Margaritas, Mountains & That First Big Exhale

Wheels Up and Wide-Eyed

There’s something surreal about flying toward the Appalachian Trail—especially when you’re still wearing clean clothes, haven’t smelled like a hiker trash sandwich yet, and you’re sipping a margarita 30,000 feet in the air. But there we were, grinning like kids on a field trip, already dreaming about blazes, trail names, and the mud-caked glory to come. It felt like we were headed to the wildest, dirtiest, most transformative party of our lives. Because honestly? We are.

Southwest might not have trail names, but they do have a heart stir stick, which felt right. Everything felt right. The trail was pulling me in before my boots even touched dirt.

From Spreadsheets to Mountains

Until now, it’s been all planning and pacing. Spreadsheets, resupply lists, gear debates, and occasional bursts of panic over whether I packed the “right” socks. My trail partner Jolly (the beard behind the brawn) and I have poured heart, time, and way too many late-night conversations into getting here. And somehow, it still didn’t feel real. Not until we landed in Georgia, left the airport chaos behind, and started winding our way up toward Amicalola Falls Lodge.

The Welcome of Amicalola

Golden hour greeted us with open arms. The mountains rolled out across the horizon like a trail map designed by the universe itself. As we pulled into the lodge parking lot, everything slowed down. The weight of what we were about to do hadn’t quite landed, but something in the air buzzed with anticipation.

We checked in, dropped our bags, and wandered toward the waterfall—no rush, no itinerary, just letting the sound of crashing water and cool air soak into our bones. It’s funny how a walk like that, with no miles to chase, can feel so grounding. For the first time in weeks, there was nothing to do but be.

Gear Chaos and Calm Drinks

Back at the room, we exploded our gear across the beds in a glorious mess of filters, freeze-dried meals, layers, and last-minute debates over trekking pole attachments. I laid everything out with obsessive care. Jolly, ever the calm one, cracked open a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass while laughing at my “organized chaos.” It was the perfect pairing—chaotic gear prep and a smooth, slow sip to toast the journey ahead.

The Moment: A Century in My Hand

And then it happened. I walked into the visitor center and picked up my official green 100-year Appalachian Trail tag—a special edition celebrating a century of trail community and conservation. That little tag, marked with a bold white “AT” and the years 1925–2025, felt heavier than it looked. It wasn’t just a piece of plastic. It was a symbol that I was now part of something much bigger—one step in a 100-year legacy of hikers who’ve dared to take the long way home. 

By the Fire: Strangers to Trail Family

As night rolled in, we found our way to a firepit outside the lodge, where we met a few other hikers who were either starting the trail soon or just soaking up the energy. Names were exchanged, trail plans swapped, and drinks were shared like old friends reuniting. The fire was warm, the stars were out, and the vibe? Pure magic. We talked about gear, fears, and dreams like they were all one and the same. There’s something about the trail that makes strangers feel like family before you even take a step. 

The Sacred Pause

Eventually, we peeled away from the fire, full-hearted and sleepy. The packs were packed. The nerves were buzzing. The night before the trail felt quiet, sacred, and beautifully real.

Tomorrow, we climb. Tomorrow, we take our first blazed step on the Approach Trail. But tonight? Tonight, we celebrate. Because making it this far already means something.

Trail ahead, heart open.

Here’s to sending it.