labeled: Thoughts to freak the frick out about in a few hours.

I walked into the barn and into the strangest adult sleepover of my life. We climbed the ladder to the second floor, which was essentially just a large hay-mow. We put our sleeping mats and sleeping bags down in a neat little row like preschcoolers preparing for nap time. I grabbed my snack (the Snickers) and went down to the fire. A girl about my age was whipping up some ramen and two older gentleman were working on the wood teepee over the fire. I struck up a conversation when it felt appropriate and waited a respectful amount of time before asking her what had crossed my mind the second I saw her. “So, how are you able to be out here for 6 months?” It’s the question I had for all the thru-hikers. How do you have the time and the resources and the ability to detach long enough to hike this entire trail. In some cases, it was easy to tell. They were recent college grads, or retired, or kind of a bum … But in a lot of cases I just couldn’t figure it out. It fascinated me. “Well, actually I worked for a tech startup in Seattle,” she said. “One day, I’d had enough, so I decided to go for a walk.” I sat on the log and stared at her like she was Deepak Chopra … or Oprah. “That’s so freaking cool.” I said, like a 7th grader to a senior. I was awe-struck. The super zenned-out gentleman next to her did fire and rescue in Wyoming and was a grade A badass. The third guy resembled Bob Ross and was so kind and calm I never pushed to hear his backstory. The one I came up with in my mind was far better than anything he could have said.

They started trickling in … some just to eat and then press on, others to shack up in the barn. Fanning my internal flame for the trail life, the thru-hikers would greet all of the new arrivals by trail name. “Hey, Ruffles! Where’s Willow?” “Hey, Johnny Walker! You made it. You must’ve hauled ass, man!” “Grill! I haven’t seen you since the Smokies. What’s the story?” It was a club and we were there on a guest pass. I wanted in. I sat with my eyes open and my mouth agape with a jerky grin. Then my body caught on to the fact that I’d stopped moving and, once again, I was cold. I shivered, at times violently, at times with control, as I spooned pasta from a pouch past my wind-burned lips. “Do you want this dessert tonight?” Hank asked. I shot him a what-the-hell-do-you-think glare. A Raspberry Crumble with chocolate cookie topping wouldn’t fix everything, but it sure as shit took the edge off. Just Mat knocked over the bag with the juices from his chicken teriyaki and we all watched, helpless as they ran across the sleeping platform on which we sat. “The mice are gonna come.” The General said. My brother, in an act I can only assume was a byproduct of exhaustion, reached out with his glove and pushed the liquid to the edge. We all scrunched our faces in unison and disengaged.

As much as I loved being a fireside voyeur and taking in all the trail talk and mile tallies, I turned in early that night. I was praying for sleep and warmth since we were technically out of the wind. I was also hoping the mice stayed away. I put on all of my clothes, including both of my jackets, and pulled every drawstring closure on my sleeping bag to keep me sealed in tight. I thought I heard one at some point in the night, but I can’t be sure. In the early hours of the morning, I (shocker) had to pee. I drunkenly climbed out of my sleep sack, put on my sandals and headlamp and scurried down the ladder. As I wondered out into the random smattering of trees behind the barn, I saw light from another headlamp and changed directions. Then I saw another light. And still one more. It was like a game of hide and seek with full bladders and bears. Or like the scene at the end of ET where the scary guys are coming for him. Rule No. 7: When you find yourself in the woods with other sleepy bathroom buddies, shine your light toward them, drop trou and get it done. They can’t see your fanny if they’re temporarily blinded.

To be continued …

Wanderlust

Makin’ Biscuits in the woods, Pt. 3

April 22, 2016

Day 2

My highest and lowest moments of the entire hike fell within the same 24 hours. We woke up Monday morning and putzed around our site for a generous amount of time. We brought out the GPS and had a brief powwow about the distance and terrain we had to knock out that day. “It looks like it’s about 5 miles, as a crow flies, and a 6000 foot elevation.” Lesson No. 3: A crow flies a much shorter path than a human walks. In all our time talking about water sources and elevation changes and mileage, I never did figure out why in the name of all that is sanity the term persisted. Those little punks, with their wings and their speed and their cocky attitudes, have a very direct route from Point A to Point B, whereas we had foot bridges and reroutes and natural roadblocks, like two-lane roads, to go around. It honestly made me crazy. The difference could be as much as 4 miles at times. “Yeah, but how far as a girl walks?” I began asking.

We ate oatmeal and sipped instant coffee and talked wilderness bathroom habits in great detail. (We talked about bathroom habits and body odors in great detail often over our 4 days together.) Lesson No. 4: Did you know you’re supposed to take your pants all the way off when you poop in the woods? That way, if a bear or a snake or a pack of girl scouts attacked, you could run, rather than topple over with your pants around your ankles. Not saying I did it, but I was told it was for survival … Anyway, eventually, we packed up our circle site and rolled out. The terrain was gradual at first. The section was beautiful and almost Secret Garden-esque as we maneuvered among rocks in the subtle shade of the towering rhododendrons. I tried to picture what our hike would look like with these sleepy buds in full bloom. How brilliant the border of bright magenta and powder purple blossoms would be along the trail. Maybe someday I’ll go back when the hills are really blushing. After what felt like about an hour and half of tricky scrambling, we came to a break and the view was the first breath-taking overlook of the trip. It was a boost we didn’t know we needed.

We stopped for lunch and injury assessments early in the afternoon. Chicken salad on a tortilla, a Baby Bell and beef jerky, and a nagging blister for the Mr. Athletic tape and Band’Aids adhered, we were ready to rock the rest of the afternoon. Looking back, I think it was a blessing that we went into that second part of the Day 2 section blindly. I mean, maybe some of the people in our party knew the hellish climbs that awaited, but if they did, they weren’t sayin.

First up for the afternoon, a long, gradual climb on a Jack and the Beanstalk of a hill littered with brown crunchy leaves. As our rhythms and pace settled, our group spread out a bit. Soon I found myself walking alone. This was one of the only times I truly walked by myself on the trip. When you do any sort of repetitive activity in silence for a significant period of time, your thoughts start to interrupt each other and get a bit like an 18 year old’s on shrooms, though they feel deep and insightful in the moment. Mine were something like … Holy shit, this hill is endless … Gosh, look at Hank up there … he really is such a good partner … This whole thing is like a microcosm of life in general; with ups and downs and challenges and victories and moments when you feel off balance and teamwork and basic survival … There’s gotta be a blog post in there somewhere … Everyone should do this … My legs are freaking burning … I wonder what Hank’s thinking about … I wonder if he thinks I’m a good partner … If I were a bear, I’d be right over there … Realistically, will we ever do this again … Why does this look easy for Matt … Is it too soon for a snack … I hope they’re waiting on a rock after this corner … Nope, damn.

While your thoughts meander through and crowd your mind like a gang of drunken cats , there’s an orderly cadence that simultaneously takes over your body. Your trekking poles swing and find the ground each time your right foot advances forward. Your breath quickens and stabilizes in response to the rise and fall in demand. The crunch of your boots on the trees’ lost leaves and your inhalations lay down a basic beat to which the rest of your senses sing along. Minutes pass both painfully and quickly. It’s called a walk, but it’s arguably a dance as well. The probing solitude is a meditation with merit, no doubt, but the best part comes when you round a bend on a switchback and see your trailmates waiting, drop your pack and take a 10-minute rest.

After completing the hill of infinity, the boys and I gathered at a boulder to regroup. Hank wanted to keep moving and I felt some momentum lingering in my stems, so we left the crew and soldiered on to tackle the second high elevation of the day. Lesson No. 5: If you don’t like the scenery, just wait an hour. Something that amazed me about the AT was how quickly the backdrop changed. The morning was rhododendrons and rocks, while the first big hill was a sea of bare bronze and tree trunks, and now we were pulling ourselves up over large boulders and jagged mountainside saplings. (We’d see ice before the day was over.)

I don’t know if it was the fact that we were out of the forest and the sun was hitting my skin, or that this particular section of this particular mountainside felt uniquely beautiful and challenging, or the fact that it was just us, Biscuits and Gravy, trekking poles-deep in this glorious climb … whatever it was, reaching the top of that second mountain was a high point for me; likely the highest of the entire trip. This was also how I got confirmation – if there was ever any doubt – that I will do damn-near anything for chocolate.

We’d packed 6 Snickers bars for the 4 days (that’s 1 a piece for 3 days, if you’re doing the math, which I most certainly was). At 2:45 I must have made an ugly sound whilst heaving my huge ass up a testy boulder, to which my husband responded, “If you can make it to 3:30, we’ll stop and have our Snickers.” Even if Jennifer Aniston herself came down that mountain and told me we could meet for margaritas and haircare secrets if I made it to the top, nothing could have motivated me more than that promise of chocolate, roasted peanuts, nougat, and sweet, sexy caramel. And God love that man, he gave me 10-minute updates for the win. “30 minutes till Snickers, Court!” “10 minutes and it’s chocolate time!” We came to the most breath-taking area on, what felt like, the top of the world, kicked off our boots, pulled back the paper and ate the shit out of those candy bars. We called the chicks from that mountaintop, too, and it all just felt so satisfying. Because, you know, Snickers really do that.

I rode my chocolate-coated high down through a flat section of forest and right to the base of, yet another, mountain. Hank spotted a blue blaze (indicating a water source) and, respecting rumors of sparse water sources ahead and recognizing we had only about 4 ounces of H2O between us, he decided to make the trek to fill up. The terrain turned out to be a bit steeper than anticipated. As the grown men crossed my path one by one, they disappeared in Hank’s footsteps in pursuit of the blue blaze. Soon, it was just me and the 13 year old from our group left waiting. And waiting. And waiting. We stood in the shadow of our final summit for what felt like an hour until signs of life came shuffling and huffing through the sparse foliage. The staggering single file line of men emerging from the woods looked beaten, battered and as if whatever devilish descent took them down to that watering hole stole 5 years of their youth. The last to come out was my Gravy. And then it was time to climb just one. more. mother-lovin mountain.

With the exception of Lieutenant Blazer, who was an agile freak of nature, we were all running on fumes. The mountain, which would bring us to our highest elevation of the day, was a nature-made obstacle course constructed of unsettling ledges, rounded stones, tree root steps and puddles frosted in ice from the frigid overnight temps. Around every turn was a fresh ascending viewpoint and we put in a weary, weak performance at best. I will say I found it comforting that everyone in our group, and everyone we came across from that point on, acknowledged just how brutal our Day 2 route really was. It made me feel like my shaking limbs were a symptom of normal fatigue as opposed to fragility and a lack of preparedness.

When we reached the break in our third consecutive climb of the afternoon, we stepped out into the field where the Cloudland Hotel once stood and collapsed into various piles. My sugar buzz had evaporated as quickly as it came on, leaving me too disenchanted by this point to read the plaque that stands on this historical land. I tells the story of The Cloudland, a luxury resort that literally sat on the North Carolina-Tennessee border. Consuming alcohol was legal in Tennessee at the time, but not in North Carolina. Guests could drink in the dining room, which was located on the appropriate side, but if they crossed the line painted on the floor they were in North Carolina territory and subject to the designated punishment. Where socializing and music once filled an entire building, now a handful of tired-ass hikers sat staring at its fluffy, billowy mascots in what was now an open grassland. There really are a lot of clouds up here, I thought to myself. Though had I been on an overlook with any other name, I might not have even noticed them. Once The General made it up the mountain we began talking camp. Our goal was to make it to Roan High Knob, the highest shelter on the Appalachian Trail at 6,285 feet above sea level. But Lieutenant Blazer was giving the hard sell on a patch of pine trees about 10 feet from where we all sat trail wasted on the ground.

The General pushed for us to finish out the day and head just .6 of a mile down the trail to the water source at Roan High Knob. We had covered 7.9 miles at that point, but that last .6 was the longest of the day. And it didn’t get much better once we made the jagged climb up to camp. The wind on Monday night was unforgiving and somewhere along the way, the heavens decided to start spitting giant droplets of pestering water. Lucky for us, the Magician was on the scene. The Magician was a super-focused thru-hiker with a lot of advice and a vegan dog. That’s right, his dog, Pig, was vegan. I remembered seeing them flash past us on that first big hill right after lunch. The dog was built like a tiny brick shithouse; strong and solid. Every morning, The Magician would rub chapstick on the pads of Pig’s paws and give him a full body check. Pig had a special blanket and was just basically killin’ it in all aspects of the game. The Magician walked Hank around and showed him the only other flat spot outside of the shelter to set up our tent. We also peeked into the shelter. “The mice won’t bother you. You’ll just hear them,” the other hikers said. I made the decision right then and there to be a total girl and stick to our tent. It was the wrong decision.

We set our tent up in the dark gray drizzle that comes on a stormy evening just before night falls. The fire was smoky and constantly considering extinguishing completely, making my eyes burn too badly to stay. I ate my freeze-dried lasagna, watched Hank and the Lieutenant tie a bear bag up into a tree and called it for the night. Around 11pm or so, I woke up with that familiar call to pee. I was cold and pissy. I didn’t want to get out of my sleeping bag. But I did. And once you get cold like that you’re pretty much screwed. My teeth chattered and my whole body ached from shivering. Hank gave me his down jacket to put over the one I was already wearing. Nothing helped. This is how I die, I thought. I’m going to pass away from hypothermia on some stupid mountaintop because I read some stupid book and thought, hey, why shouldn’t I go find myself in the freaking woods. My poor girls are going to have to tell this story so many times. It was all messing with my mind in a way that unearthed vulnerabilities and insecurities I’ve only felt a few times before. It put me in a bad, bad headspace and poked at my inner pessimist. I didn’t sleep that night, either. The wind tugged at our tent cover and toyed with the idea of demonstrating its brut power by removing the thing altogether. By the time the sun rose, my spirits and boot soles were completely frozen. I had hit a low point on the trip.

To be continued …

Wanderlust

Makin’ Biscuits in the woods, Pt. 2

April 18, 2016

On the eve of Day 1.
His trail name was “T-Rex”. He was dressed from head to toe in shiny black nylon that was too small, both on the top of his bottoms and the bottom of his top. He often looked straight ahead in a stoner stare rather than make any type of eye contact with anyone in our group. He materialized from the darkness some time between when we left to stuff our excited pieholes at Smoky Mountain Bakers and our return. T-Rex must have mentioned his intent to watch Jurassic Park no less than 15 times, only to get up and put in The Thing instead, much to the delight of no one. The kid was just a few beats off the rhythm if you hear what I’m rappin’.

I’d felt some dull apprehension about who we might encounter on the trail. The timing was perfect for us to intersect a good number of thru-hikers (people hoofing it up the entire 2,000+ miles of the Appalachian Trail, from Georgia to Maine), most of whom started in late February-early March. Right outta the gate I was sharing my leftover cheese sticks with this joker; a guy who was, “Sent away to an island when [he] was young because [he] was very bad.” Great … awesome. I live in the suburbs with 3.5 children and have a secret crush on Sarah Jessica Parker, so … we have a lot of nothing really at all in common. Please don’t cut off my hair while I sleep.

While the accommodations were charming in a way that felt appropriate for this kind of adventure – I especially loved the pictures and thank you messages from past thru-hikers displayed above the deep wash tub sink in the corner – T-Rex was adding a certain type of character that had me feeling unsettled. He was nothing like his calmer comrades, Ace and Calvin, who both ate their instant oatmeal and made polite conversation about “all the millennials who acted like the trail owed them something” and tendinitis.

At 10p.m. hikers who didn’t pay for a bed at the hostel are expected to head out and pitch their tent in the designated area (I mean to camp; get your mind out of the gutter). Ace had forked over the cash, but Calvin and T-Rex adjusted their headlamps and bid us farewell. The aggressive wind had been screaming at the tin roof of the hostel for a few hours at this point, and the gusts only seemed to be growing, both in strength and frequency. The barn was noticeably shifting and bending to nature’s bold breath. I could feel it. And so, when Calvin and his shifty trailmate came running back in about 30 minutes later, it wasn’t entirely shocking. “Nope … not doin’ it,” Calvin said with wide eyes. “Nope!” T-Rex chimed in for confirmation. “A tree literally just snapped and fell 2 feet from my tent! I could have died.” Calvin recounted skittishly. I’ll admit, I thought it was a clever ploy to catch a spot on the couch. I think we all did. (It wasn’t). We offered up some half-hearted sympathy and turned in.*

My thoughts volleyed between the hike and the roof literally flying off of the hostel as I shifted to find a dip in the mattress suitable for my soft form. As I settled, I heard voices from the loft area where the rest of our crew was nestled. “It’s gotta be something that goes together,” My brother’s friend, who went by The General on the trail, said. “Like peanut butter and jelly or, ya know what just feels right … Biscuits and Gravy. Biscuits!” He hollered in a jerky southern accent. “Biscuits! Get yo ass down here, girl! Damnit, Biscuits!” I knew they were working up trail names for me and Hank. And, like gum to a security blanket, it stuck.

Between the squalls, swaying barn structure and unplanned sleepover guest, T-Rex, (who must have gone in and out of the hostel at least 6 times throughout the night to do God only knows what … gather weapons and cut letters out of magazines for the note he would leave by our bodies, I assumed), I didn’t sleep. I can admit with little shame that it went against every instinct in my motherly being to curl up mere inches away from a stranger who may or may not have been a juvenile delinquent in some capacity and who may or may not have been shipped off on a boat by his parents to be treated for some sort of disturbing behavior, with nothing between us but a curtain. But this is actually good, I thought. Between staying up late to pack our packs the night before and this sleepless night, I should have no problems falling asleep on the trail tomorrow.

Day 1
People started maneuvering the vinyl folding door to the bathroom around 7:15 or so Sunday morning. I whispered my zero sleep status and detest for T-Rex to Hank before shuffling out of the area where our king-sized bed was nestled. I sat awkwardly on a chair next to my brother blinking away what little sleep had accumulated in my eyes and acclimating myself to the sausage fest in which I currently found myself. I looked over Matt’s shoulder to see a kind-faced guy, about my age, sitting on the deck. He eventually stepped in, friendly but timid. He was swinging through to pick up a resupply box and didn’t hate the fact that we mentioned there was a shower here. “Hey, man,” he was looking at my brother. “I’m Bro-seph.” “Cool … I’m Matt.” There was a moment of silence as the morning high dropped from Bro-seph’s face and he accepted the fact that this guy wasn’t feelin’ his trail vibe. “I’m actually Matt, too,” he conceded.

See, trail names are a funny thing. Almost everyone we came across had one, and, for someone who is terrible with names, it actually made them easier to remember while also lending a bit of anonymity. I imagine there’s something freeing about being whoever you want to be on the trail. You don’t have to be “Sharon from Accounting” on the AT. You can be “Coffee Mate” or “Monarch” or “Shuffle Butter” or “Quick Cheeks”. It doesn’t matter. Anything goes. It’s a story you tell around the fire and your entry in the registry. The exchange between the Matts was a testament to the fact that my brother was there for the climb and not networking with the intriguing trail folk. He wanted to hike, spend time with his best friend, sister and brother-in-law, and maybe have some laughs. That was it. He had no interest in dissecting the new Lumineers album and he certainly didn’t want to sit around a flame talking trekking poles with strangers named “Nacho”. Ironically, it was also that exchange that earned him his official trail name, “Just Mat”.

Around 10:25 an SUV and a truck pulled around by the General Store to shuttle us to the trailhead. It was frigid outside. It was so cold, you guys, that the hostel owners’ goat wouldn’t come out of a hole it dug for itself in the side of a hill. That’s freaking cold. Nonetheless, I wedged myself into the extended cab between Just Mat and Gravy. The General sat up front. It felt like we drove forever. As people made small talk and the cab filled with the smell of warm coffee breath and heavily applied deodorant, my attention went to how nonchalantly our chauffeur was taking these tight bends around the mountain; the mountain with no guardrails. One little sneeze, one sip of scorching-hot joe, one slip of the steering wheel and the truck would go violently tumbling. My eyes darted. No one else seemed to notice how close we were to plummeting to our deaths. Forget bears … we were never going to make it out of the shuttle alive. The driver mentioned that after they dropped us, they were heading for a rescue. Apparently a couple of girls had gotten sick and couldn’t go on. Apparently a lot of hikers had gotten sick this year. “So we can call if we need rescued?” I inserted casually. He was playing a killer alternative radio station and I began to calm down.

We reached the start of our section at Iron Mountain Gap and piled out of the two vehicles. It was still bitterly cold. There was a stiffness and hesitation in everyone’s gate. Our bodies wanted to hibernate. “Good luck!” our escorts said before heading back down the winding mountainside. We gathered for a group photo, adjusted packs, poles and jackets, and took our first steps onto the Appalachian Trail. “We’re really doing it guys!” I said to Just Mat and Gravy. Just 1 minute later I was so winded I couldn’t utter more than 2 words strung together at a time. “Wow this … is so … pretty, huh?” To which my husband responded, “I think … we might … have … underestimated … the physicality … of this.” The good news was the heat came fast to my core and fingers. The bad news was the next 4 days were guaranteed to hand us our asses on a platinum AT platter.

The landscape on that first day was much like a Midwest forest with a mountainous backdrop thrown in for good measure. Gradual hills, barely budding foliage and the dried, leafy remnants of the past autumn carpeting the path. Honestly, the first section went so fast. It was a manageable 6 miles and I felt invigorated when we arrived at Clyde Smith Shelter – our end point for the day – in time for a stupid-late lunch around 2:30. The weather was beautiful, probably in the high 50s/low 60s and a sad tuna salad tortilla rollup never sounded so good. In the unforgiving light of the mid-afternoon, the shelter gave off more of a lean-to vibe. It had 3 walls, a roof, a few sleeping platforms and mouse mobiles (strings with bottles and cans attached to keep rodents from scurrying down the line to get into your food sacks). For some reason I pictured cute little playhouse-type structures with warm, sturdy perimeters. Not so much.

We opted to set up camp in a circular area behind the shelter. “It’s nice and flat, and it looks like only a few people shit back here,” The General proclaimed. Lesson No. 2: Always look for toilet paper before you pick your camping spot. He and Just Mat had hammocks they attached across from each other, as did the father and son in our group. Lieutenant Blazer (a friend of The General’s) made a last-minute decision to sleep in his bivy sack next to the fire. The fire … ah, the fire. There are spirit makers and spirt breakers on the trail and the fact we were able to have a fire was a huge maker for me. I had heard the only blazes permitted on the trail were the white ones you follow, so I was delighted when I saw a fire ring at our site, and even more geeked when I sat next to that fire with a little hot cocoa. As I savored my hard-earned pouch dinner and listened to the tunes coming from The General’s portable speaker, my husband bustled about putting the finishing touches on our tent and hanging our packs from the trees. “Gawd, look at Gravy just hustlin to get shit done while you sip hot chocolate,” Just Mat remarked, in a way only a big brother could. “Princess Biscuits. That’s your new name. Princess. freaking. Biscuits.” And like a bad first impression to your bunkmates at church camp, it stuck.

I didn’t sleep much that night. I typically catch my Zs on my tummy, and my mummified sleeping bag wasn’t really conducive to remaining in that position without suffocating. I was using my clothing stuff sack as a pillow at the General’s recommendation and it didn’t want to stay put, slippery little sucker that it was. I laid there, Princess Biscuits in the vast wilderness, as my sweet Gravy finally found some rest. Around 10:30 – which felt like 3am because we went to bed as soon as the sun disappeared – my hot cocoa kicked in. I suddenly had to pee. I had to climb over my poor, sleeping husband to frantically fight for release from the zipper and find freedom. He awoke to a knee in the liver from his beloved, but I did escape in time to water the nearest thirsty tree. As I climbed back into my cocoon, empty-bladdered and a bit sugar buzzed, I reflected just long enough to admit to myself that this shit was real. And this shit was tough. And this shit was really tough.

To be continued …

*A note from the author: In hindsight, those poor kids really could have had their water shut off that evening. I felt like the worst kind of jerk the next morning when we saw the tree and can’t stress enough how happy I am that to my knowledge neither they, nor anyone else we came across suffered any serious injuries.

Wanderlust

Makin’ Biscuits in the woods, Pt. 1

April 13, 2016

As I walked in a staggered single-file line on a mountaintop that parted clouds, in 40 mph sustained winds, 6200 feet in the air, I had to remind myself … I chose this. I wanted this. Sure, I hadn’t predicted the slicing windburn or grueling physicality of it all, but I made a thousand tiny decisions that put me right here on this trail, on this mountain, on this walk. And truthfully, coming out on the other side of it, it was worth every, single, step.

I’ve had a legit hiking excursion on my bucket list since about halfway through the pages of Cheryl Strayed’s “Wild“. When I read it, I was a fairly new mom, in my late 20s, and the whole idea – from the balls it took to the peace it promised – just lit me up inside. For many, including the majority of my friends, the thought of spending any amount of time isolated in nature with nothing but a bag of dehydrated noodles and your thoughts is more of a nightmare than a vacation (“Where will you poop?” “But, can you have cocktails?” “What do you mean, mice?”), but for whatever reason, it whispered to me relentlessly over the years. Somehow, likely by drowning him in my insistence, I convinced my husband to spend a handful of our precious, too-few vacation days on the Appalachian Trail chasing down our inner, zenful mountain personas.

While I might have talked him into going, I had no idea how to coordinate the logistics of such a thing. Sure, I’d been bitten by the wanderlust bug and could speak in the most romantic way about how the hills were calling and what would happen to our souls once we completely unplugged, but honestly, I’m worth shit when it comes to navigation. So, around Christmas, I began researching group adventure packages through various outdoor retailers. When I asked my brother’s friend, a backpacking enthusiast, for his opinion, he offered to organize a trip in the spring. We would leave on a Saturday, hike for 4 days, and be home by Thursday afternoon. It would be the perfect experience for two people looking to dip their big toes into the intimidating backpacking stream.

I want to tell you all about our adventure. Every character. Every victory. Every failure. Every elevation. How I came to be called Biscuits. But it’s going to take time and a little thought collecting. I’ll kick things off with a bit about the preparation.

A bit about packing

When I was a junior in high school, my best friend Jenn invited me to join her family for Spring Break in Naples, Florida. The trip would mark only the second time I’d ever been on an airplane, an endeavor I found to be synonymous with rolling luggage. Because of this, I begged my mom to let me borrow her large canvas suitcase. Completely naive to the fact that we were actually headed for the retirement capital of the world and would not see a single person even close to our age for five consecutive days, I spent weeks curating the perfect Old Navy wardrobe for the trip. I would be prepared, with figure-flattering ensembles for oceanside bonfires and straw strappy wedges. By departure day, I had filled that generously sized suitcase till the zippers were bulging. I threw it in my Z24 and sped off to Jenn’s house. When I arrived, her dad, Freddie, a true blowhard from Boston with the kind of accent that naturally insinuates annoyance and impatience in all instances (except when he spoke to his golden retriever), was in the driveway loading up the car. “Cauwtney … ya bag in ya ca?” I nodded proudly and started toward the house. I heard an exasperated grunt and two plastic wheels hit pavement behind me. “Jeeezus!” Freddie strained. “Cauwtney, ya gotta body in here or what?” His grievances were confirmed and my humiliation rapidly swelled when my suitcase earned a caution-orange sticker with the word “Heavy” repeating over and over at the checkin counter. I’ll never forget the sight of my shameful bag with the obnoxious tape coming down the carousel and the snickering reception it received from Jenn’s family. To this day, her dad still gives me shit about that damn suitcase. I can only say this: I’ve always been a worrier. And I’ve always been an over-packer. Perhaps the explanation is in there somewhere.

So, four months ago, when Hank and I decided to go on this backpacking trip, I immediately began researching how the pros get it done.

The amount of information available to one hoping to pursue a hobby like hiking is plentiful and often contradictory. A quick Pinterest search or Google spray and pray gives hundreds of posts (much like the one I am writing right now) and reviews and suggestions. With something like backpacking, you’re talking about countless variables for each person. You have to consider the elements, the individual, the landscape … So, when I’m comparing sleeping bags or raincoats or water filtration systems, it can be tough to find an insightful voice among all the noise. I was lucky to have some experienced acquaintances and a bulging blog roll in my Feedly.

With a growing wish list, we asked for REI gift cards exclusively for the holidays and made a trip down to the closest location a few weeks before we left. There, I was fitted for my pack by a gentleman who looked much like a young Andrew Keegan (a la 10 Things I Hate About You) with hair grazing his shoulders. I made a few trips around the sales floor and decided the Dueter was it for me. We picked up some base layers and down jackets and the rest would be purchased by a click of the mouse. Amazon was our best friend, as every stranger’s blog post revealed an accessory we had to add to our arsenal.

It seemed the weeks were long but the months were short, and before we knew it we were standing over a room full of gear and grub making some serious decisions about what would come and what wouldn’t make the cut. With one modest backpack and an extensive packing list, contending thoughts of running out of TP on a brisk mountain morning and the ghost of the orange caution tape of ’99 wrestled in my frantic mind. To forget something life-saving, like my hot cocoa packets, would be devastating, but carrying too much would be humiliating. Our food alone took up an entire coffee table. I was beginning to doubt my inner Cheryl.

The night before we left, Hank and I were up until 2 a.m. eliminating items and condensing our piles. Once we identified what would be our essentials, we began the actual assigning of said items to pockets and pouches. Moving Martha Stewart’s entire house is less stressful than filling a backpack when you’ve never done it before. I had coffee cups strapped to sleeping bags adhered to a trucker’s cap. My pack was a steaming hot mess. There was no denying it. “Just bring it all and we’ll sort it out at the hostel” my brother’s friend said. “No judgement. I won’t laugh. Just bring it all.”

The next morning, me, my brother and Hank threw everything in the cab of Matt’s truck and made the smooth, beautiful ride eight hours south to the Mountain Harbour Hiker Hostel in Roan Mountain, Tennessee. The rest of our party had already arrived, so I hauled my mismanaged Dueter up the steps to the rustic sleeping quarters. I opened the door and saw 3 young guys I didn’t recognize sitting on a couch watching a VHS tape of The Fugitive. I made an awkward comment about being in the wrong place, turned and went back down the stairs. Turns out, I was in the right place. Lesson No. 1: On the trail, strangers are just roommates you haven’t met yet.

I entered the hostel a second time – this go-around I acted like a badass fresh off a 20-miler – and threw my weighty pack on the ground. Soon I was in the thick of a crash course in hiker packing. “Court, do you really need an entire tin of bag balm?” “You might have, like, 3 extra lunches.” And the nail in the coffin that solidified my amateur status, “So … creamer packets, huh? And exactly how many creamers do you put in your coffee each morning? And you want to carry them in the box, do ya?” [Laughter] I felt my cheeks turn cherry as my stack of items to leave behind piled up. Aside from my laughable luxuries, my organizational issues were resolved with a “keep it simple stupid” mindset. All I needed in the end was a stuff sack for food, a stuff sack for clothes and my sleeping bag in the front pocket. Sure I had new underwear for every day – a luxury to most on the trail – but fresh skivvies made me feel human. So, he let me keep them. Maybe I had mildly scented Burt’s Bees facial cleansing wipes, but once I purged a few creamers and stuffed my sacks, I had the room. So, he let me keep them. Here’s what went on with me in the end* …

*It’s important to note here that my husband and I were able to divide our load a bit. He took the water purifier, 2-person tent, pain meds and part of the food, as well as his own necessities. What can I say? Sharing is caring.

The system was simple: Rain gear and sleeping bag in the bottom zip compartment. Stuff sack with clothes in the bottom of the main compartment, with the stuff sack containing food on top of that. Head lamp, toiletries and any food I needed during the day on the trail were stored in the very top zipper compartment. Water bottles and down jacket (when removed) on the sides and my sleeping mat rolled and fastened to the front. Bing. Bang. Boom.

Oh, and p.s. As we all huddled around our mugs of Maxwell House the morning we headed out, guess what was the hot commodity … What all the fellas were begging for … That’s right … Mama’s creamers, baby.

To be continued …

Older Posts

Newer Posts