The rhythmic crunch of dry autumn leaves has a meditative quality. If you quiet your mind, you can lose yourself in the cadence of each step. For weeks, I immersed myself in this repetitive sound, but now, the season has changed.
The ridgeline dividing Tennessee and North Carolina was now covered in a blanket of snow. Daytime temperatures hovered just above freezing, turning my path into a slush-marsh that froze into a treacherous crust by nightfall.
It was difficult to find tranquility, knowing a misstep could send me sliding off the ridge to a final resting place in either Tennessee or North Carolina. If I die on this trail, let it be at the southern terminus on Springer Mountain, I thought.
I could deal with the prospect of dying, but the thought of dying just 224 miles short of the 2,181-mile journey was unbearable. Never before had I felt such resolute determination to see something through. Given my history of leaving things unfinished, this was perhaps the first time I truly felt committed to anything.
Suddenly, the ground beneath me gave way, plunging my feet into an ankle-deep creek hidden beneath a delicate layer of ice-laden snow. The biting cold stung my feet on contact, but the good news, if you can call it that, was that they soon went numb.
To my relief, my headlamp revealed a sign: only 1.5 miles to the next shelter. Yet, as I approached, another sign emerged, saying it was, “Closed due to aggressive bear activity.” Faced with eight more miles to the next shelter and eager to free my feet from wet boots, I pretended I didn’t see it.
I wasn’t alone; a hiker named Footwork was sitting up in his sleeping bag, a steaming pot of food in his hands. “Yeah, I didn’t see that sign in the dark either,” he said, crafting our alibi for any inquiring park rangers.
I settled on the shelter floor on the opposite side, attempting to untie my boots, only to discover the laces frozen solid. Pressing my bare hands against them, I worked to thaw the icy knots. Now that I was sitting still, a prickling wave of pins and needles surged through my feet.
Fortunately, the night passed without bear encounters, but it was the coldest yet, with temperatures plunging into the teens. I doubted my sleeping bag wouldn’t cut it in the Smokies, but even though my water bottle froze by morning, the bag surprisingly had enough warmth to get a few hours of sleep. But then came a new challenge: the ordeal of leaving its cozy embrace on such a bitterly cold morning.
Eventually, the comfort of warmth yielded to the pressing urgency of a full bladder. I unzipped my sleeping bag, unleashing the residual warmth of sleep. My boots were also frozen and as unyielding as rocks. Next to them my socks lay there like stiff dead rats. I grabbed a fresh pair from my pack and forced my feet into boots that felt like cold glass slippers.
While I enjoyed Footwork’s company, I suspected we stayed together in those final two weeks simply to avoid reaching Springer Mountain alone, since we suspected we were the last pair standing. Of the few hundred who embarked on a southbound thru-hike that year, many had thrown in the towel, hitched ahead, or already finished their trek. Yet, I dreaded the prospect of returning to a normal life on the inside. I deliberately delayed the inevitable as long as I could while still avoiding winter and finishing in time to spend Christmas with family.
We reached the next shelter in Smoky Mountain National Park at sunset. Like the others I’d called home for over five months, it had three walls, a raised floor, and a roof, but this one was less common – it had a fireplace, a welcome feature in the face of another bitterly cold night.
After a long day, Footwork seemed exhausted, but I still had some energy, so made him an offer I knew he wouldn’t refuse.
“Hey, if I collect the firewood, would you mind getting a fire going?” I said.
“If you’re cool with that, sure.”
Despite the area’s light snow, I found enough dry wood to fill the shelter with the warm, flickering glow of firelight for the night. We set our damp shoes and socks near the flames to dry, cooking and eating our dinner, then settled into the comforting ritual of gazing into the flames.
“What are your plans after Springer?” I asked.
“Umm, probably find a place to chill for a while and write,” he said. “Maybe look for a job. How about you?”
“I haven’t decided,” I said. “Well, I’m going home for Christmas. After that, I might come back and head down to the Florida Keys. It’ll involve some road-walking, but I could follow the Benton MacKaye Trail, then connect to the Pinhoti Trail, and finally hike the Florida Trail to the keys.”
Suddenly, the tips of my socks ignited. “Oh shit,” I said, patting them out. “Damn, these were new.”
The toes were gone. “The toes were charred away. “Well, now they’re just ankle warmers, I guess.”
“So after all this, aren’t you ready to be done with hiking?”
“Quit? After waking up to this every day? The thought of returning to a cubicle, to that routine… I don’t know how I could ever go back to that.”
“I get it,” he said. “But it doesn't have to be that way, right? Couldn’t you find a better job?”
“That was the plan when I started this. I thought there would be plenty of time alone to figure it out, but I’m even more clueless now. I’ve gotten so used to white blazes telling me where to go next.”
We sat in silence for a bit, lost in the fire’s glow and our own thoughts.
“I might stop in Kentucky on my way back to Springer, to see Bambi and Thumper,” I said. Although I suspected Footwork was growing tired of hearing about Thumper, I couldn’t resist sharing her latest text anyway. “She wrote, ‘Sitting on my sister’s stoop, I see a church steeple in the distance, hear the distant highway hum. For the first time since returning, I’m finding beauty in the city, a different kind of beauty that’s there if you look for it. I crushed a cigarette under my boot, thinking of you, planning my next adventure. For now, though, I think I’ll be okay. Stay warm out there. You’re in my thoughts every day.’”
The silence returned, each of us lost in the flickering of the flames. He broke the quiet, asking, “Can I read you a poem?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said.
He fetched his journal, and walked back, thumbing through its pages. “This is by Robert W. Service. I’m curious to hear your thoughts, to see if you find it relatable.”
“There's a race of men that don't fit in. A race that can't stay still. So they break the hearts of kith and kin. And they roam the world at will. They range the field, and they rove the flood. And they climb the mountain's crest. Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood. And they don't know how to rest. If they just went straight, they might go far. They are strong and brave and true. But they're always tired of the things that are. And they want the strange and new. They say: ‘Could I find my proper groove, what a deep mark I would make!’ So they chop and change, and each fresh move, is only a fresh mistake. And each forgets, as he strips and runs. With a brilliant, fitful pace. It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones, who win in the lifelong race. And each forgets that his youth has fled. Forgets that his prime is past. Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead. In the glare of the truth at last. He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance. He has just done things by half. Life's been a jolly good joke on him. And now is the time to laugh. Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost. He was never meant to win. He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone. He's a man who won't fit in.”
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“It’s great,” I said.
“Do you relate to it?”
“At first, yes, but I’m not sure if I understand the ending,” I admitted. “‘He has failed? Life’s been a jolly good joke on him?’ that doesn’t resonate with me. I love this life. I love my life more than ever before. Being different, not fitting in, I find contentment in that.”
He closed his journal, a wordless end to the discussion. In hindsight, I realize now that he understood those lines in a way I was yet to grasp, and his silence should have warned me that one day I would.
I trudged through fog and rain to US 64, then hitched into Franklin, NC – my final town stop before reaching Springer Mountain. It was a grueling day, the toughest in recent weeks, not due to the terrain or elevation, but because of the relentless, bone-chilling rain that didn’t cease until I was safely sheltered under a roof.
With night approaching and aware that few are willing to pick up hitchhikers after dark, I hurried the day’s last miles, slipping over wet leaves to reach the highway in time. A man in a white pickup passed by, then noticed me pacing with an outstretched thumb. True to Southern hospitality, he braked and reversed to offer a ride.
“Hey, I can give you a lift to Franklin,” he offered, clearing a space amid his hunting gear and guns. “Saw you in the rain, with night closing in, and figured I should turn back.” He shuffled a brand-new pair of raccoon traps from the passenger seat to the truck bed. “Christmas present for my boy.”
The locals along the trail had always been friendly, but in the South, they took special pride in lending a helping hand. After the driver dropped me off near Mulligan's bar, I went inside for a sandwich and hot coffee. Finishing up, a woman, with her husband beside her, approached my table.
“Are you hiking the trail?” she asked. Obviously a rhetorical question, given my filthy clothes, unruly beard, and the backpack. I probably wasn’t exactly an air freshener either.
“Yep, Maine to Georgia,” I said.
We exchanged a few words about the trail — its challenges and my experiences. Then, shifting the conversation, she asked, "Do you have a place to spend Christmas?"
The generosity I’ve encountered on this trail never ceased to amaze me. Time and again, complete strangers opened their homes to a smelly hiker they’ve only just met. It’s a testament to the warmth found in unexpected places across America. Don’t listen to the local news; America is, by a wide margin, friendlier than it is dangerous.
She looked at me earnestly. “Enjoy the rest of your trail. And you for sure have a place for Christmas, right?” she said again with real concern in her voice.
Footwork and I agreed to split a hotel room, so after downing a second coffee, I headed to the Franklin Motel. Collapsing onto my bed, my feet quickly swelled up, a familiar end-of-day ritual. On the trail, I feel like I’m in the best shape of my life, ascending three thousand feet without a break, never feeling muscle burn. But at night, just minutes after stopping, my legs stiffen up, my feet swell, and my toes looked like fat sausages that have been soaking in dishwater all day. My knees ache so much at the end of the day that whenever I waddle into a public restroom and see those handicap bars next to the toilet, I rejoice. It has become one of life's little pleasures.
They say it takes as long to recover from an AT thru-hike as it does to hike it. As long as I keep moving I feel great. I guess the trick is to just never stop moving, ever.
It's chilly at 6,643 feet this time of year, to say the least. Strong, freezing winds coupled with the onset of cold symptoms made lingering to enjoy the view unappealing. I suspected I caught the bug going around, but thankfully, I was on the mend.
Leaving the Smokies yesterday, the weather became instantly better, like stepping back through the wardrobe from Narnia – leaving behind a world of snow and ice, stepping into a day warm enough for shorts.
I’ll sorely miss these morning views. Six months out here has stretched out like years, a testament to not standing still long enough for your surroundings to become routine. The thought of waking up in the same place and doing the same tasks each morning has become a distant, almost forgotten concept.
Footwork told me he read Whitney Houston's last entry in the logbook at Katahdin. It just said, "And I will always love you."
After 179 days on the trail, I was never more ready for one of them to end. I longed for its end more than ever.
Rain accompanied every step of the 26-mile stretch. As dusk fell, eight more miles still lay ahead. The path was a treacherous blend of wet leaves and slick rocks. Footwork, probably a few miles ahead by now, was out of my sight.
Fog turned my headlamp's beam into a blinding white veil, obscuring everything but the sodden ground beneath me. With five miles left, my headlamp's batteries started to fail — my last spare set. The light waned, barely stronger than moonlight. Occasionally, the ground beneath my feet would soften, a clear indication I had strayed from the trail, forcing me to backtrack. White blazes were scarce, adding to my frustration. At one point, a blue blaze loomed ominously, hinting that I might have veered off the AT, possibly lost.
Navigating the woods on a moonless, fog-shrouded night was like treading water in a vast, dark lake, directionless and far from any shore. Invisible thorny branches snatched at my wrists, while roots underfoot seemed determined to knock me off my feet.
At this point, it's worth noting that we had all sent our tents back home in North Carolina to lighten our loads, having relied solely on shelters since the trail population was significantly reduced this late in the season. Pressing on was the only option.
Hours later, a security light piercing the fog: the hostel at Neel’s Gap. Having called ahead in the afternoon to secure a late arrival, I approached the welcoming glow of the historic stone building.
I knocked gently on the slightly ajar door. “Is this the hiker hostel?” I asked.
“You’re 14 minutes late,” chided Pirate, the hostel operator with a grizzled beard dappled in gray and a ‘Pirate for life’ t-shirt stretched over his ample belly. He had kindly stayed up for me. Finally, I was in a place of warmth and dryness.
"I've just put your plate of food away," he said. Surprised, I hadn't expected a meal. Pirate ambled to the fridge, retrieving a plate swathed in pink plastic wrap, and set it in the microwave to warm.
Another thru-hiker in the room approached me. “Are you Sundowner?” I asked, recognizing the name from trail registries.
“That’s me,” he said with a friendly hug. “Congratulations on your thru-hike!”
“Thanks, and to you too,” I said, even though 30 miles still lay ahead of us.
When my food finished heating, I expressed my gratitude, “Wow, I wasn’t expecting a hot meal to be waiting for me. This means a lot after such a rough night.”
“It’s Hanukkah!” Pirate said, setting a hearty plate with a pork chop, potatoes, gravy, and green beans in front of me. “I got some Hanukkah tunes playing, and there’s a menorah by the Christmas tree.” He ambled back to the fridge. “Ryan, would you like a beer or wine?”
Never in my life have I gone from utter misery to profound happiness so quickly.