Today’s prompt from WordPress: Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.
Dear Sparks,
I hope the small things still make you smile. I hope you still find moss fascinating. I hope you still wake up for sunrises and pause for sunset. I hope you still look up at night, trace the outline of the stars, and whisper, “Thank you, Lord, for the beautiful blessing of today.”
Despite my flaws and mistakes, misspoken words and clumsy steps, charging actions and reckless ideas, I hope the girl I am today is a girl you can look back on with pride. I hope that there, in the future, you can say, “I did it all.”
I hope you remember you’re the type of girl who’d climb mountains in the rain, fingers numb as ice falls out of the trees around her. I hope you remember you’re the type of girl who screams in delight at the top of mountains.
I hope your soul doesn’t leave this earth before your body does. I hope you don’t forget who you are.
Love,
Young Sparks
This prompt, looking forward to your future self, was perfect for today. The last two days of hiking have been incredible, both full of moments I’ve gathered into my heart and thought, I hope I remember this in the future. I hope I stay the type of girl to do something like this. I hope I do this again and again.
The hike over Standing Indian Mountain
Bly Gap didn’t get any warmer that morning. The wind still hurled over the ridge, but our tent stayed in tact and my bear hang was still there when I crawled out into the wind to get it. Shane left early: His body still isn’t acclimated to US time yet, and so he was up and out hiking by 6:30. We were both headed to the same shelter on the other side of Standing Indian Mountain though.
North Carolina is much different than Georgia. I wasn’t expecting the change to be instantaneous as we crossed over the border, but strangely, it was. The signage, for instance, is much different. We were at nearly 20 miles before we saw any signs with milage. NC also doesn’t maintain bear boxes. Whether we’re at a shelter or not, we’re going to be doing hangs every night.
Georgia is known for its PUDs, as Turtle Trax said, it’s “pointless ups and downs.” North Carolina has been, in it’s first 30 miles, much smoother, more gentle ups ands downs, more ridgelines, more gently increasing switchbacks. NC has also been more green, with more trees down, obstacles to go over, sporadic creek crossings.
Georgia, with it’s PUDs, was like, you’re thru-hiking? Let’s train those muscles for what’s coming next. North Carolina has been like, you’re still here? Let’s add some spice, see if you want to stay. Also, let me try to blow you off the side of this mountain.
Our first day in NC would be a bit of a challenge. We were going 15 miles for the first time over our tallest mountain so far: Standing Indian. We got a little bit of a late start, but the gentle hiking made it much easier for us to make up time. It was a cold day too: the first day I’d gone all day without taking off my long-sleeve wool shirt. It was starting to feel a bit more like the winter I’d mentally prepared for.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: If you want to hear me scream happily or dance around like a child, take me to the top of a mountain. The taller the better.
The switchbacks up Standing Indian were so gentle compared to what we’d experienced just the day before in Georgia that we were surprised when we reached the top. Surprised by a glorious view that stretched out for miles across the North Carolina mountains.
When you’re on the longest day so far, the last thing you’re supposed to do is run up and down blue-blazed (aka, unnecessary) trails, shouting and pointing and jumping on rocks. But that’s exactly what I did. Church Mouse can confirm. Church Mouse can also confirm: it was well worth it.
We stayed up there, enjoying the view perhaps longer than we should have. But, even knowing that we’d be getting into camp late, that the shelter was most definitely full and the good tenting spots were gone–even if I could foresee the future and know that we’d be pulling up a soggy tent from a puddle in freezing rain, I still wouldn’t have traded a moment on this mountain for comfort back at camp. This. This is why I’m here.
We were able to make it to camp in time to snag a campsite, albeit not a great one. There was rain forecasted and I knew the spot would have a puddle there in the morning. Still, we tried our best to set up our tent in a way that would keep us dry that night.
A couple of section hikers had gotten there early and set up a nice fire. After we got set up, our bear hang thrown (a beautiful limb that I snagged perfectly on my second throw; I’m still proud of that), they invited us over.
Not only did they let us enjoy their fire, but they also hyped us up and encouraged us the entire time. My battery bank had died (my fault, I’d thought I’d charged it enough to make it to Franklin and I did not; from now on, battery bank gets full charge every time) and they let me recharge my phone. We had the Sawyer syringe they needed to backwash their filter. They told us to use their trash bag instead of ours since they’d be leaving the next morning and could carry it out sooner.
“Anyone who makes it through Georgia,” one of them, who’d recently completed a section hike of Georgia, said, “especially in the time you both did, can make it the rest of the trail. You two are going to do great.”
Those were exactly the words I’d needed to hear, a beautiful healing balm after a long day of hiking.
The climb up Albert Mountain
As I predicted, we woke up to the sound of rain splattering against the tent and a small puddle forming down by our feet. What I had not predicted: our rain fly loosening in the night and water splashing in and dampening the bottom quarter of our sleeping bags.
Not necessarily a good situation for a couple of reasons: Shelters would probably be full again because of the cold rain, so it would be hard to get a spot where we could dry things out and not get everything wet again. It was supposed to be raining well into the afternoon and evening, so even if we set up the tent early, it wouldn’t have a chance to dry. It was supposed to be a cold night, near freezing, and our sleeping bags were wet.
Normally, we would take Sundays as a day of rest, and just spend a quiet day wherever we were. However, it was twelve miles to town, there was an open hotel room, and we decided it would be a better call to hike in and take our rest day on Monday.
Those twelve miles included Albert Mountain and the Albert Mountain fire tower.
Yesterday, the section hikers had given us a bit of a heads up on the coming landscape. “It’ll be pretty easy hiking, except for one section by the fire tower that’s pretty steep. Aside from that, it’ll be fine.”
“That sounds great,” said we, thinking the steep section would be some tight switchbacks or something like that.
My friends, it was not.
Let me paint the scene for you. The rain has just lightened up. There’s still slight sprinkles, but most of the liquid falling is condensation getting blown off the trees by the wind. It’s hovering around 36-38 by now, so above freezing, but your hands are still cold and slightly numb from being wet. You’re six miles in to a twelve mile hike. You’ve been hiking for two weeks. Breakfast was a cold, hard protein bar eaten in a dark, damp tent. You’re so tired. You’re carrying a 35-pound pack on your hips. There’s a hotel room just on the other side of this mountain… All you gotta do is get there.
You round a switchback, what you think is the “steep” section referenced yesterday. Then you run into stairs. Not even, proportioned stairs, but dirt stairs formed by laying logs across a trail and letting the dirt build up behind it. You sigh. You’re tired and these are hard. Oh well.
There are three flights of these steps. Then a ladder. Then, a boulder. At that point, you realize the sounds of water hitting the earth are louder than they were before. That’s because it’s no longer water droplets falling from the trees. It’s ice.
There’s water running down the boulder, a mixture of rain and melting ice. You haven’t really a choice but to throw your trekking poles to the top of the boulder, grab your handholds under the cold water, and clamber your way up, digging your toes into whatever grip you can find. Small pieces of ice keep falling around you. There’s a quarter mile left to the top, and it’s all boulders.
Finally, the fire tower. You aren’t sure what to do: laugh, cry, dance, eat. All feel like viable options. Instead, you climb the fire tower steps and stare out into the white abyss of the fog and clouds as two thoughts cycle through your head: I am so cold and hungry and that was the most badass thing I’ve ever done, let’s do more.
And then they reached 100
Shortly after the fire tower, we reached 100 miles.
I stopped short. I knew we were close, but it hadn’t quite sunk in until I saw the 100 laid out on the ground. Church Mouse and I looked at each other, and I reached out for a fist bump. There weren’t really words to say. What is there to say that can describe that feeling?
My feet, my very own two feet, my legs, my calves, my muscles… I’ve walked 100 miles of mountain, further and higher than I’ve ever walked before, experiencing so many things I’ve never experienced before. Only 2,098 miles are left.
But first, Franklin and a warm hotel. And a burger.
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