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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 …

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.

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

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

Wanderlust

Biscuits back on the AT, Miles 0 – 6.2

April 19, 2017

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

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

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

Here’s what we ended up with:

And:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

18 hours.

At a cemetery and open-air pavilion.

In 30-degree weather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our neighbor came back.

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

Yes, unpacking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued …

Read about Miles 28.3-30.7 and Springer Mountain

Wanderlust

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

April 14, 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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