Miles: 2,091.2 — A frosty stream crossing, some tears over a lost Buff, and a long, quiet day of just us and the trail. By late afternoon, we stumbled on the perfect flat campsite by a river and decided to call it. I binged honey buns, listened to the wind in the trees, and realized I’d finally learned to love camping — just in time for the hike to end.
It was a rough start for me. My pack was heavy, and I was going slow. We made it past the point where we had camped a little over a week ago on our first attempt of the HMW. I saw my memories flash before me. Our friends all passing our campsite while I lay in my tent nauseous. I felt a ping of loneliness. I wished I had just been able to push through, so that I could’ve finished with my friends. I regretted my decision to go home. But I needed to go home. I had to. It’s not like I had a choice. I started seeing all of these things I wish I’d done differently. I had to keep reminding myself that it was all part of life. Regrets. You can’t change the past, I told myself over and over as I walked.
We forded a stream, a cold, cold stream. It was about 40º out. For thru-hiking standards, 40º was pretty cold. At this point, I hadn’t experienced 40º during the day in months, not since I was in North Carolina.
I deep breathed as I crossed the stream, Whim Hoff style, and tried to tell myself it wasn’t cold. We dried our legs with our Buff headbands and rolled our pants back down. Then we jumped up and down and pressed our shoes against rocks to try to squeeze as much water out of them as possible. We shivered off into the woods and kept walking.
Miles realized somewhere around here that he’d lost his Buff. It had fallen off of his trekking pole when he’d been walking. He freaked out, saying he was going to go back and look for it. We’d already walked five miles, how far back was he going to go? I asked him. He began to cry and tell me he didn’t know. That he was tired of losing his shit and being irresponsible (it was not the first thing he’d lost). He threw down his poles and took off back toward the stream we’d just crossed. Until he realized he’d have to cross it again.
Miles hated crossing streams. The slippery rocks, the cold water, the wet shoes, it all made him nervous and he hated it. He cried and threw down his pack. He sat down on the side of the trail and raked his hands through his hair, still crying. I sat down with him and asked him what was really wrong. I hugged him and patted his back. I knew what was really wrong. It wasn’t about the buff. It was about the end. I was feeling it, too. I’d been feeling it since the day we left Harrison’s.
He cried and told me he didn’t want us to be apart. That he didn’t want it to be over. I teared up too. I didn’t want it to be over either. I did and I didn’t and that was the hardest part to reason with. He agreed. We cried together and ate some bars. He dried his eyes and I dried mine and we set off again, northbound on the trail.
We didn’t talk much this day. Just absorbed the trail around us. It was weird. The trail sort of felt different this time. It felt like coming home, but somehow it felt completely temporary, too. It wasn’t like in the beginning when you had the whole trail ahead of you and spring and summer were impending. Change and friendships weren’t abundant like they used to be. It was just us and the trail this time. And we were here to finish it.
It was weird that it had become chilly again and pants were a must. Thankfully, we’d gotten to go home and get our pants unlike most of the thru-hikers around us. I watched hikers around us, especially ultralight hikers, shivering day and night because they sent their base-layers or pants home.
We hiked over some uneventful hills and past the Wilson Valley Lean-to. On our way down the hill toward Barren Mountain, we came to valley where a river gushed by. We slowly crossed the rocky river and on the other side we found it. The PERFECT camping spot! Flat, next to water, plenty of woods for a cat-hole in the morning, few widow-makers in sight. I immediately looked at Miles and said, this is where I want to camp, it’s perfect! It was almost 4pm and we probably could have kept hiking. But I figured if I could binge some carbs tonight I’d be ready to go farther tomorrow and my pack would be lighter. He agreed, it was the perfect campsite. So, we set up.
A few hikers passed us while we made our dinner and marveled that we’d gotten a good spot! I was happy enough with my 10-mile day. I was going to savor the good camping now that I finally liked camping. It had taken me this long to learn to love it!
That night, a windy storm rolled in. It sprinkled on and off, but it was mostly wind. The whooshing breeze kind of scared me, but I was so tired and full of honey buns that I slept through most of it.