Day 12: Sassafras Gap to Dicks Creek Gap/Hiawassee
I got up earlier than usual that morning, motivated by the prospect of advancing the day and the relative civilization waiting on the other side of it. I went down to get water, made the trip, returned to camp and discovered that Gizmo had already refilled my bottles with his big CNOC bladder while I was gone. Kind gesture. Although it didn’t save my trip. A rare side quest with no reward. I threw away the liter of dirty unfiltered water that had risen. There was no point in carrying an extra 2.2 pounds that I wasn’t going to drink. I was learning, avoiding the sunk cost fallacy along the way.
Due to the early morning, lack of caffeine, and probably calories as well, the rest of the morning hike was a blur until we reached the top of the climb at Mount Powell, where two serious-looking hikers were standing at the junction of the Blue Blaze Vista trail, taking a break. I asked if they had gone up. They hadn’t. I went anyway.
Lake Burton stretched east beneath me, a reservoir that caught the morning light. The best views from Blood Mountain and honestly the most rewarding of the trip so far. At some point on the descent toward Dicks Creek Gap I started running. Apparently the legs had opinions on how quickly we should get to a burger. There are no eyewitnesses to confirm this, but it’s possible that he was actually floating down the trail like a cartoon character, drawn by the aroma of charred bacon and beef wafting toward the dewy hills.
View of Mount Powell over Lake Burton to the east.
Our ferry driver passed through Fucarwe. As in, where is…? A previous AT hiker, which meant he understood exactly what we needed without being told. We stopped at Stanimal’s Around the Bend and found a cooler full of ice-cold drinks. I had a ginger ale. Mountain Dew is still the best, but it’s nothing to sneeze at. Sugar tastes good. Doubly so when you’re sweaty and calorie deficient.
Stanimal’s is a hostel built by hikers for hikers, which means they know what you need even better than you do. I found a cast of people I knew: Steve and Gizmo, Ray, recent ex-military, who I had first seen advancing on the descent towards Unicoi and who represented what seemed like an outsized military presence in the hiking community. Bunny, named for packing an entire pound of fresh carrots on the road, repeatedly. Dustin, who had somehow shown up at every shelter he’d ever visited and who could outdo anyone in the room when it came to pop culture. And Rale, working the desk, who watched Blood Diamond with us that night and talked about old movies until the night was over.
That afternoon in Hiawassee I sat down at the Sundance Café and ordered a half-pound double bacon cheeseburger with fries, a Coke, and a Bloody Mary with two queen olives. Back at the hostel I made my own dinner, a New York strip steak marinated in a mix made up of leftovers from a hiker’s box, a sweet kale salad kit, and cottage cheese. The body was not subtle about what it wanted.
I weighed 233.5 pounds that day, fresh off the trail, before lunch. Honestly, I was a little disappointed by the number and had a hard time reconciling it with how much I’ve had to tighten my belt since I started. Something didn’t add up. Either that, or I was gaining an absolutely heroic amount of muscle in my legs while simultaneously reducing fat. The jury was still out.
Day 13: Blue Ridge Gap to Dicks Creek Gap (SOBO Slack Package)
Reset, Rale’s partner and co-worker at the shelter, made breakfast tacos and blueberry pancakes that morning. A strong opening to what was shaping up to be a good day.
Rale took Rick, one of the assembled Truncles, and me to Blue Ridge Gap to grab the loose package. The road to get there was the worst I have ever seen a vehicle subjected to. I really felt bad for that Jeep. Stanimal’s offers day packs for exactly this type of outing, and I didn’t take advantage of them, opting instead to carry my usual backpack stripped down to just water, umbrella, rain gear, poop gear, and snacks in the fanny pack. Oops.
The difference was immediate and unmistakable. The climbs were noticeably easier. The descents were less taxing on the feet and knees. In flat areas I walked faster. There was no need to stop and take off your backpack, it barely felt like it was there. I decided to intentionally pick up the pace, using the day functionally to build cardio, and for the first time on the trail I truly felt like I was turning a corner. Sections of trail were coming, real sections of trail. The signs had been there the day before, running downhill from Powell Mountain, but this confirmed it. 5.7 miles in less than 2.5 hours. For me, a dizzying pace.
That day, as I walked south, I passed almost everyone I knew on the trail going in the other direction, including Kallin and Evelyn, who I was glad to find were only a few miles ahead, and not several days away as I had feared. More space-time dilation at work. Almost everyone asked me why I was walking backwards, and I was able to introduce some of them to the concept of loose packing and the joys that come with it. AT purists may accuse me of going platinum or doing a small SOBO section on my NOBO hike, especially since the reverse order saved me a small portion of the climbing. But I don’t care. It was 5.7 miles of a 2,200 mile trail and it saved me about 300 feet of climbing from about 225,000. My hike, my rules, and my steps still connect to the beginning at Springer Mountain.
I forgot to text the shelter when I was a mile from the end and found myself stranded with no service. I kindly directed a day hiker toward the aforementioned view heading south on Mount Powell, then began walking a half-mile back to the lodge in the ditch, picking up bottles and assorted trash along the way to dispose of later. Finally, by sheer luck, a shuttle driver came by and graciously saved me the second half of my penance walk.
The second burger day in town wasn’t as successful as the first. My body just wasn’t that desperate. The steak the night before had taken away his nervousness. Bronco’s still makes a great burger, to be clear. It just lands differently when you’re not exhausted.
Back at the hostel, Bunny presented his show, Age of Attraction, and the assembled group of boys became an enthusiastic peanut gallery, roasting the show and everyone present with considerable dedication. At some point, Bunny, who is 21 years old, looked around the room and referred to all of us collectively as his Truncles. Trail guys. I am 31 years old. I was grouped with a group of men who are mostly in their 50s and 60s. I was devastated. Days later I told Bunny that I still hadn’t recovered psychologically. She assured me that it was more about behavior than age. This was something worse.
I weighed 238 pounds. Two days eating in the city will be enough. Mathematics is not mysterious. Would I defy all logic and expectations and end my hike heavier than I started? I had few doubts about my eating skills, but I was a little perturbed.
Steve and Gizmo didn’t join the lazy group. Word came that they were ending their walks, or at least this version of them. Gizmo had always been a section hiker, a father accompanying the opening act of his son’s hike. Steve’s plans had changed and the trail changed his intentions in real time. He was drawn to the Shenandoah, intrigued by the idea of burning that section with water. The trail does that to people. It doesn’t always break them. Sometimes it just redirects them. It’s not a loss. A divergence.
Day 14: Blue Ridge Gap to Permanent Indian Refuge
The drive to Blue Ridge Gap had made its point clear the day before and emphasized it again as Reset took us down. Now the trail continued where the Jeep left off.
A few miles later, I crossed the state line between Georgia and North Carolina. I stopped long enough to take a photo of the border sign and text it to my family. A moment to feel good about yourself, to let a small surge of pride settle in for finishing in Georgia. NC had other plans. The training wheels came off immediately, heralded by a succession of steep, sudden, consecutive climbs just over the border, with very few views to compensate for them. If the AT had started here instead of Springer Mountain, I have no doubt I would have abandoned it on the first day. The first few miles of North Carolina are more than twice as long per day as Blood Mountain. It’s the trail’s way of letting you know that Georgia wasn’t a warm-up to be written off. It was a ramp. And you’re going to need everything he gave you.
Good arrogance control, honestly. It arrived just in time, just as the satisfaction of finishing Georgia was settling in. On April Fool’s Day, no less.
But the cardio that had been quietly building all week appeared here. No defining moment, no sudden revelation. Just the ability to slowly and steadily move upward, something that a week ago might have been a different story.
Before the climbing began, there was the tree at Bly Gap. I have included a photo and encourage you to look at it before reading further. The trunk remains practically prostrate, dragging along the ground before deciding, at some point in its long life, to get up. Ancient, gnarled, it seems to have been marking that gap since before the trail existed. Like he’s seen it all and isn’t particularly impressed. I stood there, rooted to the spot for a moment, until I decided to turn into a tree and get the hell out.
The famous Bly Gap tree.
North Carolina kicked me in the teeth, then in the balls, then peed on me, the first rain we’d seen on the AT since we started. I walked on, feeling vindicated and decidedly dry under the umbrella I had packed for such an occasion. Other hikers were sweating in their rain gear while I was still in my nearly dry sun hoodie, and by the time the sun came out again I had already built a shade without having to put on a hood.
3,400 feet of climbing. Ending 1,500 feet higher than where the day started.
I ran the last stretch to Standing Indian Shelter in the light rain, arrived and dropped off my backpack. Ten or fifteen minutes later, the sky opened for the first time in real time. Close lightning. Hours of thunder rolling over the ridges. Then calm and a quiet night.
I slept in the shelter that night, the first time I traveled. Saved the setup of the tent, the disassembly and the humidity. Georgia was in the rearview mirror. North Carolina had shown up and done so emphatically.
