Walk The Appalachian Trail - 6

Onward Day 6

DAY SIX – Blue Mountain Shelter to Tray Mountain Shelter
Mile 51.3 to Mile 58.7 — 7.4 miles
Total Miles: 58.7

5:45 a.m.

You're up before the sun, though “up” might be a generous word. More like you stir awake, one eye cracking open as the cold needles into your cheeks and nose. It’s colder up here than it was last night, and you swear you heard a gust of wind whistle across the shelter’s eaves around 3 a.m.

You roll over in your sleeping bag, reluctant to break the heat seal you’ve built. But nature has her own alarm clock, and your bladder is officially punching the clock. With a groan, you unzip your bag and reach for your puffy jacket. Your fingers feel like stiff rubber as they fumble with the zipper. The shelter creaks a bit as you shift your weight.

You shuffle outside in your camp shoes, headlamp cutting a path through the pale gray of predawn. Everything is quiet. Still. Sacred. You don’t see Quill yet, but you hear rustling from her tent pad.

After you do your business and return to the shelter, you get your stove going. Water boils slow in the cold, and you can’t help but hover your hands near it, soaking in every bit of heat. When Quill finally emerges, she’s wrapped in her sleeping bag like a burrito, eyes puffy.

“You ever notice how mornings on trail feel like waking up with a hangover, but you didn’t get to have any fun the night before?” she mutters.

You chuckle. “Yep. But we get mountain views instead of regrets.”

“Touché.”

You both sip coffee like it’s holy and eat instant oatmeal like it’s gourmet. You're not in a rush today, but there's a tension in the air. Not stress, just that anxious buzz of a new day waiting to unfold.

7:15 a.m. — Leaving Blue Mountain

You're packed and moving just as the sunlight starts slipping through the trees. The trail drops quickly off Blue Mountain, winding down a series of rocky, rooty switchbacks. Every step is a careful decision. You can hear the crunch of Quill’s footsteps behind you and the occasional “Oof” as she catches her toe on something unseen.

The forest smells clean. Damp earth and pine needles, with a faint sweetness like wild blueberries. A woodpecker hammers away somewhere up ahead.

“Feels like we’re walking into a postcard,” you say aloud, mostly to yourself.

Quill hums behind you. “Except I’d like less of the ‘walking’ part and more of the ‘sitting at a cabin with a fire’ part.”

But the rhythm comes back. It always does. That slow, quiet groove of footfall, pole plant, breath in, breath out. The world narrows down to the trail, and that’s exactly what you came here for.

9:00 a.m. — Unicoi Gap

After a couple miles of downhill that tests your knees and your patience, you cross the paved road at Unicoi Gap. Cars zip past, people in clean clothes and air conditioning. You take a moment to rest under a pine tree, leaning back on your pack. Quill throws her legs up on a rock and fans herself with her hat.

“Seven miles today, huh?” she says. “Feels like twenty already.”

You agree. The terrain has been unforgiving, but you both knew it wouldn’t be easy. You drink half a liter of water in big gulps, letting the coolness hit your belly. Then you both sit in silence, letting your heart rates settle.

A couple of section hikers cross the road nearby and give you a polite nod. One of them offers you a granola bar. You don’t ask questions, you accept with gratitude. Out here, food shared is food revered.

9:45 a.m. — Climb to Tray Mountain Begins

You knew this climb was coming. Everyone talks about it. A long, steep ascent that chews up even the strongest hikers. Tray Mountain isn’t the tallest in Georgia, but it earns its reputation.

You dig in.

The trail heads back into the forest like it’s hiding something. The climb doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in, like a sore throat. You feel it first in your thighs, then your calves. Then the sweat starts. Your shirt clings to your back. Your breath comes fast and shallow.

Quill is behind you, quiet now. Both of you are conserving energy.

You stop often. Sometimes for water. Sometimes just to lean on a tree. You count switchbacks like battle scars. You feel the trail in your knees, in your hips, in your shoulders where the straps of your pack bite deep.

You talk to yourself again.

“Just walk. Just walk. That’s all.”

That little mantra becomes your lifeline.

Halfway up, there’s a rocky outcrop with a view. You drop your pack and sit. The wind cools your face, and you can see for miles; rolling ridgelines, layers of blue and green and haze. You chew a protein bar slowly, letting your breath return.

Quill arrives a few minutes later and sits without speaking. She doesn’t need to. You’re both in it.

12:20 p.m. — Tray Mountain Summit

You finally make it to the summit. It’s not a dramatic peak with exposed rock and sweeping fields. It’s more like a quiet highland glade, surrounded by stunted trees and a whispering breeze. A wooden sign marks the top. You take a picture of it just because you feel like you’ve earned the memory.

There’s a side trail leading to the shelter about 0.2 miles off the main AT. You both look at it like it’s a suggestion, not a command.

“Lunch?” Quill says.

“God yes.”

You both trudge down to the shelter, which sits on a slanted patch of dirt overlooking the valley below. It’s basic. Barely four walls. But it’s shelter.

You cook ramen again. This time with a crushed beef jerky stick thrown in for good measure. The steam fogs your sunglasses. You lean back, propped on your elbows, and just breathe.

Lunch tastes like victory.

1:45 p.m. — Camp Setup

Today was short mileage, but that climb makes it feel earned. You agree to stop here. It’s too beautiful to rush past.

You pick a tent pad nestled between two trees. It’s flattish, and the wind isn’t too strong. Setting up camp feels easier than usual. Your muscles are tired, but not panicked. Your mind is starting to get the rhythm of this life.

Quill strings a bear line. You hang your food bag and help her cinch the knot. The trees are tall, and the wind rocks the line a little. It feels good to take care of simple things. There’s no news out here. No email. No noise.

3:00 p.m. — Down Time

You lay in your tent with the rainfly pulled back so you can see the sky. It’s just clouds floating by, but they’re enough. Every once in a while, you close your eyes and doze for a few minutes.

You journal a bit. Scribbled notes about the climb. About the way the air smelled at the top of Tray. About the kindness of a stranger at Unicoi Gap.

Quill reads a paperback she’s been hauling since Neels Gap. Something about dragons and lost kingdoms. Her lips move when she reads silently. You smile and say nothing.

5:30 p.m. — Dinner and Sunset

Dinner is tortillas with tuna and some leftover hot sauce. You eat slowly, watching the sky go golden. A few more hikers have trickled into camp. You greet them. Some talk, some don’t. Everyone is tired.

One guy named Mark plays a harmonica softly. Just a few notes of some folksy melody. It drifts between the trees like smoke.

The sun sets in layers of orange, pink, lavender, finally gray.

Someone starts a small campfire. It crackles and hisses like it’s telling stories in its own language. You sit close enough to feel it on your shins.

Quill leans over, tired but content. “Today was hard,” she says. “But damn, it was good.”

You nod. “Yeah. It was.”

8:30 p.m. — Sleep

You crawl into your sleeping bag after brushing your teeth and checking for ticks. Your feet are cold, so you shove your water bottle next to them for warmth. It’s still half full from earlier.

Your body hums with soreness, but it’s a good ache now. An earned ache.

The woods are silent except for the distant rustle of wind in the branches and the occasional snap of a twig. Somewhere far off, maybe a coyote howls once, then falls silent.

You breathe deep.

Tomorrow, another mountain. Another dawn. Another chance to just walk.

And right now, that’s all you want.