Post Hike. 11 June 2018
/I wasn’t ready to leave Holden Beach when Thursday morning arrived. I wanted to spend another day on the hot sand and swim in the vast warm waters of the Atlantic Ocean, feeling the constant coastal winds billowing around me. But you can’t do that forever and the time will inevitably arrive when you have to accept the thrilling experience must end. Time to move on. That time for us was Thursday morning. After some coffee and breakfast, I silently packed my bags and helped Julie and my father load up the car. We would meet Ed - who had left the previous day to visit his son in Charlotte - on I77 in Virginia to begin our Appalachian Trail training hike for the Colorado Trail. We all had new gear that we needed to test while hiking and setting up camp. And I needed to get on the trail to prove to myself that I could still hike after the PCT. As we drove over the bridge connecting Holden Beach to the North Carolina mainland, I looked back over the rows of beach houses that lined the sandy dunes and then took my gaze further to the white crests of the ocean’s waves. My mind drifted to thoughts of living in a small coastal beach town with endless hot summers and long thoughtful early evening walks along wet sandy shores. Right now anything was amazingly possible. And as we made our way out of Charlotte NC, traveling along the southern highways heading north, I took comfort in the freedom of possibility.
After hours of traversing North Carolina highways, we finally arrived in Virginia, meeting Ed near Bland VA. We said our goodbyes to my father who was eager to get back on the highway for the long drive back to Ohio. Ed, Julie, and I soon found ourselves navigating down a very narrow gravel road to a remote parking site near a trailhead on the Appalachian Trail in the enchanting Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. We were ready to hike. But as I put on my pack and lengthened my trekking poles, I quietly thought about my most recent experience on the PCT. But then I reminded myself that I wasn’t on the PCT. And those moments would not carry forward into my future hikes. With determination and a sense of renewed excitement, I led the way across the dusty road to the trail and with a deep breath, entered the thick forest of vibrant green and started the hike.
Because we were arriving so late in the day, we planned on hiking about 4.3 miles to the Jenkins Shelter, spend the night and then hike out the next morning to resume the drive back to Ohio. Originally we were going to hike for 3 days and 2 nights following a loop made up of the AT and a few side trails. But due to our extended stay at Holden Beach, we had to limit this hike to one night. We started hiking around 4pm. And while the temperature in direct sunlight hovered in the low 80’s, as soon as we were under the cover of trees, the air felt remarkably cooler. Our first mile would take us from 2446 feet to 3021 feet along switchbacks and sections of homemade rock stairs provided by volunteer trail crews. The climb was gradual with only moments of steep grade. Looking through the trees and branches that surrounded me, I could see both the continued rise of the mountain looming ahead and the drop to the valley below from where we came. Small gnats buzzed around my face but never lingered or seemed to land on my skin. My continued progress forward and ever upward provided the momentum to brush past their sudden swarms hovering effortlessly in the small pools of light that somehow spilled through the tall dense trees. And while the air was still and thick, an occasional breeze wafted along the trail allowing the branches to lightly sway and the leaves to shimmer while also gently cooling my sticky moist skin.
And then I was at the summit. I waited for Julie and Ed who were not far behind me. For the next 2 miles we would hike along the ridge line with only a few small descents and climbs. The trail was very well graded with few rocks or tree roots poking out from the dirt in thick knotting clumps. The trail in Virginia was vastly different from the trail I was used to in New York State We made very good progress. I pulled ahead and found myself alone again. My pace was very comfortable and almost effortless. The green tunnel of the AT surrounded me in variations of light - sometimes dark with no lingering sunlight and other times dotted with bright bursting rays. Somewhere along the 2 mile ridge walk, I suddenly realized that I was thoroughly enjoying the experience of hiking along a narrow trail through Appalachian landscapes I had never seen. The warm temperature and clinging sweat, the rapid breathing from exertion, the clouds of buzzing insects, the challenges of climbing and then descending all blended together into streaming moments of profound brilliant happiness.
The last mile of the hike was a lengthy descent from the mountain’s ridge to the deep ravines nestled between the peaks. The trail curved through small groves of trees whose branches interlaced overhead creating an intricate ceiling of small green leaves clinging to thin reaches of grey bark. Large dark green ferns lined portions of the trail. We waded through them letting their delicate leaves brush against our legs. We heard the rush of water over rocks and then following another bend in the trail came upon a wide stream with a wonderful strong flow. After another short climb we arrived at the blue side trail which led to Jenkins Shelter, our camp site for the night. We had made it. A short hike but a rewarding hike. And the hike I needed to remind myself that I truly loved being on the trail.
As we were hiking south to get to the shelter, we had passed a number of AT thru hikers heading north. They all possessed strong resilience and determination along with some amount of wear and tear. They would have hiked around 500 miles to arrive at the moment where they passed us along our simple 4 mile hike. I looked at each of them as we passed, smiled, said hello and nodded with what I hoped was ample great respect. And sure enough, at the Jenkins Shelter, we arrived to find numerous thru hikers who had already established locations for their ultra light tents and gear. In fact the place was packed! Ed, Julie and I walked through hoping to find a few left over sites designated for tenting. We decided on the remaining leftovers, dropped our packs and began setting up our tents. Then we joined the hikers at the picnic table near the small wooden shelter to prepare our dinners. I found myself enchanted by their stories and willingness to accept us into their camp for the night. Even though we had only hiked 4 miles compared to their 500, at this moment, we were all hikers sharing the bond of being on the trail. Melonhead, Spaceship, Pink and String Bean were some of the incredible hikers we met. They shared their stories with wild carefree abandon and offered us advice on various cooking techniques - hot ramen soaking in a plastic zip lock! As the sun was setting, two new hikers showed up with their German shepherd, Camaflouge! One of them had just had her food bag stolen on the trail. I knew she had to have been incredibly hungry after hiking all day so we offered her all of our extra food. She was giddy with gratitude practically lunging at the peanut M&Ms! I thought about the old hiker mantra - “the trail provides”. And for now, we were at the right moment at the right time to ensure that a hiker would experience that breathtaking wash of relief when suddenly everything becomes alright.
As darkness deepened with the last rays of light from the setting sun, we brushed our teeth, said our goodnights and made our way to our tents. The air was still humid and warm so I lay on top of my sleeping bag with only the bag liner draped across my body. I listened to the hikers laughing off in the distance as I waited for sleep to come. The night air was so still and calm - not even a breath of wind. Sudden bright rays of light from headlamps occasionally swept across my tent. But as everyone settled in, the sounds of hikers dissipated and I was left listening to the occasional hoot of a night owl mixed with the sharp crackling of tiny sticks breaking as small animals traversed in the underbrush surrounding my tent.
Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke. The air was now cold. I shivered as I pulled myself into my sleeping bag and let the soft down begin to loft and slowly warm around me. Far off I heard the mournful cry of coyotes. Near me, the twig breakers were still scouring for food and digging in the soft earth. And then suddenly far down the hill toward the place where the side trail to the shelter met the Appalachian Trail, I heard a distinct voluminous cracking followed by a large cavernous bang that echoed through the still night. A dead tree had broken somewhere along its fragile worn trunk and fallen, slamming into the forest ground amidst the deep woods. The solemn silence that followed held equal weight. The coyote cries and night sounds were gone. A reactive hush descended through the ravine. It was as if the forrest held a collective breath honoring the fallen of one of their own. And I found that I too was holding my breath sharing the reverence of hearing the final moment of a majestic existence. Time waited. And then a coyote’s cry pierced the night and the world spilled onward and continued. I quietly let out my breath. I closed my eyes and slowly fell back to sleep.
