Walk the Appalachian Trail - 4

Onward and Upward (So they say)

DAY FOUR - Lance Creek to Neels Gap
Mile 23.7 to 31.3–7.6 miles
Total miles: 31.3

6:11 a.m.

You wake up to birdsong and the faint gurgle of the creek. It's chilly, colder than the last few mornings. Not freezing, but the kind of cold that seeps into your bones before your brain's even caught up. You lie still, listening. Not ready to move just yet. Your sleeping bag is warm, a cocoon against the outside world. But your bladder disagrees.

Groaning, you unzip the bag, crawl out, and stumble into the brush. The earth is damp and smells of pine needles, dirt, and that rich, musty scent of old rain. You look up. Sky's clear. Pale and soft like it hasn't fully woken up yet.
You breathe deep.

"Okay," you whisper. "Today's the one."

7:15 a.m.

Your pack feels heavier today. Or maybe your shoulders are just sore. Either way, it takes effort to lift it. You shove your tent down into its sack, still damp from the dew. Breakfast is a protein bar and a swig of filtered creek water. You eat standing up, watching the first hints of sunlight slip through the trees.

Everyone's quiet this morning.

You nod to Quill again. She's already lacing her boots.

You catch up for a second while brushing your teeth with a finger and that terrible minty paste.

"You heading to Neels today?"

"Yep. Blood Mountain."

You both make a face. That's the mountain everyone talks about. Highest point in Georgia on the trail. Beautiful and brutal.

"I'll see you up there," she says, and just like that, she's off.

You're slower getting out. You double check your map, adjust your straps. Your hip belt's rubbing wrong today. You tighten it, loosen it, and finally settle for a lopsided compromise.

8:03 a.m.

You hit the trail.

8:50 a.m. - Mile 25

The climb starts gradually, lulling you into false confidence. Everything's green and quiet, and for a few miles, it almost feels like you're floating.

You fall into that meditative state where you stop thinking and just do.

Step, breathe.

Step, breathe.

Adjust poles.

Sip water.

You pass a day hiker couple on their way back down.

They're chatty, fresh faced, smelling like dryer sheets.

The woman says, "Blood's a beast! But you're almost there!" with that fake cheer people use when they're trying not to say how hard it is.

You thank her and keep going.

10:21 a.Tm. - Blood Mountain Base

You reach the base without noticing it until the path tilts skyward. Steep, rocky, and mean. You stop, drop your pack, and eat half a granola bar. The sugar hits fast. You stretch your calves, shake out your arms, and then start the climb.

11:15 a.m. - Halfway Up Blood Mountain

This sucks.

There's no other way to say it. You're soaked in sweat.

Your shirt clings to you like cellophane.

The trail has turned into this jagged staircase made of roots and rocks.

Your knees hate you.

Your lungs are working overtime.

You stop every few minutes now.

Short stops.

Just enough to breathe without guilt.

One time you sit on a boulder and look out.

There's no view yet,

just trees and the slope still climbing above you like it never ends.

Someone passes you.

Some college kid with calves like bricks and a small daypack.

"Almost there," he says without looking back.

You kind of want to throw a stick at him. Just a little one.

12:03 p.m. - Blood Mountain Summit (Mile 28.1)

And then it happens.

You reach the top.

It doesn't hit all at once.

You think there's still more trail until you walk up and out of the tree cover and see the summit shelter.

An old stone building, half crumbling, stoic and still.

And then you look out.

And there it is:

Georgia, unfolding in every direction.

Ridges stacked like waves,

valleys swallowed by trees,

blue haze drifting over the edges of it all.

It's not loud. It's not showy. It's just vast.

You don't say anything.

You just stand there, mouth slightly open, heart thumping from more than just exertion.

You drop your pack and sit on a warm rock near the edge.

You eat the rest of your bar and drink almost all your water.

A couple other hikers are up here; quiet, reverent.

No music.

No selfies.

Just breathing it in.

You sit for 20 minutes. Maybe more.

You write in your journal, just one sentence:

"This is why."

1:07 p.m. - Starting Descent

Going down is worse than going up.

Nobody tells you that part.

Your knees are screaming.

Every step down feels like your legs are about to buckle.

The trail is rocky and narrow, and your boots slip once or twice on the loose gravel.

You plant your poles harder now, using them like crutches.

You pass people heading up.

New hikers, day hikers,

One guy sweating bullets and swearing under his breath.

You smile.

You've been there.

You are there.

Somewhere along the descent, you slip and land on your butt.

It's not bad, just annoying.

You sit there for a second, letting the sting settle.

Then you laugh.

Loud.

It echoes in the woods.

Your body's tired.

Your brain's frayed.

But you're doing it.

3:45 p.m. - Neels Gap (Mile 31.3)

When the trail levels out and you finally see the road, it feels surreal. You're suddenly in civilization again. Cars. Pavement. The smell of hot asphalt and sunbaked metal.

You walk under the stone arch at Mountain Crossings, the famous outfitter built right on the trail. Every hiker stops here. It's part of the culture. Like a checkpoint in a game.

You walk in and it hits you; cool air, wood floors, gear hung like decorations.

There's a hiker box by the wall where people drop stuff they don't want to carry anymore.

You peek inside,   half empty fuel cans, mismatched socks, a romance novel, even a tin of sardines.

You don't need anything, but you wander through anyway.

You buy a cold soda and a Snickers bar.

The guy at the counter looks at your worn pack and dirt-crusted boots.

"Made it over Blood, huh?"

You nod.

"Still going north?"

"Yep."

He grins. "Then you're one of us now."

5:00 p.m. - Neels Gap Hostel

You pay for a bunk.

It's cheap.

You get a real toilet,

A hot shower,

A laundry machine that hums in the background while your clothes spin clean.

You sit on a bench in borrowed shorts, eating ramen from a foam cup, and talking with a guy named Dust. That's his trail name. He's 60, gaunt, and quiet, but he tells you he's already done the trail once. "Going again for my mind," he says. "My body don't like it. But my brain needs it."
You nod. You understand that more than you expected to.

Later, Quill shows up. She made it too. You both eat together, not talking much. Just shoveling carbs into your mouths and sitting in the same kind of silence you shared out there in the trees.

9:12 p.m. - Hostel Bunk

You lie in a real bed. Sort of. It's still a bunk and smells like old hikers and detergent, but it's off the ground. Your legs throb, but in that good, sore way that means you earned something.

You look at your journal again. You write:

"Day Four:
Blood Mountain didn't kill me.

The trail gave me views and bruises.

I'll take both."

You flick off your headlamp and lie still, surrounded by strangers who somehow feel like neighbors.

You fall asleep fast, like your body knows it has more mountains to face tomorrow.