Day Two, 15 miles
The moonlight makes fanciful shadows on my tent until sunrise, like a headlight through the branches, setting the tiny leaves sparkling. Oven birds call from tree to tree like a dog rattling its tags.
They’re sparkling because they’re wet. Everything is wet – the tent, the top of my sleeping bag. I pack carefully as I make coffee. It’s a little cold too, so I keep my rain pants on to start.
I walk down now on slate-like stones as if steps. A black and white warbler sings a shaky tune as I look out on a vast expanse of mountains, bright mostly brown still with a few spring green explosions. The sun lights them but hasn’t hit me yet and I have a feeling it will be hot today under a cloudless sky.
A carolina wren fills the air with shots of sound. Hey! I just visited with your cousins, cactus and canyon wren!
I really stink already, sweat drying on newly sweating skin. I drop down towards a stream and enter thick rhododendron. Will they bloom later?
The water tumbles crystal clear over brown rocks. More warblers join in the symphony – an ascending buzz of the black throated blue and a punchy pachow! of a hooded. Even the carolina chickadee wants my ears with his slightly cockeyed Phee-beeee so similar to ours.
Just as I enter an area of thick leaves where it begins to feel primeval, a man catches me up. I tell him the gossamer song with the wee cymbal crash is a wood thrush. I quote Thoreau, “when one hears a wood thrush, she is in her spring.”
Mark, it turns out, is British and has no clue who Thoreau was. Still he’s grateful to learn about this remarkable bird before scooting ahead. I tell him I’m ‘toddling’ along and he assures me that’s a good tactic on the AT.
It’s never terribly difficult and I have yet to meet a rock wall like the nearly impossible to descend ones I had to figure out how to descend in Maine and New Hampshire.
Still, it’s up and down all day like a rollercoaster. I can see why people might call them PUDs (pointless up and downs) when the leaves obscure views, but I get glimpses past white blossoms to high mountains, all tree covered and only barely greening.
The sun is getting hot and the ground is totally dry. I arrive at a beautiful water source, and the last for another six miles, so I take a break to drink up and dry my gear. There are three trees close enough to suspend it in a very light breeze.
I filter water and eat and am surprised how fast it dries. I take out my bag too and it crisps up in this warm sun. Mark arrives having stopped somewhere behind, so I give him my hang spot.
The trail undulates through a much drier area though flowers line my walk, trillium, delicate on stiff stalks and hundreds of lavender iris. Two broad winged hawks whistle to each other high in the canopy and a tufted titmouse chirrups.
On top along a ridge, I meet a man with a dog who tells me he’s too tired to go much further. As I descend, I meet hikers carefully working their way down to a forest road, where a man greets us with chairs set up.
Do you believe in trail angels?
Why, yes!
I take a chair and Max Forrester offers water and snacks. I ask how far he’s come and he says 50 miles, “but it’s better than watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island!”
Max is a burly man with a southern drawl and a ten-gallon hat. Joining us is ‘Dragonfly’ a woman who’s hiked the AT three times and now haunts the shelters and helps out stragglers.
Max picked this spot because our first big hill – Sassafras Mountain – awaits without water for a few miles beyond. Just starting out, most people are unprepared, so he also offers a ‘slackpack,’ to walk over without carrying a backpack.
I pop right up without too much trouble beyond heavy breathing. The trail is just that and winds around with lovely views to the mountains beyond. Bright orange columbine crowds the pathway, the flowers looking as if a Christmas ornament hanging on a tree.
Once down, Max has already arrived with the packs for the slackers plus more water. I am more thirsty than I’d expected. He offers lollipops and gum and one hiker plays “Brandy” on his guitar.
The final miles bring me to a few rushing streams, the final one where I soak my feet in its iciness. It’s a big crowd at the shelter. I long to camp next to the stream, but the trail crews have placed rope fences to allow all the areas beaten down by us hikers to regenerate.
I’m impressed with their work keeping us controlled so the place doesn’t get overused and trashed. Still, I find carelessly discarded garbage like wrappers and a bottle of RNC 2020 hand sanitizer.
The camp spots are on terraces and I pick one as far down as I can go. The shelter is crowded and loud, erupting in laughter and punctuated by a couple of guys with frat house voices, yelling to a person sitting right next to them.
They party in duet with another wood thrush as the sky turns a deep magenta-orange. What did I expect? The AT is famously a loud and crowded trail. Still, most of today was absolutely lovely and soulfully walked alone.
And, to be fair, the birds are singing at the top of their voices too.
