Backpacking At Greyson Highlands: Day 2

Our campsite near Thomas Knob Shelter…beautiful views and strong winds!

We somehow got everyone to bed and then I lay awake, stubbornly determined to sleep 4 hours before my usual bedtime, and wondering why everything was so QUIET—no bugs or trees rustling or ANYTHING to break the eerie stillness.

Morning of the second day, we woke up so stiff we could barely stand up. We creaked around, pulling together oatmeal for breakfast. I had just lighted the stove when we heard hoofbeats. A piebald mare charged into our camp, and made straight for our camp stove. The kids were delighted to see another pony, but Coco was less pleased to have her face nosed and snuffed at, and Chris and I had a job keeping her away from the baby, the stove, and all of the kid’s breakfasts at the same time. We ate as quick as we could, and I held Coco while Chris packed up camp. Some hikers passing stopped to take photos with the pony and—to my indignation—feed it a carrot. No wonder she was so determined to get food off us! They tried to get the pony to follow them, but she wouldn’t leave our camp. Chris called her a “great big trash panda” and resigned himself to packing up the tent with a horse snuffling around his neck and nosing at his stuff sacks.

A very determined breakfast guest

We backtracked until we hit the intersection of the previous evening, and took a left onto the Pine Mountain Trail. It was rocky, slippery, and a difficult hiking down the mountain. But we were surrounded by blooming rhododendron, I had my trekking poles for additional balance, and the kids were cheerful. The rhododendron slowly gave way to old forest, swathed in moss and blanketed in ferns. The mud was thick, and I lost the end tip to one of my trekking poles. We stopped to eat lunch and play in a ring of boulders while Chris hunted for the lost tip, but he gave up after hiking back ¼ mile and came to sit in the sun and eat. We found cow and horse manure, and tracks to match, and Idris took great delight in identifying every track and scat he saw for the next few miles of grassy, open bald. It was hot in the sun, but our trail was mostly shaded, and we took plenty of rest to have snacks, drink water, and change diapers—which were, again, a nightmare. The only redeeming quality was being able to stuff them in a cat hole and have the satisfaction of leaving them in the dirt to rot.

By the time we reached Scales, we were spent. We sat in the meadow and watched the wild ponies grazing up on the mountainside. It was a relief to take our packs off, and we estimated how far we’d come—5 miles—and optimistically reasoned it was probably only another mile or so to camp.

I saw a couple of backpackers emerging from the AT and called out “You guys coming from Wise Shelter?” “Yep!” “How many miles?” “Three!”

Three miles. And It was already 3 p.m. How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I check to make sure the 15-mileage was actually evenly distributed over each of the 3 days? I looked at my children—Idris, attempting to wriggle through the fence surrounding the meadow-campsite, Adelaide, picking wildflowers, Coco, crawling happily in the grass, blowing bubbles to herself and shrieking in delight at her short-lived freedom. I heard thunder, and looked up—a mass of storm clouds were gathering, and fast.

I stuffed my kids into their sweaters, coaxed Coco into the baby carrier, shouldered my pack. Chris popped Idris onto his shoulders, and optimistically said he thought it might be an easy path on rolling hills once we got up the first one.

We hiked up the hill. It was steep. There was another one after it. The hills were soon swallowed in forest, and the drenching rain came. Adelaide was tired, and confessed when we stopped at a stream to collect water that her feet hurt. I took her shoes off and found 4 points on each foot where her skin was red. I said a quick prayer of gratitude that I’d bought some blister patches on a whim, and papered her feet in them.

This is actually a photo from day 1. No one feels like taking photos in the rain on day 2. Stopping is agony.

The last few miles were absolutely brutal. My shoulder was past aching, and I felt sharp pains radiating down into my arm. I knew I was at my limit. I told Chris, “I need to stop.” He looked up at me, through the rain, and said, “Okay” I continued on, repeating to myself, “I can stop anytime. I can stop anytime.” It was like a mantra, and the knowledge that I was here by choice, that I ruled my own fate, and that I could quit if I wanted to drove me on.

We passed a rushing stream and knew we had to be close. Chris took the lead for a while. As he rounded a bend, I heard him groan. “What? What is it?” I knew we could only have half a mile left. He waited for me, and as I came up to look, said, “it’s ankle-breakers.” I stared at the football-sized rocks in dread, stretched out in front of us as far as we could see. There was no chance of a single even step. My feet already had stabbing pains, and my ankles ached from our descent on the Pine Mountain trail.

That last section was the most brutal part of the trip. We went on. We passed over the stream again, and saw hikers collecting water. “How far?” “You’re almost there. Less than 1/10 of a mile.” It was the rush of encouragement we needed. The kids scooted across the board bridge, and in a few minutes, we were at camp.

Somehow, Chris found the energy to set up the tent and bedding, while I made dinner and another round of hot cocoa. Again, the kids ran around the campsite, full of energy and delight. We had hiked 8 miles with a baby, a toddler, and a 5-year-old. I still couldn’t believe that Adelaide had done it.

The littles both needed a change, and I laid them on my one and only sweater to do it. I changed coco first, then Idris. As I pulled off his pants, his diaper gave way. His pants, my sweater, the grass in front of our tent—it was all covered in poop. Chris came to help, and pulled the very last wet wipe out of the packet. I think that’s about the time I went and sat on a rock.

I’m not sure how we got it all cleaned up, but we still had to hop over that section of grass every time we went into the tent. The backpacker camped next to us graciously donated a single wipe from his meager allowance, and we prayed it would be enough to get us back to the car tomorrow. When I had to use the bathroom later that evening, I tore off about a quarter of that precious wipe to use myself. The rest we carefully folded into a Ziploc and tucked away.