The Warmup - Georgia, Fall, The AT

I fell asleep to loud whisps of wind and the thumping of rain on the tent. My fear that the ground would be awash and muddy the next morning on the final descent to the car thankfully proved incorrect, at first. I was given enough time to take down and pack up my tent. And then with the backpack on my back and the first steps beyond the campsite, a trickle of rain began with all signs of a hard rain.

I strapped on my poncho, a little annoyed I couldn't get it over my sack without the wind whipping it away. Then with my walking stick still accompanying me, my shabby beard and hair, and the promise of a warm shower and hot breakfast on the horizon, I descended the steep, dark hills with glee, with almost a skip of euphoria. I couldn't escape the thought that I resembled a 14th century Franciscan friar and maybe feeling emotions he would have felt on such a day and in such an environment. That is why I find the woods so intriguing. It erases human time and you reset back to where there is just daylight and night, warmth and cold. How things change fast in the city, in the woods they tend to remain the same.

Then rounding another corner that appeared like the hundreds I passed before, there was a clearing and then the car. I happily removed the pack from my back, feeling lighter than ever before. Then came off the wet poncho and soon the sensation of the great contrast between that wetness and the hot shower. Finally it was back into the car and towards the large Georgian breakfast at a Waffle House on the horizon. With that came the ending of this minor trip in the Georgia Hills. Now the experience is a memory, one that I've written down here and motivating me for another around the bend.

I awoke to the urge of not having to do anything. There was no bus to catch, no time to be in at work, no schedule to keep or plans to be kept. So I, like before, slowly took down the tent, scuttled closer to the waterfall, set out granola and dried fruit and steamed up some water for tea. After, like before, doing a little reading and stretching, I was ready for the final full day on the trail and the longest day in terms of mileage, covering 12 miles.

And so I began my hike back to where I began. Ahead of me lay the ascent up Springer Mountain and most of the ups and downs of the approach trail.

During the day's hike, one of cloudiness and an impending sense of rain and wetness, I met and got to know John, or as he referred to himself on the hiking trail "Yellowstone Jack". A man in his sixties, he had been out on the trail for 10 days. Our encounters would be brief, maybe for a couple minutes walking together, then I with a faster step would trek up ahead, stop for a bite to eat or drink water, and then he would catch up and we would continue our talk. This lasted for a couple of hours. We met up for the last time atop Springer Mountain with several other people in on day hikes. We seemed to be the only ones up there truly out in the woods for multiple days, dirty, smelly, tired, and smiles on our faces that come with the simplicity of just walking. I could sense John's good nature and keen perspective. That at such an age he could do such a trip, dealing with the heat, the exhaustion, the depravities of easy living, was remarkable and inspiring. I was glad to meet him.

I hiked well and quickly the rest of the way and made it to my intended spot by 5. Pure exhaustion and relief that I had not been rained on. I thought for a second to get to the car and sleep in it for the night, but my legs wouldn't allow the extra 2 miles and once I sat down on a damp log it was over. So I unfurled the tent and sleeping bag, ate the final morsels of the same food I had been eating throughout the last several days and wished the trees a heartfelt good night.

SPENT