Project Eveningland

4/11/2023 Tuesday

Let us call today a mistake of “hopeful math,” a failure to calculate time and mileage to see the obvious until the die had been cast.

The problem started with our (but really my) dilly dallying over breakfast conversation, coupled with a 45 or so minute drive up the winding road to mile 576. These combined led to a somewhat delayed 9:40 start—we are going backwards again.

Do the math. If I average 30 min per mile including breaks—not a small thing, with several miles of up-and-down along a rocky ridge and a major climb up to Chestnut Knob—that’s 10.5 hours. Factor in a long break for lunch, and tons of water and snack stops, that’s easily 9PM. After dark. And then there’s the (short) road walk back to the hostel to consider.

The culprit was the breakfast. Perfectly cooked sausage. A spinach frittata with Parmesan that was miraculously absent of peppers or onions. Homemade blackberry muffins. Grits flavored with foraged herbs including ramps and garlic mustard. Fresh honey. Applesauce served with heavy whipped cream and slivered almonds. The color of the applesauce was dark enough to let me know it was homemade, though not as dark as the wonderfully tart applesauce that my grandmother used to pull out of the freezer in grandpa’s workshop. It’s not as romantic as it sounds, but it was fucking delicious. Tasting real applesauce was a revelation, then and now.

The climb up to Chestnut Knob was, as usual, a bit like walking up the spikes of a stegosaurus. Incredible ridges which rise ahead like great waves of forest. They are undulating and smooth, but the climb is steep and long.

The landscape is striking. Burke’s Garden is below, dotted with white farmhouses and silos. On the other side, in no less dramatic a scene, are sparsely inhabited, more rugged looking mountains. The land looks like a rumpled blanket. Smooth and green in the low pastoral folds. Dark slate hillsides covered in bare trees at the peaks.

After a miles-long, exposed descent from Chestnut, the trail dips into narrow crevices filled with creeks and rhododendron. Up and down, up and down. I think about new writing projects. I drink liters and liters of water, augmented with electrolyte packets, to stay hydrated in the sunny warmth.

I ate bags and bags of food. Proteins. Carbs. Fats. Fiber. Down it goes. The day wore on and the sun finally set. The air in the valleys is wonderfully cool on my salty, sun-parched skin. I am getting tanner, despite diligent application and reapplication of sunscreen.

I pass everyone because I’m headed south today, back to the same hostel. I begin to see tents. I am getting closer and closer to the hostel but the light is fading faster. I finish Caliban’s War and clip my headlamp to my hat. Is it me or is it getting dimmer? It can’t be. That’s not how new flashlights work. They just sort of die. No, it’s definitely dimmer. Or is it? I’m being gaslit by my own hiking gear. The battery died.

I used my cellphone light to find my way down the pastures above the hostel. I managed to follow the path through the grass almost by feel in the dark. I am not frightened or panicked. It feels wonderful. The stars are shining above the pitch black hillsides. A tent glows—lit from within—a few dozen yards off the trail.

Wedge pulls up in the hostel-owner’s car when I am halfway through the road walk. He got back two hours ago and became worried. I point out that 21 miles in 11.25 hours is a respectable pace. Perfectly respectable! Also I’m a grown ass man. But I was touched by his concern. I hadn’t seen him since about 11AM.

It was a glorious walk. An aggressive hydration strategy saved the day. I stuffed my face and wrote in bed with the light off (it’s quiet hours in the hostel).