Days 14 and 15: Put one foot in front of the other

Most of me wanted to stay in bed and cry for the rest of my life.

But there was a small part of me that kept saying the same thing over and over:

You can’t sit here forever.

It’s not like he was suddenly fine.

I wasn’t.

But I knew that if I stayed in the hostel all day with my thoughts, I would probably spiral even harder. At least along the way I had something to focus on besides my pain.

So I decided to keep walking.

Bluebs dropped me off at Winding Stair Gap, right where I had left him the day before.

Standing there, I seriously wondered if I was making the right decision.

Part of me wanted to turn around.

Part of me wanted to call home.

Part of me wanted to crawl back into a bunk and hide.

But another part of me knew that what I had to do was move on.

Not because it would magically make me feel better.

But because moving forward was the only direction I could think of going.

Narwhale and Dread Pirate had decided to stay in the Grove for another day, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about keeping up with anyone.

For once, the only expectation was to take care of myself.

To be completely honest, most of this day I was sad.

I cried.

A lot.

Not a dramatic movie-style cry.

Just random tears that appeared when I didn’t expect them.

In a moment I would be walking.

The next day I would be thinking about my dad.

Then suddenly he was crying as he walked up the hill.

The kilometers seemed longer than usual.

Each climb felt steeper.

Each step felt heavier.

Nothing was particularly difficult physically.

My heart just wasn’t in it.

And that’s the truth.

This blog is not intended to be a highlight reel.

Your goal is to document what this experience is really like.

Sometimes that means incredible sunsets and magical trails.

Sometimes it means crying while walking through North Carolina.

Something unexpected happened.

Passing through Siler Bald, someone recognized me from my Trek blog.

He asked, «Do you write for The Trek?»

And I just stared at him for a second before saying, “Uh…yeah.”

Apparently people are reading these things.

Which is both exciting and slightly terrifying.

Until now, I’ve mainly imagined my audience as my family and friends.

Realizing that random hikers are reading about my misadventures here seemed very strange to me.

So if you’re reading this right now, hello.

I’m sorry you had to read so much about my feet.

I finally reached Wayah Bald.

The stone observation tower sits at the top of the mountain and offers one of the most beautiful views I have seen so far.

I spent some time there taking it all in.

The mountains stretched forever.

The sky was clear.

For a few minutes, things felt a little lighter.

Not fixed.

Just lighter.

Sometimes that’s enough.

Later that night I headed towards the shelter area where I ran into two people I had met in the Grove the day before: McGee and Baby G.

Now, if the name Baby G doesn’t immediately make you smile, let me explain.

Baby G is an eighteen-month-old girl walking with her mother.

And honestly?

I think she’s tougher than most adults.

McGee deserves an incredible amount of credit.

Keeping myself clean, fed, and moving every day seems hard enough.

Doing all that while holding and caring for a tiny human being sounds superhuman.

Spending the night with them helped lift my spirits more than they probably realized.

Sometimes being surrounded by good people is enough.

I slept surprisingly well that night.

I needed it.

I’m combining these two days because, honestly, grief doesn’t follow a schedule.

The next morning I woke up at the Wayah Shelter feeling fairly rested and got moving a little after 10am.

But almost immediately I realized that my body was not completely there.

The previous days had caught up with me.

Physically.

Emotionally.

Probably both.

The miles seemed even longer than the day before.

I only made it about five miles before reaching Cold Spring Shelter and completely crashing.

My original plan was to sit down and take a short break.

Maybe twenty minutes.

Maybe have a snack.

Maybe stretch.

Instead, I accidentally took a full nap in a shelter.

Honestly?

Ten out of ten.

I would recommend it.

When I woke up, I knew the truth.

I wasn’t walking on a great day.

I wasn’t trying harder.

I wasn’t going to force it.

My body was exhausted and my mind was not far behind.

So I found a nearby spot for a tent, set up camp, and called it a day.

The sun wasn’t even close to setting.

Most of the hikers were probably still logging miles.

Meanwhile, I was already tucked into my quilt getting ready to go to bed.

And for the first time I didn’t feel guilty about it.

Some trail days are about progress.

Some days are about survival.

These two days were about giving myself permission to do both things at the same time.