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Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 52.9 – 64.2

April 21, 2019

At the base of the mountain, we came upon another truck, an appropriately sized model for traversing a mountain. The driver pulled to the side, a trio of show-worthy Foxhounds dancing behind the cab. My brother rolled down his window.

“Hey man, do you know how we get to the fire tower on Albert Mountain?”

“Yeah, just take the detour through the parking lot up ahead. There’s a beautiful loop if you got time to hike. I think it’s about a mile or so.”

“Thank ya, sir.”

Tank’s engine growled, asserting its machismo, as we drove on to the scene of our wrong turn. There still wasn’t a phone signal among us. The correct road was perhaps five inches wider, and much less threatening. We were making up time, which was good, because, as we climbed higher and higher, the pressure in my bladder, fueled by two cups of lackluster continental breakfast coffee, was growing more and more intense.

Every time we came around a bend, my hopes for relief would be dashed. Until finally, we saw the trail and knew we had to be close. A few minutes later I was dashing from the truck into a patch of rhododendrons, smiling at the sweet satisfaction of release. We’d made it. In more ways than one.

There were two shuttles waiting for us, both SUVs. The General and Captain Cordage were loading their things into one of the vehicles with a gentleman in Carhartt overalls. The driver’s speech was a peppy southern twang that fit his face perfectly. Lieutenant Blazer and his friend Johnny, a first-time backpacker, were organizing gear in the Lieutenant’s mini van. Without a formal discussion of how we’d be dispersed, we started loading our packs and poles into the back of the other driver’s car.

There’s always an interesting energy in a shuttle, similar I suppose to an Uber ride across town, but more like backcountry Taxi Cab Confessions. It’s strange climbing into a vehicle with a total stranger and trusting them to move you down the side of a mountain. The reward for this faith is a beautiful bouquet of strangers’ biographies. I’ve yet to take a shuttle in to or out of the mountains without cracking open a treasure chest of nonfictional tales about others on the trail. This particular driver fell in love with a backpacker, took up hiking herself, covered trails all over the eastern part of the country, and landed in Georgia. I felt nothing but hot breath and silence from the three men behind me as I volleyed questions back and forth and encouraged her to unwrap more details of her past. It was a way to pass the time, and this woman, like most AT shuttle drivers, had seen some things.

After a little over an hour, we arrived at Unicoi Gap. The sun was shining and the parking lot was a flurry of resting thru hikers, day adventurers and section hikers settling up with their shuttles. We pulled gear from the backs of the SUVs and started finalizing the details of our wearables – tightening shoelaces, applying knee braces, adjusting pole heights. No matter how many times you’ve anticipated it, replicated it, lived through it, there is nothing that prepares you for that first day with a full pack on. It’s like offering a 5-year-old with a death grip a four-day-long piggy back ride.

The ascent north out of Unicoi Gap was a stupid steep climb by suburban dweller standards. I shrugged my shoulders a bit to settle and distribute the weight of my pack and met up with a familiar rhythm. Pole, pole, leg, leg, pole, pole, leg, leg … slow and steady up toward the mountaintops, where the views are spectacular and cell signals are weak or nonexistent. It was 10:30 in the morning and we had 11 miles to cover. I was ready.

It took less than an hour for reality to set in. “I did not take my preparation seriously enough,” Gravy huffed behind me. He’d done more than I had. Beginning around the first of the year he’d been putting weights in a pack and walking on the treadmill at an incline for an hour at night. But simulations in Indiana basements often pale in comparison to the drastic elevation changes of the southern states. There’s just no work around. These climbs in particular felt unforgiving and relentless.

I chatted with my inner philosopher as I heaved and forced by body over the dirt beneath me, arriving at the teachings on Mother Nature’s lesson plan. For this particular morning, we would be ruminating on challenges. Often, we find ourselves at the start of a tumultuous obstacle. And we resolve to take it one step at a time until we conquer it. This is the basic plot for nearly every compelling human account. Woman lives. Woman struggles. Woman overcomes. But, it can’t be easy or it wouldn’t be worth showing up.

It’s mirrored in the climb. Every time I come around a turn and see that there is still a significant way to go, I have to accept the challenge all over again – come to terms with the obstacle like I’m back at the beginning. The higher I get, the harder it becomes to accept the truth, and the harder it is to focus on how far I’ve come. Ten steps start to feel like 100. And who hasn’t been there in life? Who hasn’t believed they had something under control only to fall and have to get up again? The trail is everyone’s teacher. It doses out humility in varying prescriptions, but always with intention.

Around 1 p.m., Gravy and I stopped for lunch on a rocky overlook. An army of newly born bugs swarmed my sweaty head as I squeezed a few dollops of almond butter onto a tortilla and searched for my dried mango. I hadn’t seen Just Matt since we left Unicoi Gap that morning, but that wasn’t unusual. I assumed he’d come strolling up to the ledge, complain about how everyone’s always stopping to eat and press on just ahead of me. Bambi had already come and gone.

I looked out over the slate and dirt canvas of a thawing landscape. The powder blue sky went on forever, dotted with fluffy clouds outlined in the most brilliant white the angel’s could pull from their palettes. Thru hikers would shuffle up to the edge of the rock, pause, make some comment, like, “Pretty,” or a simple, satisfied exhalation, and then they’d walk on, with miles and miles yet to cover before the sun fell behind the peaks.

I ran the zipper around my pants at the knees and removed the bottom portion. Instant shorts to minimize my excessive sweat. Not my best look, but the breeze bouncing off of my alabaster shins was a welcome sensation.

“I’m going to go ahead and get started,” I told Gravy. He was making adjustments of his own, with one boot off and his shirt untucked. I hoisted my purple Deuter up off the ground. Still no sign of Just Matt or The General.

It goes without saying that a dramatic slope is tough to climb. But the coming down is often what gets ya. Some of the downhills are steeper than the uphills, with large rocky steps guiding your path. Your balance is off and it’s a constant battle to bridle your downward momentum. Add to that, you have at least 35 pounds on your back. So, every time you step down, that weight presses against your back and down into your knees. I had two good knees and I was feeling it. I could only imagine what was going on in my brother’s joints somewhere behind me.

I came to a winding portion of the trail covered in a canopy of rhododendron plants. The jungle green was a welcome reprieve from the brown dirt and naked trees dominating my surroundings. Lost in the lyrics of “Shallow”, I didn’t see it coming. My ankle jerked to the right, and eventually my body followed. My boulder of a pack slammed up over the back of my head and I crashed down on my bare right knee and palm. My pants, a pair I seldom wore, had been sliding down all morning. Now, as I managed to get both of my feet underneath me and dig my poles into the ground, they were mid-ass, revealing a few inches of underwear. Humility still counts, even when no one is around to witness it.

I brushed the trail dust off of my knee and hands and grabbed my shorts on either side to pull them up over my hips. Gravy came around the corner just as I was readjusting my pack. My ankle was tender for the next five minutes, but eventually returned to the normal, tolerable strains and pains.

Throughout the afternoon, each taxing climb seemed more aggressive than the last, steeper and steeper as they came. The mountain was flexing its muscle and I was feeling every vein and bulge. As a reward for going up, the hills were tailed by unforgiving descents. Up, down, up, down, and so the hours between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m. went on. The heft of my pack pulled me backward on one giant step down. I came down on the ledge behind me, every ounce I ws carrying surged into my already skinned palms.

We knew we had to stop for water at Sassafras Gap Shelter, one mile before Addis Gap, where we planned to camp for the night. Gravy, Bambi and I got to the blue blaze around 5 p.m. The boys went down the path to fill our bladders and Nalgene bottles and I sat down under the sign to wait. A thru hiker was across the way, waiting to see what others she’d met on her adventure would be doing for the evening. If they intended to press on to the next shelter, I imagined she would do the same.

“Hi Dad,” I heard her say across the way. “Just letting you know I made it to my shelter for the night.”

They discussed some family business and I sat a stone’s throw away pretending not to listen in, swatting tiny bugs from my salty, sweaty face. I wondered how old she was and how worried her parents were. I envisioned what they told their friends at dinner parties. “Oh, you know Sunny, she’s just so wild at heart. But we’re certain she’ll take that internship after she gets this out of her system.”

I pulled out my own phone and turned the power on. As soon as the device found the weak signal a hundred text messages started popping up.

Bambi:
Where are you guys?

The General:
Just Matt and I are taking a nap.

Bambi:
Enjoy it

Just Matt:
If you guys get to Sassafras and decide to stop there, that’s fine.

Bambi:
OK

The guys came panting up the path a few minutes later.

“That drop down there is no joke,” Bambi said. Admittedly, I seldomly go on water gathering duty on the AT. I’m not here to make excuses. I don’t really know how to work the pump, though I doubt it’s super complicated. But being the person who typically stands on the trail where the water fetchers reemerge, I can tell you that most water sources involve a dramatic drop off of some sort. The guys almost always come back red faced and breathless.

“Have you been looking at your texts?” I asked.

“Yeah. Dad wants to just stay here I think.”

“I think it might get crowded,” Gravy said.

“Plus then we’d have to do 13 miles tomorrow,” Bambi agreed. He pulled out his phone and started typing.

Bambi:
We decided we want to keep going and finish the day.

Biscuits:
Stick to the original plan, folks! We’ll see you at camp.

I don’t know that I ever saw an answer to these texts. Given the events that followed, I would guess that was because Just Matt and The General were grappling with the consequences of our decision.

Lieutenant Blazer and Johnny came along just as we were done putting our packs back together with full water. The Lieutenant had seen the others a few hours or so before and felt confident they’d be along fairly soon. Bambi and I decided to take off toward our final stop for the day.

My joints were starting to rust and lock up, and I knew we had to be close to the end of our 11 miles. I’ve covered a lot of ground – jogging, walking, hiking – and it’s amazing how different 5,280 feet can feel, depending on your state of mind and body. On that day, beautiful in the low 70s with an invigorating breeze, I felt every strike of my boot against the earth in the last mile. I’m certain it was my mind that willed me on.

When we got into Addis Gap, there were two areas to set up tents. A higher section with several spots circling around a fire, and then a small, uneven section on the other side of the trail. Guess where Bambi wanted to be. We started making our slanted lot a residence. Our cozy two person North Face® tent took all of 15 minutes to put together, so Gravy helped Bambi with their sizable three-person shelter. They wrestled with poles and snaps and tarps while I started inflating various mats and pillows in our tent.

Captain Cordage had an impressive hammock set up going near the fire on the other side. Lieutenant Blazer and Johnny came along a short time later and selected a nice area just in front of the Captain for their tent. The campsite was a buzz of chatter and construction. Everywhere you looked someone was boiling something or unpacking their mobile home. A young, chipper couple worked hard to strike up a conversation, but I was too drained to give them the verbal courtship they were after.

About 45 minutes into our work, a sizeable figure came down the trail. It was Just Matt. He walked over to the tarp extending outside of his almost entirely built tent, dug his poles into a pile of dirt and collapsed. His knees were like cantaloupes, round and bulging with various inflammatory fluids. Liquid from his leaky water bladder hose made a dark circle around the left side of his chest and beads of sweat consolidated and dropped onto his shoulders. He was one long exhalation of profanities. He unstrapped his braces and hurled them through the thin material he’d crawl into in mere minutes.

“Where’s the General?” I asked after he’d calmed down for a few minutes.

“Aw, man, I wouldn’t be surprised if he just decides to stay back at Sassafras. I haven’t seen him in three hours.”

“You haven’t?”

“No, I honestly don’t know if he’s going to make it.”

It was starting to get darker faster. I had chills from my dried sweat and the mounting wind. Everyone was worried, but nobody knew quite when and it how it was appropriate to act on the concern.

I decided to start on dinner, a pouch of burrito fixins to be boiled and loaded onto a tortilla. Gravy was having a killer corn soup that I was admittedly jealous of. I sat on a log and balanced my jetboil cups. The sun was dropping. The wind pursed its lips and blew just enough to topple my dishes. An older gentleman was to my right, explaining his trail name, Pot Hole. “Because I can really slow you down,” he said with a chuckle.

Across from him, a woman from Switzerland was indulging with a fake laugh. Again, I couldn’t deliver. I asked if she was planning to do the whole trail.

“That’s the hope,” she said. “I have until September and then one way or another I have to go back home.”

“You’ll make it,” I offered. She was banking on her partner and host family being able to visit her in June, but other than that, she was on her own. She seemed like the type who didn’t mind that much. We exchanged pouches of instant cappuccino. I gave her my favorite – Trader Joe’s instant coffee with cream and sugar – and she gave me her preferred pouch, Nescafe. I can admit I thought it would be some sort of fancy Dutch coffee, so there was some disappointment on my end. She didn’t like things that were too sweet, so I imagine there was some on her end as well the next morning.

Lieutenant Blazer came over to inquire about The General’s status. I didn’t have an update. At least not one that would make him feel any better. There was often distance between us on the trail, but even still, you never felt alone. It never seemed dangerous. But as the trees grew murky against the Georgia nightfall, we all felt the gravity of one of our guys being out on his own.

“I’ll give it a few more minutes and then head up the trail and look for him,” he said. As if on cue, our bearded buddy came strolling into camp, instantly chatting with the other hikers. He would just be starting to set up his camp for the night while the rest of us were getting ready to call it. I chewed a melatonin and started down a side trail to go to the bathroom behind the widest tree and brush my teeth.

By 9 o’clock I was shimming down into my sleeping bag, enjoying the addition of a soft liner Gravy got me for my birthday. The sack, made from a t-shirt-like material, offers up to 10 degrees more warmth. Just outside I heard my brother.

“Did you already eat?” he asked Bambi.

“Yeah, I had some mac and cheese.”

“Did you make me some?”

“Ah, no.”

“Where is the bag?”

“I hung it in a bear bag down over there.”

“Cool. So I just won’t eat anything then.”

And then silence, as I drifted off into my melatonin-endorsed sleep that I hoped, but knew wouldn’t last. Because out here it never does.

Sometime in the indistinguishable hours of night on the mountain, we awoke to an electric flash of lightning and then, a minute later, a gut thumping boom of thunder. It was raining and a storm that no one knew was coming was roaring into Addis Gap.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the trail – The road to Albert Mountain

April 10, 2019

I snapped a selfie in the restroom of our hotel room. I was wearing my trail uniform: blue jacket, trucker’s cap, hiking pants, buff, no makeup. “Until Wednesday …” I typed into my Instagram story. I put the phone down and looked in the mirror. One last moment to feel warm, dry and capable. I knew by the end of the day I’d be tucked into a slippery sleeping bag with all the opposites. The breakdown would be underway within hours.

I turned toward the bathroom door. “It’s a great day to be great” it read. Thank you, hotel bathroom door. I sure do appreciate that. I hoisted my pack, which was well over 35 pounds with a full water bladder, up onto my shoulder. The weight bent my torso forward awkwardly. I picked up my duffel bag, filled with civilian niceties, with my free hand as a counterweight.

We’d seen The General and Captain Cordage at breakfast that morning, but now they were 10 minutes ahead of us, driving toward the sun to meet the shuttle driver in the parking lot at Albert Mountain. I tossed my pack up to Bambi, who was crouched in the back of Just Matt’s Dodge Ram, Tank. He winced and heaved it toward the back of the cab.

We sat quietly, still groggy from our too-brief time in an actual bed. We’d gotten a late start the day before, Friday morning. Gravy had stood on our porch geared up for nearly 45 minutes waiting, as Just Matt and Bambi searched for a missing driver’s license at their house across the neighborhood.

As we drove down a two way road somewhere in Ohio, my brother rubbed a swollen tube … or ligament… or tendon of some sort, wrapping around the side of his right knee.

“Jeez Matt, why didn’t you go see someone about that?”

“Oh, it’s awful,” he said. “I literally heard something pop in there. Feel it.”

“No thanks.”

“Just feel it. It’s crazy.”

Against all of my better judgement, I reached over and pressed my pointer finger into his angry joint. I recoiled and scrunched my face. He smiled. Pleased. I don’t know what it is about men, or maybe it’s just my brother, but if it felt like a mature snake had crawled into my knee cap and I couldn’t bend it more than a centimeter, I’m pretty sure I would seek some sort of medical care. This injury, mind you, was a complement to the recently diagnosed torn ACL in his left knee. So, that’s what he was bringing into the mountains.

After a trifecta of spring break traffic jams, Just Matt making a last-minute turn that sent Bambi flying into the front seat and a late-night visit to a local big box store for gloves and Metamucil, we made it into Franklin, Georgia around 11:30 p.m. Friday night.

Just six hours later, we were on our way to the Appalachian Trail, the vibration of Tank’s tires both soothing and jostling our foursome awake. Gravy sat behind me, searching madly for a signal to help navigate. We had just under an hour to make it to the rendezvous point. Just Matt couldn’t get one either. I turned on my phone just .2 of a mile before our turn.

Just beyond a parking lot, we turned right and started up an unpaved narrow road.

“Is this right?” Just Matt asked.

“I think so,” Gravy offered.

Tank’s engine rumbled and surged as Just Matt tapped the gas, urging his broad truck around hairpin turns. From the passenger seat, I heard a branch slap the door beside me and a rock tumbled down the steep mountainside, just inches from the tires. I stared out over the treeline, a clementine sky breaking through the navy.“What a beautiful thing to see before I die,” I thought.

Around and up we went, for 10 minutes, then 20. The color drained from my hands, clenched firmly around the ledge between the door interior and the window. Just Matt was laughing. Then he wasn’t, as the path seemed to shrink the higher we climbed. Loose gravel sent Tank’s backend to the left, as my brother pulled the steering wheel to the right.

“Is this right?” Bambi asked his dad nervously from the back seat.

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” he managed.

I hadn’t taken an actual breath for at least a half an hour. I was sure my heart was beating quickly and outside of my chest. We came around another turn and right into a dead end. I exhaled quickly.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I screamed. My brother chuckled in the way the bad guy does in a movie after a woman – soon to be his victim – foolishly slaps him across the face.

“I’d say we’re going to miss the shuttle,” he conceded, throwing the truck into reverse, then drive, then reverse, then drive. Tank was like a hippo on the top layer of a five-tiered wedding cake, rotating inch by inch. Eventually we started to make our way back down the side of the mountain. Now I was on the side that hugged the structure’s skin. I could reach out and grab a handful of dirt from Albert’s coat. It was a different seat, but the scene was still terrifying.

We had just 20 minutes to get the shuttle and no one had a signal. As Bambi would say just 24 hours later, “This trip was doomed from the start.”

To be continued …

Thoughts, Wanderlust

Jesus Dog and the importance of connection

September 26, 2018

I adjusted the hair around my face, tucking a few stray strands back behind my ear under my knit cap and scratching an itch by my warm forehead. My hand found Hank’s and, linked once again, we strolled together under the fractured branches that sketched the early spring canopy covering the southern Ohio forest.

“How long did the map say this trail was?” he asked.
“I can’t remember … maybe 3 miles.”
“Huh. Seems like this trail should have kicked us back around toward the road by now.”

The beauty of the day trumped any thoughts of potential trouble. We settled back into silence and synchronized our gates along a grassy lane, the past pressure of large tractor tires making our commute a little smoother. I heard the jingle of metal on metal and turned to see a medium-size dog trotting up behind us.

He was a mutt, perhaps the love child of an Australian Cattle Dog and a shepherd of some sort. His ears pointed toward the late afternoon sky and his collar, which was once bright blue, hung dulled and frayed around his thick neck. Without an invitation, the dog fell in line at our heels.

We passed a group of tourists taking a lunch break as their aged horses noshed on grass, green foam gathering in the corners of their mouths where the bit rings met the bridle straps. When our new four-legged friend didn’t join them at camp, as we’d assumed he would, we looked down at him and then up at each other. The canine galloped a quick lap around their herd, and they glared at us. We shrugged and kept moving.

“Look at that,” Hank said, after 30 minutes of walking our companion on an invisible leash. “He has one blue eye and one brown eye. That’s kind of different.”

And so he did. It was strange … ethereal. Thus, we named him “Jesus Dog”, and decided to accept him as part of our lost little tribe. He’d run off into the woods only to return minutes later, the sound of crunchy old leaves alerting us to his approach. He was entirely devoted to us and we were undeserving at best.

Seeing as how we’d clearly gotten off the marked trail, but we didn’t want to kill our getaway buzz, we chose to take Jesus Dog as a sign that we were going to be alright. He was a guardian angel with paws, sent to reassure a few misguided weekenders. We asked Jesus Dog if we were going the right way, and he seemed to urge us in the direction we were heading. We developed a rapport.

Eventually, we found a main road and walked along the shoulder until we intersected the parking lot where our vehicle was waiting. We each gave Jesus Dog a tentative air pat – because, you know, Cujo – and thanked him for protecting us before climbing up into the car. Jesus Dog sat down, an obedient and satisfied servent behind the truck. Hank had to get out and coax him to move on to the next lost couple, which eventually he did.
That night, we sat at the local brewpub and recounted the day’s events over a growler of mango beer. We confirmed that we had, in fact, walked approximately three miles off the marked trail with a mysterious, multi-eye-colored mutt. There was something about the whole thing that felt just sensational enough to be part of a fictional novel.

So, why does Jesus Dog matter now, you ask? He matters not only because we were gifted a celestial omen in an abandoned corner of the Hocking Hills tourist scene, but also because the tale of Jesus Dog is a spark. It fires up a connection to my husband archived in the neglected reels on the shelves of my mind. It’s a memory that belongs only to us, and that makes it special. It’s the handle to a faucet that fills my heart so that joy can float up to the surface.

It’s easy to call up joy with our children, right? They’re learning how to be humans, so everything is new and endearing and hilarious. My girls did something an hour ago that was cute enough to journal. But it takes intention to do the same with your spouse.

Tonight, when I sat down and started typing the tale of Jesus Dog, I immediately went back to that pub, my hands clumsy and cheeks sore from smiling. I pictured us sitting across from each other, oblivious to the other couples escaping the demands of their suburban realities, laughing and unearthing narrative gems from our past. See, the story is the time machine. Jesus Dog is the vehicle that transports me back to our date, just a state, but a world away from the grocery lists and oil changes of today. It’s the bridge I can walk across when the grind puts us on different shores.

What’s your Jesus Dog?

What’s that story that instantly transports you back to a time when you experienced unique joy with the person you chose to spend forever with?

Everybody has at least one. But then the question becomes: Are you revisiting it? Are you allowing the special moments to circle back around and tickle your soul and inspire you to go create more special moments?

Look, there comes a time for every couple when the only valid options are to a) sell the children, or b) throw your bags in the car and run away for a night, or a weekend or a week. Whatever you can swing. It’s in choosing option b that my suspicions that Hank and I are neighboring clouds are typically confirmed. In life, we share a sky, and occasionally collide, but mostly we’re just taking the shape of whatever role we need to play for whatever person in our day needs us to play it.

Making an effort to go away together quiets the winds. It’s a chance to look up at the face of the person you married, rather than selectively acknowledging them as you fry the potatoes and sort through the kids’ school folders. It’s like they’ve been talking through a fish bowl for 300 days and the minute you get away all the water gets dumped out. “Ahhhhh, I remember you.” your heart says.

When we go away for the weekend, we eat too much. We drink too much. We go for the longest, toughest hike in the state park. We get our coffee topped off, a couple times. We have conversations, rather than check-ins and appointment reminders. Ordinary luxuries feel indulgent and delicious, because they’re longer. Slower.

George Bernard Shaw said, “The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it’s taken place.” Sometimes I assume Hank knows about my life. Like he absorbs it through osmosis because of our proximity to each other’s bodies and the people we love. But as more and more space expands and swells between our good conversations, the more evident it becomes that there are entire details of my day that never make it to my husband. Turns out, I have to actually tell him. I have to converse with him, regularly.

When was the last time you talked to your partner long enough to, not only revisit a memory, but also learn something new about them? I’ll be the first to admit that, too many times, while Hank is telling me about his day or asking about mine, I’m running a dress rehearsal of the next 30 minutes of my night in my head. I’m anticipating a fight between the girls or taking inventory of groceries. I am anywhere but there.

Going away and reconnecting is the face slap to send me back to the reasons I hitched my wagon to this star to begin with. I actually really like this guy. I think he’s smart, and funny, and I like disagreeing with him in the spirit of rediscovering and respecting our individuality. I owe it to this man to let the other stuff fall away for a few minutes.

There are very few people – one, if you’re lucky – who can look at a menu and guess what you’re going to have. If you’re fortunate enough to share that kind of intimacy, where someone cares enough to keep track of what you like and what you hate, that’s something worth celebrating. So book a sitter or a trip. Throw your bags in the car. Go walk with your Jesus Dog. Then, about a month from now, make a date to talk about it. The best stories are the ones you tell over and over again, and the ones you can tell together.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 47-52.9

May 13, 2018

I woke up well rested and plenty warm, my knit hat perched unsecured on top of my head and a slippery pool of drool between my cheek and the polyester padding around me. I could hear a different type of trail animal now, rumblings from our neighbors in Popular Stamp Gap. A few feet away, Just Matt was peeling his generous sleeping bag off his sweaty limbs and coaxing Bambi out of their tent.

I sat up and sluggishly pulled my warm legs from their protective vessel. I wielded them around, sat on top of my husband’s unsuspecting torso and poked my toes around until they connected with my slide-on camping shoes. I wrapped my extra blanket around my body and sat on a log next to our urine extinguished fire as one by one our herd emerged from their structures.

We began going about the business of breakfast. Steam rolled through the plastic lid holes of our camp stove, signaling that coffee was just moments away. We ripped open a 2 serving package of Biscuits and Gravy and dumped a few cups of boiling water in. I cupped my stainless steel mug and let the Trader Joe’s instant java with a whisper of box pinot settle into my nose. As if on cue, the sun announced itself over the mountains on the horizon. The trail was waking up and, on this very special occasion, I was fortunate enough to greet it.

In the distance, clouds were sneaking up behind us as we unknowingly broke camp. After a quick trip to the facilities (I chose the fourth tree from the slope 40 paces off the campsite), it was time to step onto the path for our final hike of the trip.

There are certain sounds – the rebellious rhythmic ding of my steel mug clanging against the carabiner on the strap of my pack, the rubber tips of my hiking poles unearthing stones, the gravel shifting under my dusty boot soles – that soothe me with each stride. I am a one-woman band performing for the hidden creatures and frazzled minds of those in these woods.

You have a lot of thoughts walking alone. Actual, full, real, weird thoughts. And that’s when you realize that’s it’s been a really long time since you last had an actual, full, real thought. All day long, people are talking at you … asking for things, explaining things, working through their own things. Sometimes you’re engaged, often times you’re not, but just as sure as you find silence, you’ll find someone who wants to fill it with noise.

But not out here.

Someone said to us once that they were shocked we don’t all walk together the whole time. At any given point on the hike, we could have as much as a half a mile between us. I like to hang back on the steep climbs and let everyone go ahead of me. On this, our final morning on the AT, I found myself gloriously alone on the mountainside, winding my way around and entertaining all the roaming ruminations that entered my finally rested mind.

This was our fourth day of hiking, and by now my body was starting to keep track. If I took a deep breath, I could feel the strain on my lungs, the tissue bearing tally marks of oxygen sucking exertions and 30-degree mountain air. If I straightened my back, the weight of the pack tugged at my shoulders and down my spine and retold the story of strain from the flat ground the night before. It was all there. Adventure feels different at 33 … 34 … 35.

I passed by large, rolling hills with bare tree trunks layered like bristles in Mother Nature’s hairbrush. I thought about obscure things, like how when you drive by a mountain it looks brown from the road. But when you’re on it, you can see each and every branch. You can see their organic tumor-like growths and unsettled roots. You observe the personalities of each plant, which you would never normally consider.

Even silence has a shelf life, and mine was about to expire. I caught up to the boys. Just Matt and The General were standing around in a clearing spitting water on each other like toddlers. I’ve learned that decades can pass, but boys who grow up TP-ing and shooting each other with foam bullets are always going to revert back to those boys when they get together to play in the woods. It’s an immaturity that transcends the power of time.

About an hour into our 8-mile day, a mist started falling. It felt good at first. Almost pretty; casting gray watercolor hues around the mountain tops. When my sleeves started holding the water, I caved and put on my raincoat and pack cover. We passed an older gentleman drenched in a mix of salty sweat and cleansing rain. “I can’t believe I let my son talk me into this,” he said, to all of us and no one in particular.

We came over a mountain and into a wet Celtic landscape. Mossy rocks layered on top of and propped against each other proved slick and challenging for my amateur agility. Despite the fact it felt like we were seconds away from stitches with every step, the scenery was outstanding. By far my favorite of the trip. Gravy and I were alone through most of this terrain. Honestly, I think he waited for me for fear I wouldn’t make it through on my own. Probably valid.

Around the halfway mark, I started to get hungry. And we all know how things turn once my tummy starts talkin to me. We were all waiting for a final climb, which we were told that morning over breakfast would be followed by a long, long descent. It was hard to tell with the growling stomach and the rain and the emerald dressed boulders, what constituted a “final climb”. All we were doing was climbing. If we could get to the top of Blue Mountain we should find a shelter where we could have lunch and a final reprieve before we headed down toward the truck.

I got snappy as we pulled ourselves up the mountainside. I let my husband pass, for fear he might divorce me over the things I was saying out of hunger. I knew, just a few more steps and I would pull out my lunch, have a Snickers and turn back into the Biscuits he could love.

I saw the roof peaking out as I leaned into my screaming thighs and urged them to carry me just 30 more feet. I set my pack down, pulled out a tortilla and pouch of Justin’s Maple Almond Butter and blacked out from the ecstasy of the sweet, carby snack meeting my mouth. It was so dirty. Just me and all the foods I’d stowed away for this final meal. I was having a food fiesta for one and no one else was invited.

I had five tortillas left in my pack and absolutely no need for them after this little lust fest. So, I turned around to offer my stash. I was joined by Bambi, Gravy, a pair of younger thru hikers and – who else – the couple from Canada we’d been leapfrogging since we got here.

The wife politely indulged in a tortilla while her husband – who couldn’t have gluten – told us all about their adventure. Turns out, he made it to Katahdin in 2004 and they’d just wrapped a 90+ mile trek through Scotland. Unfortunately he’d fallen a few days back and had the scars to show for it. He lifted his glasses to reveal a gash on the side of his nose that began just below his eye. They were making arrangements to get off the trail for the night. As we packed up, the gentleman said they were going to come out every year with the intent of going as far as they could go and just see. I envied them.

For our little crew, it was time to bring this thing home. The General, Just Matt and Captain Cordage, with some good momentum and a desire to dodge my car sickness, had gone ahead. They would go get Tank and the other vehicle and someone would stay back to meet us at Unicoi Gap, our stopping point.

After a few manageable climbs we found ourselves staring down at the start of an infinite descent. For a mile and a half we worked our way through switchbacks and across stones positioned as unstable steps and grunted and groaned and gasped.

“I almost just died!” Bambi said behind me at one point, a pair of flat stones set loose down the sloping mountain beside him, 13 years of joys and regrets flashing before his eyes no doubt.

Most people think, and rightfully so, that a decline beats an incline any day of the week. But in actuality, it presents its own set of spirit breakers. For starters, you can’t look up. There’s no way. The second you take your eyes off the wobbly rocks or shifty dirt, you’re done. So you end up with a sore neck and zero pictures to show for it. Then there’s the pressure. In your toes, in the front pad of your foot, in your ankles and in your knees. It’s like strapping a 6 year old to your back and then trying to walk across a tiere balance beam on your toes. Not great.

Eventually we heard the familiar sound of cars zooming by on the mountain highway. We could see the parking lot at Unicoi Gap, and our three trailmates at Captain Cordage’s truck. We were turning on the final switchback as The General and Just Matt pulled out to go retrieve Tank, completely unaware of our proximity.

We came to the road and crossed over, back toward reality and 20 paces closer to the 9-to-5 hustle. Some locals had a tent set up to host a little trail magic for those passing through. I think once upon a time, trail magic was more the love child of of three way involving necessity, kindness and coincidence. Maybe a thru hiker broke a shoelace and a local just happened to be on their way home and felt inclined to give the troubled backpacker their own laces. Or a couple at a local restaurant picked up the tab for a grubby north bounder to free up some of his dwindling cash. Or a cow farmer let a hiker come in out of a thunderstorm in exchange for help feeding the animals in the morning. You get the idea. It was a meeting of people in an hour of need; one with the means to offer relief and the other in desperate need of it.

Now, while I’m sure these rendezvous with fate still occur, it seems to be more common to come across premeditated magic. We saw a few trucks at these points where the road intersects the blazes set up with coolers full of food and boxes of bandages and trail essentials. It’s refreshing to see goodwill in any form, but as section hikers, we felt a little strange taking advantage of the generosity. We were never more than a dozen miles away from a vehicle, so it felt wrong taking a Pepsi and PopTart out of the hands of someone who was days, possibly weeks away from a night in a real bed. So we simply waved and kept moving.

After we politely passed this latest trail magic tailgate, we made it to Captain Cordage who was waiting with warm orange Gatorades and wet wipes. We threw our packs in the back of his truck and made our way down out of the mountains. Soon the brown peaks were in the the rear view mirror, rather than a stone’s throw from my window. We were heading to Hiawassee, Georgia, to regroup at a local Mexican restaurant. I knew before my brother even walked through the door that he was going to want to drive straight through and be back in Indiana before his head hit the pillow that night.

I settled into a bright orange, somewhat sticky chair in front of a mariachi mural and poured over the menu, rich with pale images of impressive combo platters brimming with beans and rice. I ordered a pint of queso paired with a pollo con fresco la margarita de diarrhea-o de something or other and waited for Just Matt to walk in. Sure enough, he had made the decision, though he amended it by saying, “But we can see how we feel.” We all knew what that meant. Saddle up, partners, we’re riding at sundown.

Within hours, Tank, carrying four grimey, groggy section hikers, was barreling through sleet and snow, somewhere in the south. Around 9:30 that night, we pulled off at a Big Boy in Kentucky. This is one of my brother’s only stipulations for these trips; He demands one Big Boy and one Buddy Boy with a side of onion rings. It’s greasy and it’s tradition.

Things got quieter and the temperatures got colder the further up the map we climbed. Less than an hour from home we pulled into a gas station and everyone slipped on ice as they tried to climb down out of the truck. We weren’t in Georgia anymore.

Sweet JoJo was wide awake and waiting when we walked through the door at 2 a.m. She’d made a fort in the front room so she wouldn’t miss us. The next morning, from the comfort of my couch, displayed via my AppleTV, we scrolled through pictures from our trip and tried to recall overlooks and shelters for Hank’s parents. It’s a sharp shift in both directions; from work to wilderness, then back from seclusion to suburbia. It takes a beat. But as our chicks settled in all around us, bickering and beautiful as ever, Biscuits and Gravy went back to being Mom and Dad. Just like that.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, miles 39.5-44.6

May 3, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT Miles 31.7-38.6

April 27, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wind from Courtney Leach on Vimeo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 22.1 – 30.7

April 16, 2018

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

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

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

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

The day had announced its perfection early.

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

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

I see you.

I’m coming.

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

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

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

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

Sweet little beginner.

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

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

Sweet big beginner.

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

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

Ahhhhh Flat JoJo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ‘head,” he said.

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

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

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

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

Pages, Wanderlust

Biscuits in the Spotlight

March 13, 2018

So, something really sweet and unexpected happened … I was featured in the Women Spotlight for the March/April issue of kit magazine for my time on the Appalachian Trail! To say I feel undeserving is an understatement, but I’m incredibly grateful for the platform and hope it will inspire someone else to pursue a dream they’re keeping in their back pocket.

There are times still when I can’t really believe we’ve gone on these adventures. And, as we gear up to head back out for our third go of it, times I can’t really believe we’re doing it again. But I count these hours in the woods and on the sides of mountains as some of my most treasured, cold and miserable as they might have been at the time.

If you’re a new visitor to Desperately Seeking Superwoman, welcome! Follow closely and I’ll take you on a crazy journey down a winding, dizzy path of parenting, self discovery and the pursuit of balance. Or just stick around for the hiking stories. That’s cool, too.

For your convenience, I’ve bundled our AT adventures up so they’re a little easier to navigate. And I hope you’ll check back in April to read about our next leg, a 50-mile stint in Georgia.

TRIP No. 1

Makin’ Biscuits in the Woods, Pt. 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Thanks for the Biscuits

TRIP No. 2

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 28.3-30.7 + Springer Mountain
Miles 0-6.2
Miles 6.2-14.3
Miles 14.3-21.1

BONUS!
If you’re old to DSS but new to kit magazine, check out this interesting interview I did for them with Valerie, the minimalist. It changed me into a woman who thinks twice before impulse carting on amazon.

Wanderlust

On the other side of the waterfall

August 24, 2017

We pulled up the drive to a sparsely lit cabin, the sound of stones popping under our hot tires, dragonflys and moths dancing drunkenly together around the nearly blinding porch light. It was after 9 o’clock. We’d arrived later than we’d planned, but we were here. The girls faces, cast in a muted bright blue from the small screen playing Cinderella, were peering out of the fingerprint-smudged windows, Sweet Nightingale crooning in the speakers.

The property owner, Bridget, walked us quickly around the house. Her husband, Conor, decided to take up building cabins as a hobby years ago. There were two others up the road. This pastime, of course, came after he thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail.

“Have you done any of the trail?” Bridget asked, sincerely interested.
“Just a couple of sections,” I conceded. “Ya know, with young kids we don’t get out there as often as we like. But eventually, in our lifetime, we hope to complete the whole thing.”
“You will,” she said, nonchalantly.

I asked about restaurant recommendations, though I had some from a facebook post I’d put up earlier that afternoon.

“Those are a bit of a drive. You’d have to go all the way to Brown County,” she said. (Just so you know, I thought I’d booked a cabin in Brown County. Turned out, I had no freaking clue where we were in southern Indiana. But I didn’t want to tell her that. Or Hank. This trip was a birthday gift to him from me and the chicks. I played it off.)
“Oh, yeah, I wasn’t sure just how far they were.”
“You can totally do it! It’s just a bit of a haul.”

Quick, change the subject. You reek of rookie airbnb user.

“It said in your bio you’ve been to Ireland?” I inquired.
“Oh, yeah. A few times. Actually Conor has family there, so he’s been more than me.”
“Ya know, Ireland is at the top of my bucket list. I want to go backpack around there for my 40th maybe … I don’t know … it’s so overwhelming.”
“If you want to, you will.” she said. Again, unflinching.

She took the girls up to the loft, lined with perfectly made twin beds. The setup was a vision straight out of a Three Little Bears illustration. She showed them the books she’d set aside for them, a worn, treasured copy of “The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein among them. She invited the babes to dig around in the drawers for treasures and games she’d stowed away for young visitors. She was so relatable and transparent and warm, a true traveler’s soul, I’d say.

She opened the creaking screen door and wished us a good weekend before slipping out into the darkness. I surveyed our space for the next 48 hours and smiled. I was instantly enamored with Bridget and Conor and their rustic log cabin. I felt soothed by the smell of simplicity and optimistic talk of wanderlust. And I wasn’t even planning on going to Solsberry. (That’s where we were.)

The next morning, we went to the local “greasy spoon” Bridget recommended. It was one big open room of locals, and as out of towners, we were certainly the minority. The girls ate the ears of their Mickey Mouse pancakes while Hank and I tried to enjoy cups of diner coffee between Sloppy Joan’s 500 trips to the potty. Public restrooms are as entertaining as playgrounds at this point.

Bellies full, we went back to gather supplies, change shoes and head out to McCormick Creek State Park, which was just 10 miles away. We picked the trail the woman at the guard station recommended; the one that led to “the waterfall”.

Shortly into our hike, I realized I’d left my phone in the car. As had Hank.

“Aw shoot! I don’t have my phone.” I said.
“That’s OK, Mom,” JoJo responded. “Sometimes it’s good to leave it behind. You just have to protect your memories in your mind. Or your heart.”
“Yeah, it’s OK,” Spike chimed in.

I turned to my husband and exchanged the look I often shoot his way when I get absolutely schooled by our 8, 6 or 3 year old. Too often to feel good about myself as a grownup.

We came to a flight of stairs that led down to a small river. Crossing was an exercise in calculating risk, as one by one we worked our way from shakey stones to more reliable boulders that wouldn’t budge. Eventually we came to the other side, and more rocks to navigate, just on land this time. As a self-proclaimed future American Ninja Warrior contestant, JoJo was like a pig in slop. She pulled her Cheryl Strayed boots off and wrapped her bare feet boldly around the stones. No fear, just adrenaline. This was her ultimate obstacle course.

We closed in on the waterfall. It was a petite pour, though it splashed thunderously onto the rocks below. The bedrock was coated in a natural oil slick. The girls would timidly waddle across the river, slipping sporadically and crashing to their knees with a cautious giggle.

I sat on a boulder off to the side, their little muddy shoes and soaking socks lined up to my right. My mama bear commentary echoed in the hollow of the mineral slabs that enveloped us. “Careful, Spikey!” “JoJo … not so far.” “Girls, help your sister.” As their bravery swelled, they got deeper into the stream and closer to the waterfall. While watching them, I started to notice people climbing down from the top of the cascading water.

JoJo noticed, too. Before I could make it that far, she was halfway up the jigsaw puzzle stones on the side of the waterfall. A kind man stood behind her, coaching her while simultaneously searching for her parents.

“Now she’s got it,” he smiled at me, relieved this child belonged to someone. “You really should try to go up there. It’s pretty cool.”
“OK, gotcha,” I said. Thinking there was no way in hell, kind stranger, I would be pulling my 34-year-old ass up the side of a slippery waterfall.

Then Spike showed interest and I knew I was screwed. I stood behind her, a tiny tush in the palm of my hand. I had no choice but to follow now. I tempted gravity, placing my foot about 12 inches off the ground on a bulging rock. The stones were dark and slimy, promising a concussion, or an embarrassing slip as best case scenario. Now it was my tush in Hank’s hand.

As my eyes crossed the crest of the downpour, I saw what the stranger had seen. A shallow stream laid out before me, curving off into the horizon. My JoJo was there, bouncing back and forth across mounds of sand and shards of stone. Spikey was following less confidently in her sister’s shadow. The trees formed a whimsical canopy over their heads, creating an intricate masterpiece of sun and shadow on the shore. I took in the scene, inhaling it into my memory.

I leaned over the ledge to Hank. “You should probably come up here,” I conceded. “It’s pretty cool.”

I grounded my feet on a patch of dry rock and reached for Sloppy Joan, who was determined to reach the summit all on her own. As the pads of her two little feet pitter pattered into the water beside me, Hank’s hand reached the top.

We spent the next hour splashing and stomping and jumping in and out of the afternoon sun. Each set of footprints was different. We all went to the same place, but took a unique path to get there. Five souls, connected by love and blood and the most important stuff, just going on an adventure before summer escaped entirely.

There weren’t many people here; A couple trying to find some alone time. A trio of exchange students. We sloshed our way past them, a disorganized circus on parade.

Eventually, we came to a large stone bridge. Hank decided to hike back the way we came and collect the girls’ shoes and the car. He would meet us on top of the bridge. I found a significant, sturdy rock in the shade of the overpass and sat down. I watched the soldiers in my little tribe. One always going too far, out of my sight. Brave and bulletproof. Another the observer; Always dipping her toes into the water rather than catapulting herself all the way in. And then my baby. Unaware of anyone but the reflection staring back at her and the bug inching toward her toes. So in the moment. So breezy and independent.

I felt gratitude. For this stone, for this time, for these humans. Everything that came after the climb, brought such unexpected peace. Such beauty. Such natural curiosity. And we weren’t even planning on going past the waterfall.

We tackled a 2-mile hike to a small cave next. I wore Sloppy Joan on my back like an impatient gorilla. She rested her head between my shoulderblades, only lifting it to ask, “What was that?” each time a woodpecker went to work. We came to a cave and Hank volunteered to take them through. My claustrophobia was ranking at Code Brown just thinking about it, but through they went. They loved the cool, black cavern, and begged to go through once more on their own. Why not? This was a day for exploring.

And then, the thing they’d been waiting for since the moment we descended the wooden staircase earlier that afternoon. We went back to the waterfall. We let them take off their shoes, their socks, their fear of reprimand, and we just let them go all in. After all, how often do you get to swim in the plunge pool of a natural wonder, small as it may be?

After Spike and Hank spotted a water moccasin that could, as she put it, “kill 99 people with one bite,” we loaded the swamp sisters into the car and made our way back to the cabin to clean up. We decided to take them into Bloomington to see the campus and grab a bite. After 500 more trips to the potty, and a mediocre meal, the troops were fading, and I was adamant about ice cream. Thus began a Google maps goosechase Hank is not likely to let go anytime soon. Every place we went looking for miraculously disappeared from where it was supposed to be. But – and this is a very important but – God had a plan.

The creamery we eventually came to, Hartzell’s, had homemade flavors and a variety of toppings. Including puppy chow. Puppy chow! I had puppy chow on top of from-scratch cookie dough ice cream and the entire world could have fallen away and I wouldn’t have cared. And we weren’t even planning to go to Hartzell’s.

We went home; exhausted, satisfied, full in many ways. I curled up on the couch with the girls and read “The Giving Tree”, and it made me think of family. How I would give everything I had for these people. Everything. Because this love we share is that good. Have you read the book?

“and she loved a boy very, very much – even more than she loved herself.”

I fell asleep right there, a daughter in my nook. The smell of lumber in the air. I was so content, there was nothing to fight or contemplate. Just rest, drunk on nature and sentimental thoughts.

The next morning, we woke up to Sloppy Joan announcing her poop in the potty. The victorious No. 2 stirred the four of us and we slowly came to life. The girls played for a few final minutes up in their loft. I went about packing and sweeping the treated wood floor. We all looked out the window and said, “Goodbye, cabin.” with frowny faces as we drove away.

We made it to Martinsville, a small town north of Bloomington before the demands for breakfast rose from the back seat. We pulled off into a diner and followed the friendly hostess to a corner booth. Here, Sloppy Joan would only go potty three times, a record, perhaps made possible only by one very special distraction. An older gentleman sitting at a small booth that backed up to our table felt our hurricane of a 3 year old bumping up against his arm. In a world where we don’t often notice each other and interaction is often viewed as an inconvenience, this man spoke to my little girl. He was playful and kind and smirked at all the same things that make her grandparents smirk.

He was a retired sheriff, we would learn from his friends. And a real softie it would seem. He gave each of our girls a quarter to buy a gumball on their way out. Which they did (chocolate for Sloppy Joan), and held them up against the window to give him a thumb’s up before climbing in the car. Aside from my unforgettable cinnamon roll french toast, that stranger was the sweetest part of our journey home. Such a kind, restorative display of humanity. Such a lovely exchange. And we weren’t even planning on going to Martinsville.

The more we replace things with experiences, the more we let fate be our travel guide, the more unexpected joy is revealed. The more I stop trying to drive this bus, the clearer I see that the best things can’t be planned. They are 100 percent organic. They’re found in modest cabins in cities that don’t make most maps and on long, winding trails. In rolling the dice and twists of fate. They’re in strangers with pure hearts and that rare, generous nature you have to be born with. They’re what you see when you leave the filtered lens behind and protect your memories with your heart.

The best things are just beyond the waterfall. But you have to be willing to climb.

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 14.3-21.1

May 3, 2017

I gradually woke up, cozy and rested on the side o–

Oh, shoot. That’s a lie. There goes my silly mind, romanticizing things again. Let me stop here and throw ‘er in reverse.

I woke up to the adolescent cackles of Just Matt and The General tooting and talking about their high school buddies in the tent above us. None of nature’s alarm clocks – the rose-gold sun, or the prattling river, or the amorous birds – would gently rouse the ledge full of tuckered out travelers from their hard-earned slumber. These two idiots would. When those clowns were up, everyone was.

The best breakfast I had on our trip was the one I had on the side of that mountain. My Trader Joe’s instant coffee with cream and sugar and – what else – freeze-dried Biscuits and Gravy, combined and expanded like a warm sponge in my depleted body and warmed me up. I wanted more than my half.

I sat the Mountain House bag of milky remnants next to the tent and went about my minimal hygienic upkeep. I pulled my toothbrush out first. My hand shook as I forced the very last of my travel-size tube of toothpaste out onto the frozen, matted bristles. I stepped back to pace the trail as I lathered up my gums. Then, something stopped me. It felt like lukewarm vomit spreading out over my foot. But it wasn’t. It was the soupy white remnants rapidly escaping the blue Mountain House bag and saturating my last pair of clean hiking socks; sparing the fabric only where the straps of my Tevas crossed. Frickin great, man. Now my pack not only smelled like 3 days worth of butt, but dehydrated sausage juice as well.

We started up the trail for what would be our final day of hiking. You know when you go for a jog and sometimes you have it, and sometimes you don’t? Well, on this morning, on this section of dirt, I just didn’t have it. Gravy went up ahead of me, focused on reaching the privy at the Gooch Mountain Shelter, just over a mile ahead. Just Matt kept me in sight for a bit, but eventually his Sasquatch stride naturally separated us. I felt weak and weighted. Every step required more energy than it should have. I started pounding the Rx Bars and Snickers I’d stashed in my waist pack pockets. I sucked on an energy Blok and hoped for the best.

But then, I was reminded of a phrase uttered frequently on our first venture to the Appalachian Trail, and it ignited an important conversation with myself: Hike your own hike, Courtney. Look around you. What’s your hurry? By dinner, this will all be over and you’ll wish you were starting again. My body was sending me signals to slow down and enjoy the journey and I was trying to juice it up and speed things along. And why? So I could breeze past the white blazes I’d been looking forward to seeing for months? I had to listen in the quiet, not rage against the voice. I pried my eyes up off my feet and regarded the tendrils of rich emerald leaves. The birthmarks on the trunks to my left and to my right. The sounds of the forest starting its day and getting down to the business breathing, sprouting, spreading, creating new life.

We stopped at Gooch Gap for a snack. I’d created the perfect trail mix of granola, Traders Joe’s Omega Trek Mix and Simply Almonds, Cashews and Chocolate, and I was now hammering it like a savage by the filthy handful. An elderly couple came down the path behind us and crossed the road to pick up the AT on the other side. “Hey guys, I’m going to go ahead since I’m slower today,” I said. The truth was, I was just happy to see people whose pace I could certainly match. I imagined the stories they would tell me about their time on the trail, their past. Maybe this was their 10th time doing the whole thing. Maybe they were just out for a section.

But it was a story I’d never actually hear. Because, you guys, they dusted my ass. Those two old birds traversed the AT like a pair of mountain lions and I sniffed their burnt rubber for at least a mile. The trails take all sorts of travelers, and the great ones have legs they’ve earned on the backs of boulders and jagged peaks. I had to admit, I’d just been schooled by a set of septuagenarians on making assumptions and respect for those who’ve put in the mileage.

We had a lot of company that morning in Georgia. One gentleman, from Florida, stopped The General to review his map.

“He’ll never make it,” The General said, after the kid walked on. “I can tell you within 3 minutes of talking to these people which ones are going to pull it off, and which ones are out of their league.”

As I write this, nearly 3,500 hikers are en route to Katahdin, and about 500 are heading south to Springer Mountain. Statistics tell us about one-third of these ambitious men and women (and children) will actually make it. This guy seemed to be struggling to navigate both the elements and the route, both of which have the ability to bend you over their knee and break you like a bitch.

After a few brutal climbs, we came to an overlook at Ramrock Mountain. It was sunny, beautiful. A collection of thru-hikers had gathered to eat Clif bars and chat. I saw the guy in a kilt and the woman with a dog who thought I was the other woman with a dog from the day before, a pair of girls clearly just out of college, Just Matt, and the elderly couple from earlier.

“Man, I tried to keep up with you two, but you were too quick for me!” I said, playfully, like a granddaughter would.
And just like a grandmother would, the woman smiled sheepishly, first at her husband and then at me, and said, “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. We could have waited for you if you were looking for someone to walk with.”

In my mind, they laughed and high fived each other the second I turned away. Thrilled at the fact they’d straight smoked another unsuspecting youngin. I wanted them to be my grandparents so bad.

Just Matt was antsy, and mentioned he hadn’t eaten anything since 3 p.m. the day prior. The promise of real food, namely a cheeseburger, gave him the strength he needed in this moment to push on and persist up the mountain. Before I could put my pack back on, he was gone. Tank was waiting at Woody Gap just over a mile away. He was ready for the reunion, for the road, for the beef.

Gravy had arrived and agreed to wait for The General, so I could go ahead. Truth be told, I kind of liked walking alone for a change.

As a society, we are searching. We think if we meditate, if we unplug, if we administer a digital detox, if we journal, if we cut out sugar, or gluten, or dairy, or red meat, we will unlock the hidden temple of peace. Myself included. I am, perhaps, the deepest worshiper of these beliefs. But honestly, I think the answers we want are already in us – bouncing around somewhere in the landfill of our frantic minds. If you spend enough time digging around up there, if you wait around long enough, and let all the crap filter out, the things you really want to hear will settle at the bottom. They’ll come to you.

Walking does that. Walking gives us enough time.

Somewhere between Moana lyrics and organizing our new camper, unbelievable truths appeared to accompany me on the trail. All the shit that typically gets diluted in the noise of motherhood and my career were suddenly barefaced in the solitude of the woods. I had to listen. Really listen. But they were in there.

I’ve been standing at the edge of the water – Long as I can remember – Never really knowing why … I could pack the girls’ clothes in the collapsible laundry basket and then use it for dirty clothes, and then if I get that 31 tote … I need to challenge myself more. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Gosh, Courtney, remember when you used to set big goals? Where’d that girl go? … Every turn I take – every trail I track – every path I make – every road leads back, to the place I know – where I cannot go – Where I long to be … Ah! My ankle just turned. That hurt. OK, we’re good … What should I do next? I need to clean up my diet, that’s what I need to do … Am I a good mother? I wonder what my kids will say about me when they’re older … That girl has those cute pants like Lydia had. Ask her where she got them. Just ask her. Ask her. Ask her. Ugh! Great, now she’s gone and I’m going to have to spend an hour on Pinterest tracking these pants down.

Still wearing my down vest and pants, I was really starting to sweat in the 70-plus-degree heat. I knew I had to be nearing the end of the section, so I decided to stop at a small water source and wait for my husband and The General, so we could finish together. One by one, the thru-hikers came. First, the guy in the kilt and the gal with the dog. They slowed and eventually agreed they’d get water.

“Where are you guys stopping tonight?” the gentleman asked.
“Actually, we’re getting off just up here at Woody Gap.” I said.
“Oh, wow! So you’re really almost done then.” the gal commented.
“Yup! We like to do this for our spring break. Then it’s back to reality and kids and jobs and responsibility,” I whined.
“Yeah, I hear that. I’ve been missing my kids,” the guy said.
“You have kids?” the girl asked, surprised. Which surprised me because I assumed these two were trailmates and had likely already covered this territory. I was also admittedly surprised that a young guy like this who had walked the AT, he claimed, several times had a wife and a kid. I mean it takes the assemblage of a small army and a willing village for Gravy and I to take off and do this for 5 days. And that’s just 5 days. Again, I’d fallen into the pit of assumptions. I had more in common with kilt guy than I’d thought.

After what felt like 40 minutes, I gave up on the rest of my party showing up and decided to walk into Woody Gap alone. I tiptoed over a waterfall, jumped from boulder to boulder, came around a bend in the trail and there it was, the parking lot. I was heartsick that it was over, to be honest. All the preparation and the anticipation and the effort would quietly absorb into the stories I would tell of our time on the trail in just a few steps.

I came upon Just Matt, who’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt, sitting in Tank. The truck was running and he looked like he was ready to hit the gas at the first signal. Gravy and The General came up about 10 minutes after me. The General was quick to tell the story of his run in with the thru-hikers, at the same water source where I’d left them.

“They asked if Hank was your husband and said he’d just missed his wife. Then I said, ‘Who? Biscuits?!’ and they proceeded to tell us that your trail names were too easy, too basic.” I think he felt offended since The General had assigned those names to us about a year ago and a few hundred miles north (as a crow flies). I wasn’t offended. I smelled too bad to take offense to anything. The General went to the public restroom to bathe in baby wipes, and then we all climbed into Tank and started the vomit-inducing road out of the mountains. It was like an evil snake with no tail, you guys. It went on for years. I was green.

Eventually we came to a straight away where a Wendy’s, nestled inside a gas station, sat, waiting for my carnivorous brother. The Masters were on. Not a word was spoken. Just the sounds of bun and burger being shredded by teeth and jostled around between gums and dry lips. They were burgers 3 days in the making. This stop would be followed by dinner at a Big Boy outside of Cincinnati at 9:45 p.m. that night. Only at a greasy restaurant whose mascot is a tubby boy in checkered overalls is it acceptable to order a side of what I believe to be doctored up tartar sauce to dip your french fries in. And you bet your sweet ass I did.

As the space between my body and my typical life shrunk, I felt myself slipping back into my routine. I frantically returned to the 800 minuscule worries and tasks I’d set aside while walking. I sat, curled up in the back seat, watching light poles tick by and thinking about the ground I’d covered. I was smiling, longingly, like the way you smile when you see a new mom with a fresh little baby and you think about your own days of rocking and smelling and squeezing soft little butt cheeks.

My friends think I’m crazy. Acquaintances politely regard the hobby as “interesting”. But it’s so much more than privy pots on cold mornings and rodents. When I think about backpacking, I think about my comfort zone. I think about the reward that comes on the other side of obstacles and the way getting there changes me. Every time I do something that brings me off autopilot and forces me to reconnect with my instincts, I feel stronger, clearer, more awake in this life. When I’m counting my steps, working my way slowly up the side of a steep summit, I feel so aligned. I feel like my mind and body are communicating for the first time in months. Like I can hear the screams that are typically muffled by mundane responsibility and my own self doubt.

And again, there’s that word … perseverance.

I love the concept of perseverance. More than anything, I want my girls to know that they can, and should, always persevere over what hinders, haunts or hurts them. I – and they – have unimaginable strength sleeping just on the other side of fear. If it’s scary, that’s OK. If it hurts, all the better. Sometimes, it’s those feelings that surge in the pit of your stomach that signal it’s all going to be worth it. That’s what backpacking does for me. It frightens me just enough to stretch my limits and takes me to that uncomfortable place where change resides.

I have anxiety, right? And I think people who struggle with the constant dripping faucet of anxiety can understand when I say that a normal day, week, month, sometimes feels like walking through a rose bush. As lovely as the flowers can be, it also leaves hundreds of tiny little cuts. The journey often leaves me bleeding, aching and irritated, but the bouquet in the end keeps me coming back. Being out there, in the unadulterated air, with my thoughts and the crunch of my boots, smooths over the gashes. It heals me. It tastes like sun tea with honey and rose petals and feels like my oldest t-shirt. At least for a few days. It’s the same feeling I get when I put my ear to my daughter’s chest and listen to her heartbeat. Each thud sends purpose surging through me.

And it’s the culture of the trail, the people. To be frank, there are times it’s hard to be a human in this world in its current condition. I panic about our future and the abuse of basic rights I’ve taken for granted. But with no phone, no push notifications, no “breaking” anything, it all feels a lot simpler. The current events of the trail are related to weather conditions and record setters, not press conference blunders and cruel, unthinkable acts that my heart just can’t seem to process. I feel safe around this species. The people you pass (98 percent of them, at least) want to know how your journey is going, and help if you need it and encourage you and stand under the majesty of what God gave us with you. It’s the softer, more digestible version of humanity.

We’ve been off the AT for about a month now. The chicks ask about the mountains a lot, and tell us they can’t wait to join us on the Appalachian Trail, and every fiber of my being hopes that day comes. Nothing would make the path sweeter than having my daughters’ footprints beside my own and their fingers against the white bark of a blaze.

Until we meet the path again, I’ll go in search of smaller, closer trails, and that same revealing quiet. I want to thank everyone who asked about our small adventure and followed these posts. I hope it awakens your wanderlust and leads you to a corner of the world that heals what aches in you.

Read about Miles 6.2-14.3

Read about Miles 0-6.2

Read about Miles 28.3-30.7 + Springer Mountain

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