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Taylor Boyd Willoughby/Mountain Orenda Photography
Beer, Backpacking and the Importance of Sunshine
The group prepares for a second day of hiking.
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Taylor Boyd Willoughby/Mountain Orenda Photography
Beer, Backpacking and the Importance of Sunshine
Like many great ideas, this one was born over beer.
“You know what we should do?” said my friend Taylor at the end of our weekly bar trivia night. “We should go backpacking.”
We all sipped our beers and agreed that we most definitely should do exactly that.
Unlike most ideas born over beer, this one lasted past its night of conception. Fast forward a few months to the dawn of warm weather and the end of human hibernation, and our group of five people and three dogs was headed for the Appalachian Trail. The itinerary: walk north from Lemon Gap on the Tennessee-North Carolina line and continue into Hot Springs, North Carolina—a distance of about 15 miles, broken up by two nights of camping.
But we hadn’t counted on the rain.
Discordant Friday work schedules meant that we started the hike as two groups rather than one, Ryan, Jason and I hitting the trail earlier in the day with Taylor and Wes planning to meet us at the shelter. It was a short hike in that first day, only about a mile, so after pitching our tents and hanging our hammocks—in perfect late spring weather, mind you—the three of us decided to walk back to intercept our friends.
That’s when the heavens opened, a torrential, driving rain that turned the trail into a stream, soaked our pants and quickly filled our shoes, which gushed through each step with a terrible suction. My little dog followed along miserably, taking advantage of any pause in our progression to hunch pathetically under the protection of one rhododendron or another.
It was still raining when we found our friends and returned to the campsite, where we waited for it to stop while crouching under the tarp covering Ryan’s hammock. The deluge continued. We eventually gave up on the idea of a dry dinnertime and remained under the tarp as we boiled water for that particular genre of sustenance that is delicious when consumed on the trail but would be revolting if served indoors.
It was dark when the rain finally stopped. The skies clear of water, my dog found herself having so much fun smelling the smells and running the hills that getting her in the tent was a chore, and when we woke up it was to birds chirping, dry canvas and the rosy light of a new day.
There was one quite tangible reminder of yesterday’s monsoon, however: soaking wet shoes. Nobody was spared. Every single boot was so wet that there was no point in pairing it with a dry sock. We let out a collective sigh as we pulled on yesterday’s wet socks and laced up our boots for the 11-mile day before us.
During those initial alcohol-accompanied trip-planning sessions, an even higher-mileage weekend was proposed, something more on the order of 20 or 25 miles. But two of the people in our group of five—Jason and Ryan—had never even been backpacking before, and we decided that something a bit shorter would be best for a short outing.
By the time our hike rolled around, I was no longer worried about Jason. In the interim, he’d tested out an overnight on the trail and had hands-down done more research into backpacking gear, food and tools than I’d even considered attempting in 10 years of weekend warrior adventures.
But Ryan was another story. I mean, we’d only just barely managed to convince him that yes, he really would need an actual hiking backpack and a rainfly for his hammock. By “just barely” I mean that Jason almost forcibly took him shopping two days before we planned to leave. His essential supplies included an entire glass bottle of whisky, stuffed straight into his pack.
I think I can be forgiven for being a little skeptical about how he’d do on the trail.
Turns out, I shouldn’t have been. Ryan was a pretty accomplished athlete in high school, and the training showed as we embarked on our 11-mile day. Throughout the A.T.’s many ups and downs, Ryan blazed consistently ahead of what I would contend is the more normal pace the rest of us kept.
It was a perfect day, sunny and warm, with no rain except for what clung to the insides of my boots. Every time we stopped, I changed into sandals and attempted to find some small piece of sun where my shoes and socks could begin to dry. It was a fruitless task until lunch, which coincided with the appearance of a gravel road and small parking area at Garanflo Gap. “Parking area” equals “sun.” The socks were nearly dry by the time we resumed our hike, leaving behind dark spots on the gravel where they’d rested and imbuing my feet with a newfound feeling of luxury.
It was just getting to midafternoon by the time we reached the shelter, snagging the perfect campsite just uphill from a clear little stream where we scrubbed our legs against poison ivy before beginning the task of satisfying our hefty appetites. Darkness fell as we sat around the camp, sipping whisky and talking about nothing important. A gusting wind warned us of oncoming rain, and we retreated to our tents as the drops danced a lullaby on the canvas—a nearly perfect mirror image of the night before.
It was with blessedly dry socks and shoes that we made the 3-mile hike out into Hot Springs the next morning. We found a dog-friendly restaurant and proceeded to stuff our faces with gigantic burgers and draft beers as the pups lay comatose on the porch.
“We should do this again,” said Taylor. Or maybe Ryan. Or maybe me. Or possibly everybody.
Like many great hikes, this one ended with beer.