Project Eveningland

4/7/2023 Friday

We struck our tents precisely as the rains began. I would have loved to hike a day in the 40s if it had been dry. But it wasn’t dry.

It was very, very wet with a few intermittent breaks. Wedge and I decided to do a shorter day (10.5) and head into Marion from an earlier mileage. The road crossings are plentiful here. Many places to be picked up. If you’re getting a ride into Marion, which you have to, what difference does it make where they pick you up, as long as they drop you off in the same place? I chose a much more obscure pickup point. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We knew rain was coming, and that it was gonna be in the 40s which is quite cold enough, thank you. It would have been just fine in the sun. I elected to wear tights and shorts but not rain pants—it’d allow me to move faster. Make fewer adjustments. Paired with the umbrella, I thought it would be a good combination. Wedge decided to go with just rain gear. I had a fleece layer on under my rain jacket but removed it when I had warmed up. We tried to get a hostel reservation by text, and got halfway there, but then couldn’t confirm because we lost service and had to keep checking every time we got to a promising looking ridge. I decided to get in some fretting while I was at it. The worry is just because you want to know that there’s a warm dry bed waiting for you.

The terrain was extremely cruise-y. I took in Comer Falls. It was a marvel of asymmetrical rock, hanging rhododendron, and a wonderfully subtle set of stones to hop across—nice work by the trail builders. Grayson Highlands State Park has an impressive network of trails that would, in theory, allow a person to bypass and reconnect around all manner of troubles. Except rain.

There is no way to get away from rain when you are on trail. This is something that people often don’t understand. The wet/dry border we’re accustomed to in modern life—where you are in the rain one minute and the next you are warm and shaking off an umbrella and hanging things up to dry? It can’t be replicated on trail. When it’s wet you have three choices: very wet, wet, and damp. You can keep a few choice items totally dry, but even that is surprisingly difficult, and renders those items mostly inaccessible, deep in your pack. When you want to dry something, there are really two choices: the sun, or your body heat. The second can dry clothes, eventually, but it’s costly. It costs energy.

Energy is another problem. Eating in the rain sucks, unless you have snacks in an easily accessible pocket, which I did. Stopping to cook in the rain takes enormous fortitude. Most people just starve, and grow increasingly weak and cold (calories are necessary for body heat). We got service and got our lodging and shuttle confirmed and both felt better.

Then we buckled down, marching across grand, sweeping slopes with tread that invites striding as much as hiking. In 2021, I did a 22 mile day through this stretch in just 11.5 hours.

There was a turning point, just after a parking lot where we’d again failed to get service to confirm our lodging, where Wedge seemed to suddenly grow silent. He never got out his umbrella. His rain gear became soaked and clung to his body in what appeared to me to be a most uncomfortable fashion.

I wasn’t comfortable either, but I had my umbrella out (I put one trekking pole away to free a hand) and kept my upper half much drier. Skipping the rain pants was a mistake, no question. I snacked—not as frequently as I might’ve, but enough. I regretted shedding a layer. The rain jacket wasn’t very warm. When I write this it may sound to you as though these are easy fixes. But remember that getting stuff out of your pack (food, clothing) introduces significant moisture into your pack, no matter how careful you are.

We reached the turnoff to Trimpi Shelter and Wedge stopped to caucus with me. He wanted to push on two miles to the pickup point and try to get an earlier shuttle. I thought this was dicey because changing plans last minute with limited service is high stakes and often unsuccessful. It introduces an unstable element into the situation. I also considered that Wedge might be heeding an instinct which I have only very recently been able to override: in inclement weather you will want to go for civilization as quickly as possible. You’ll turn aside intermediate options and rush to the pickup point in misery and a foul, foul mood. Seen it a hundred times, done it a hundred times.

So I said, nah, I gotta stop and get out of the rain and warm up and eat food in the gross old shelter. He joined. I couldn’t convince him to add another layer underneath his rain gear. He looked soaked to the bone. We sat in the shelter with Stairmaster, who was joined by Shorts, for a sad, sad lunch. Shorts was eating frosting out of a jar! They’re 2/3 of a hiking trio, all between 22-24, all fast, all from DC, all up to suffer. I ate mostly snacks and burned my last tuna packet for an energy boost. I put on another layer and eventually Wedge did too.

We talked later and he said that he’d been trained to “remain cold” (not add layers) until you are dry. That’s good advice when getting warm means risking getting a warmth layer wet (nullifying or else merely compromising its insulating ability). That’d be dangerous in a survival scenario. Here, though, the calculus has to be different. We have multiple layers. I wouldn’t hike in my puffy (down is terrible while wet), but my fleece layer will survive a small amount of moisture. Also, we have a ride into town. Also also, we have top-of-the-line tents and effective sleeping bags. Setting up a tent midday to warm up isn’t something most people will do, but it’s always a last-ditch option. Lastly, survival situations overlap with thru-hiking in some ways but not others. We are walking miles and miles and miles. Why do that in discomfort for hours and hours?

There was trail magic at our super, super obscure pickup point. Snacks and coffee and scripture were all available (but not pushy). It was a mini-bus turned camper with a canopy to stand under and he even let us warm up inside the bus, where he had a propane heater. “Catch” (the last 1/3 of that hiking trio) was already there. It got exceptionally muggy in that tiny bus. I really want to trim Catch’s mustache. I desperately want to trim his mustache. I mustn’t speak about wanting to trim his mustache.

Our shuttler found us eventually at VA-672. We got to the very unusual hostel—it’s above a shop, with beautifully built wood bunks with privacy curtains. We ate Mexican at four, bar appetizers at six. I crawled into bed with a significant to-do list for tomorrow. The hostel is above an outfitter and they give you 10% off. I bought new shorts and some bone conduction headphones (they make it easier to hear rattlesnakes). I call them “bone in” headphones (like the ham). I may have to buy another new pack. Jeannie Gray (my current pack) can’t tighten her hip belt any further. The hip belt is just tight enough now, but if I lose any more waist, it’ll be a real problem. I’m gonna sleep on it.

Here’s how I’d synthesize the lesson of the day. To transform your body and spirit with an AT thru-hike, you really only need a small amount of suffering. Even with current technology, and significant financial outlay, it’s still physically impossible to hike the trail without meeting or exceeding that level of discomfort. You can suffer more if you want, or if you’re on a shoestring, but if you don’t have to, why?