One of the grand adventures of hiking is that there are always new faces. Every time you come to a shelter or campsite, there is at least one new person, usually more.
Of course, there are people you hike the same sleep as, people you see in shelters again and again, like Happy, Drive Thru and Frosty, Blues Clues and Stealth.
But even still, there are still times when you roll into camp, and you don’t know a soul.
It’s a ton of fun, getting to know people from different places, countries, stages of life, learning how people came to be here on the trail, getting to know people I otherwise would’ve never met.
But that also makes seeing a familiar face that much more special.
A friendship of adventurers
I met Emily at Malone. Her major was my minor (Communications: Public Relations), and through the time we spent wading through press releases, preparing for mock crisis press conferences, and other homework, we realized we actually had a lot in common. We were both go-getters, overachievers, and we both love pushing ourself to our limits.
Last time we had a chance to meet in person, she was racing in Vermont at the same time I was backpacking there. We were able to meet after our adventures (hobbling though we were) and spend a day together before we went home.
This time, Emily and her boyfriend James came to pick us up off the trail and take us into town!
We got to go to a little cafe that was inside a bus (yes! A bus!) and that had some AMAZING food. We also had planned to visit a museum in the area, but we pulled off to see a covered bridge and ended up spending the majority of the afternoon in the water. (Pro tip: a good, long soak in cold water while chatting with amazing friends does wonders for the joints and the soul.) After dinner and a quick restock to get us into Hot Springs, they brought us back to the trail.
It was strange driving past some of the Smokies. What had taken us days to walk through was now a 30-minute drive around the base. Cars have their places, but the beauty and adventure we had, the challenges we pushed through… It was well worth the slow inconvenience of walking.
I’d encourage everyone to get out of their cars and wander a little bit. It’s springtime and the land is opening up to those who will stop and take notice.
Welcome to Hot Springs, North Carolina
One year, Dad had to go down to Atlanta, where his company was based, for a business trip. Why not, he reasoned, add a couple vacation days and do a little sightseeing on the way there and back?
I came along. We stopped by the Smokies on the way there, including Clingsman Dome, and stepped foot on the AT. I remember watching the path continue across the mountainside. I remember standing there and wondering, do I have what it takes to see where this goes? It was summer then, and hot. I don’t remember seeing any backpackers. I thought I was alone, just me and the vast expanse of the trail.
On the way home from Atlanta, we stopped in Hot Springs, North Carolina, for a two-night, three-day backpacking trip. My memory is splotchy, as it is for most memories, just random images spliced together to make a story.
There is the white gravel parking lot from where we started, tucked away behind one of the storefronts in town. The AT passed directly through town, making it easy access for us.
There is the climb, an endless series of switchbacks stretching up the side of the mountain. Is there anyone who has the endurance to walk this? I thought. Even when I tried, pressing my aching muscles as far as I could, still the mountain rose up unending before me.
I forgot the rain fly, as I often did on backpacking trips. One would think I’d learn to check for it. I did eventually, but that is still several years later. It was supposed to rain the second night.
There is a woman and her son. My dad has hurt his knee, badly enough he’s using his trekking poles almost as crutches to hobble out before the rain. She is offering us a ride back to town, but it’s a long hike to her car. We opt to hike back to our car instead.
I don’t remember her name or what she looked like, her son is only a shadow in my memory. But I remember the tree we stood by as we talked to them. It was in a gap, an oak tree, broad and sturdy. The other trees formed a circle around it, almost in reverence to its majestic frame. I wonder who it has seen, I wondered. I wonder what it knows.
I didn’t know, years later, I’d be hiking that same path again, watching for its broad, oaky branches, hoping to find a familiar face.
From Church Mouse and my little campsite by the creek, it was 32 miles to Hot Springs. We decided to hike it in two days. Our first day was another 18 mile day to Walnut Mountain Shelter, and our second day was 14 miles down into town.
Our first 18-mile day out of the Smokies had left me feeling invincible, hiking on a high of accomplishment and achievement. Finally we were able to hike big miles. Finally we were done with the Smokies, a major, glorious milestone. I was sore and “hiker hobbling” around the hostel, but I was euphoric. Look at what my body can do. Look at what I am capable of.
Our second 18 brought me crashing back to reality. I am not invincible. 18 miles is not easy. Why are shelters so frequently after a climb and not before it?
Unlike our hike out of the Smokies, which was mostly just down, our hike to Hot Springs was a decent bit up and down. Also, we had restocked, and our packs were heavier.
There were glorious moments for sure. We crossed Max Patch, a huge bald covered in grass. I stopped there for a break and sprawled out in the grass, soaking up the warm sun and delighting in the wondrous touch of grass. (We haven’t had much grass in the woods. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss it.)
But mostly, the day was just long, and ended with a steep climb up to our shelter. When we got there, there were hornets in the shelter, and so we hiked further up the hill until we had a good spot. From our campsite, it was a quarter mile to water. Downhill.
I sprawled out in camp, stretched out on my mat resting my legs before I made the water trek. There was a group of seven who’d hiked two miles further than us. They were sitting around a fire, laughing and making dinner. I was debating whether water was really necessary or not.
You chose to do this, I reminded myself, I who had abandoned friends and family to do this for five months, I who currently am not receiving a paycheck for the first time in my workaholic lifetime, I, tired and sore. You did this to yourself, I reminded myself, wearily picking myself up and grabbing my filter. Without water, there’d be no supper and I was starving.
The second day’s hike into Hot Springs was much easier. Our muscles had recovered from a warm sleeping bag and a rewarding cup of hot chocolate. In town, I could get new shorts. The ones I had were getting too loose and the waistline was chafing bad under my backpack’s hip belt. There would be a diner full of good town food, and, we realized, it would make four weeks of hiking. A celebratory ice cream was in order.
As we hiked closer and closer to Hot Springs, I watched for the oak tree.
I never did find it, at least not the one in my memory. Perhaps it only exists there. Perhaps we stopped by some random tree that planted itself inside my mind, fixating itself firmly into my memories. There it grew, stronger and firmer than it ever could on the sandy, rocky soil above Hot Springs.
But that’s often the way memories are, aren’t they? Never pristine, truth and imagination blurring together a little bit more each time you retell the story, a clouded face you search for, deja vu as you hike down a trail both familiar and strange.
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