- Miles 341.1-344.2 (3.1 mi.)
- Total ascent: 535′; descent 2060′
Flat tent spots tend to be found in two places in low-altitude mountains, like the Appalachians: on the ridge and in the valley.
The biggest reason to camp on a ridge, assuming a clear night and morning, is the sunrise. No sunset is as spectacular as a red-orange sunrise turning the range from black to grey to soft browns and greens.
Rachel and I are rarely up early enough to see the sunrise in our “real” lives; this morning, 3.2 miles down the mountain in Nolichucky Gorge, we had a shuttle to catch.
We got the tent packed and breakfast “made” (meaning, our honeybuns eaten) in record time. We took turns twisting our ankles while racing downhill. We couldn’t check the time and were merely guessing at the time and our pace, on account of our dead phones, so we wanted to give ourselves a cushion.
Our racing stopped when we ran back into Early Bird, an EMT. We told her that we’d make it, and she would, too, if her goal was Uncle Johnny’s 9 a.m. shuttle.
We arrived to a full porch around 8:15. and to our surprise, met Maki, who we thought had left Hot Springs, the prior town, after us. He had, in fact, but he’d slack packed, meaning he was shuttled ahead and walked at least a day without his pack.
We chatted about the conditions of the last 50 miles and fawned over the kitty cat, which was playing hard to get but clearly liked the attention. I sprayed my boots with a waterproofing spray left in the hiker box, and refilled our hand sanitizer with box-found rubbing alcohol.
The shuttle driver, who also turned out to be the owner and cashier, pulled up. We paid for our room, jumped on a $0.40 Snickers deal, and milled around until the shuttle driver jingled her keys and walked back to the van.
We shuttled into town, with fog still hanging over the range, disembarking at a Shell station. The Taco Bell across the street, to our great disappointment, was closed. We walked over to Bojangles, its neighbor, which turned out to be a chicken-and-biscuits sort of operation. We ate watching a state trooper pull over motorists, and quietly charged our phones.
Our next stop was the Post Office, in order to send home our crampons. Rachel befriended the cat, Priority, and we high-fived afterward, having freed our packs of more than a pound each.
We then walked to Roller Pharmacy, which supposedly had (and did, in fact, have) walk-in Covid-19 vaccines. The old-fashioned pharmacy had a soda fountain; another cat, this one named Slach; and an equally old-fashioned pharmacist who asked me if I “liked what I was wearing.”
You have to take questions like that in stride, so I smiled and said at least it — my winter tights, I think he was referring to — was clean.
Rachel took her vaccine in similar stride, accounting for her fear of needles, and we got our debrief: Wait 15 minutes now, and get another dose in 28-40 days, in southern Virginia.
We thanked the pharmacist and bought bouillon cubes and joint supplements, and then turned around. We walked back to Food City, a regional grocery store from which we bought five days’ worth of food and a sandwich and coffee each. We nabbed multiple closeout items, all on spicy foods, which apparently don’t sell in the South.
The shuttle we rode in had already circled back, so we mulled our ride options over lunch. Guthook recommended a driver named Doug, who met us outside Food City and drove us back to Uncle Johnny’s for just $7. He received five other calls from hikers in three miles’ drive.
Back at our hostel, we organized our food and made small talk with other hikers. We checked our emails, checked into our cabin, and checked ourselves for ticks. We checked the time, wondering just how long we had until we could eat real food again.
For dinner, shuttled back into town, this time to the local Mexican restaurant (whose motto was “Mexican food didn’t have to be spicy to be good.” We gorged on fajitas and enchiladas, and then walked through a grassy field to Wal-Mart. On clearance, we found a package of tuna and a white polyester shirt, which will stain but be the coolest in the sun.
Awaiting me after this post are laundry, a shower, and a real mattress. Tomorrow, we check out at 11 a.m. and walk toward Roan Mountain, known by northbounders as winter’s last harbor. We hope for no vaccine side effects tomorrow and a dry stretch ahead.
