Oats on the Appalachian High Route: Day 2

I woke up to nature’s call. With condensation drenching my back and my hair before my sweat had the chance to, I packed in the dark trying not to wake my neighbor. After an out-of-practice tear down, I hit the trail once more, this time with my sights set on Cattail Peak. The phrases “very steep” and “almost vertical” stood out in my trail guide as I began my ascent.

I had been to Mount Mitchell’s summit parking lot by car, but it was certainly before I myself was able to drive. The summit to the tallest peak east of the Mississippi was a mere 0.3 miles up a paved path, and the relaxed tread was a welcome change from the harsh rocks and roots of the Black Mountain Crest Trail. As I approached the summit, marked by an observation tower, I took off my pack, left it behind, and laid down square in the middle of the cardinal direction emblem set into the floor. I laod there for some time, catching my breath and sweating profusely into the white and gray stone beneath me.

After some stretching, brushing my teeth, and well-earned Poptarts, I began my descent from Mount Mitchell to the Mountain to Sea Trail. A grassy, flat few miles helped boost my motivation for the second half of the day. I especially love flat or easy downhill grades because it allows me to sing without getting short of breath. Today I performed “Elma Turl” by Mike Cross, “Cleopatra” by The Lumineers, and “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Mis for a swarm of blood-thirsty biters that formed a cloud in my wake.

A constant theme today was water. After giving some to my site-mate last night, I knew I needed to conserve until Mount Mitchell. Little did I know, I’d have to hike on another 1.5 miles as all the water fountains ran dry. For the rest of the day, I either seemed to miss the last good source and had to struggle to fill up or I preemptively filled up at a painstaking spot before passing a perfectly acceptable stream mere tenths of a mile down the trail.

Later, after a good midday stretch, I arrived at what was indicated by my guide to be my final source before Craggy Gardens Visitor Center, which I planned on reaching the next morning. I cameled up 3 L to get me through the night and set off down the trail.

I had the perfect plan in my head for the rest of the day. I was feeling sore but strong and figured I’d be able to camp at the far end of the very small section of trail where camping was allowed – only one problem. I passed one campsite at the very beginning of the section and then not another one, period. By the time I got within 0.2 miles of the segment’s end where camping was allowed, I was desperate to say the least. I threw together the best stealth spot I could, realized why varied terrain is not ideal for trekking pole tents, video chatted with my partner and his 6-year-old, got the latest DND drama from my best friend, then settled in for the night. Well, at least, I tried to. The wildly lumpy group, even in the flattest spot I could find, was too uncomfortable for me to possibly sleep on (and I’m a notoriously easy sleeper to please).

Another half hour later, I’d shoved my empty pack under my sleeping pad to hopefully even out the sloped sleeping arrangement I found myself in, and was once again home for the night… until I realized this slope was unsleepable too. I relocated a third and final time entirely by headlamp and despite it all: the soreness in my calves and the aching in my feet I feel even when I’ve stopped moving for the day, this is exactly where I want to be.