The Appalachian Trail - 7

One week in. Is that all?

DAY SEVEN – Tray Mountain Shelter to Dicks Creek Gap
Mile 58.7 to Mile 69.1 — 10.4 miles
Total Miles: 69.1

6:00 a.m

The wind picks up around dawn, slipping through your tent seams and making the nylon hum like a warning. You’re already awake, though not from the cold, but from your hips. Sleeping on the ground night after night has turned your body into a symphony of minor aches.

You stretch your arms above your head, brushing the tent wall, and sigh.

Outside, it’s quiet except for the occasional rustle of nylon and the soft grunt of someone stirring near the shelter. You unzip the rainfly and peek out. The ridge still sits in a blanket of shadow, but the sky to the east is beginning to pale.

You spot Quill already crouched near the bear line, hoodie up, headlamp on. She gives you a little wave but doesn’t say anything.

You know that wave by now: Let’s move.

6:45 a.m. — Breakfast and Packing

You're sitting on a rock with a mug of instant coffee that tastes half like plastic and half like salvation. A Clif bar is breakfast today, your last one, too. Your food bag is getting low, and the thought of real food in Hiawassee tomorrow keeps flashing across your mind like a neon sign. Burgers. Fries. Maybe even a milkshake.

You both eat quickly. The wind cuts through the ridge, and it's too chilly to linger. You finish packing your gear, cinching your sleeping bag into its compression sack like you’re wrestling an alligator.

You zip your pack and swing it on with a grunt.

“Ten point four miles today,” Quill mutters through a yawn. “Want to try to get to the gap by two?”

“Two sounds good,” you say, even though you know your body wants to say three.

You hit the trail as the sky turns from gray to gold.

7:10 a.m. — Leaving Tray Mountain Shelter

The first part of the hike is easy and forgiving. The trail dips and weaves through mossy woods. Sunlight begins to spill through the trees in streaks. Those golden bars that make everything look softer than it feels.

Your legs are stiff at first, especially your calves, but the movement helps. Within half a mile, you're back in rhythm. Breath. Step. Plant the pole. Step again.

You pass a small overlook just before the trail curves around a bend, and you pause. The morning fog still clings to the valleys below. You can see layers of mountains out there, all fading into different shades of blue.

You don’t talk much this morning. It’s one of those quiet mornings, nothing wrong, just both of you tucked inside your own heads.

8:15 a.m. — Sassafras Gap

You stop briefly at Sassafras Gap for water. There’s a small spring trail down to the left, trickling into a shallow pool. The cold stings your fingertips as you dip your bottle and screw on the filter.

Quill groans softly as she leans against a tree, massaging her knees. “This pack’s starting to feel like it’s made of bricks and regrets.”

“Could be worse,” you say. “Could be raining.”

You jinxed it.

Not ten minutes after leaving Sassafras Gap, the sky darkens. You feel it before you see it. That hush that falls through the woods, like the earth is holding its breath. Then a drop. Then three more. Then it’s a steady drizzle.

You slip on your rain jacket and keep walking. The trail turns muddy fast. Puddles form in low spots, and you find yourself hopping rocks and cursing roots. The forest goes quiet again, muffled by rain.

You don’t bother talking. There’s no point. Just keep moving.

10:00 a.m. — Steeltrap Gap

The rain lets up a little as you reach Steeltrap Gap. There’s a small clearing here, and you drop your packs under a patch of rhododendrons to take a snack break. Quill’s soaked through, rain jacket or not. Her curls are plastered to her cheeks.

She bites into a smashed granola bar like it owes her money.

“We're earning this zero day,” she mutters.

You nod, peeling open your last packet of peanut butter and squeezing it straight into your mouth.

“Think we’ll beat the next storm?” you ask, glancing up at the thick clouds rolling back in.

“Only if we start running.”

You both chuckle, though neither of you gets up right away. You sit in the wet quiet, breathing in the scent of damp earth and pine needles. The trail is hard, but these moments when it’s just you, the trees, and nothing else is why you’re out here.

11:30 a.m. — Powell Mountain

The climb to Powell Mountain hits hard. It’s steep, muddy, and scattered with slick rocks. Every step requires focus. Your poles sink deep into the wet dirt, and your boots feel heavier with every step.

Quill is a few paces ahead of you now, pushing hard, her breath coming out in rhythmic huffs. You hear her muttering to herself; maybe counting, maybe cursing. You’re doing the same.

You crest the hill with your legs screaming and your pack sagging, and it hits you just how far you’ve come. Nearly seventy miles. You’re not fresh anymore. You’re not clean. You’re not comfortable.

But you’re still moving.

You pause at the top. There’s a break in the trees, and for a brief second, sunlight slices through the clouds. You both stop and just breathe it in.

Then it’s time to descend.

1:00 p.m. — Approaching Dicks Creek Gap

The last few miles are smoother, but long. The trail rolls gently up and down, winding along a ridge before dropping into the gap. You start hearing road noise about a mile out; faint at first, then louder.

Your feet are soaked. Your socks squish. Your right shoulder is aching from the way the pack settled today. But still, your pace picks up.

When you reach Dicks Creek Gap, it almost doesn’t feel real. There’s a small parking lot, a road cutting through, and a few cars parked under the trees. You see two section hikers huddled under an awning waiting for a shuttle.

You and Quill drop your packs like anchors and just sit on the curb.

She rips her boots off and groans like she’s been through a war.

You lie back on the pavement, arms stretched wide, raindrops still dotting your face. The sky above is a dull gray.

You’ve made it to the last major gap before the North Carolina border.

1:40 p.m. — Trail Magic

Out of nowhere, a white SUV pulls into the lot. A man in a neon rain jacket and cargo pants hops out, opens the back, and starts unloading a cooler.

You and Quill exchange a look.

“Hey y’all!” the man shouts. “Anyone want a cold soda or some cookies?”

You sit up so fast your spine cracks.

Trail magic.

You and Quill limp over. He’s got homemade chocolate chip cookies, a box of peanut butter crackers, Coke, and bottles of Gatorade.

You thank him about ten times as you inhale two cookies and slam a Coke like it’s water in the desert. Quill eats so fast she almost forgets to breathe.

The man, Gary, from Atlanta, says he hikes this stretch every spring and likes to come out a few weekends a year just to give back.

“Did my first thru hike in 2003,” he says. “Still remember what it’s like on day eight.”

You nod slowly, cookie halfway to your mouth. “It’s a weird kind of ache.”

“That’s how you know it’s real,” Gary says with a smile.

2:15 p.m. — Catching the Shuttle

A few minutes later, your shuttle pulls up. An old blue van with “Top of Georgia Hostel” painted on the side in faded yellow letters. The driver, a lean guy named Cliff, hops out and calls out names. You and Quill load up with a few other hikers.

Inside the van, it smells like wet socks and trail funk. No one complains.

You’re headed into Hiawassee for a night at the hostel, a hot shower, and, if the universe is kind, a bacon cheeseburger.

As the van winds through the twisting mountain roads, you stare out the window at the trees rushing past. You're exhausted. But there's a small, solid pride sitting in your chest.

Eight days in.

3:00 p.m. — Hostel Check-In

The hostel is cozy in that trail worn way: mismatched furniture, walls covered in hiker graffiti, and a bench full of loaner Crocs by the front door. The manager checks you in, hands you a towel, and points toward the laundry shed.

The shower is lukewarm, but it feels like heaven. You stand under it for ten minutes, watching the dirt swirl down the drain. You scrub your feet twice. You wash your hair with the tiny soap sliver they gave you at check in.

When you emerge, towel wrapped around your shoulders, Quill is already halfway through a frozen pizza she found in the hiker fridge.

You both sit on the porch after, barefoot, cleanish, and full.

Evening — Reflection

Before bed, you stretch out on your bunk and write a few notes in your trail journal. You jot down the little things:

The sound of your boots in the mud

Quill’s quiet hum when she climbs

The way that Coke tasted in the rain

The smell of pine sap after the storm

Your own stubborn, sore, relentless body still moving

You don’t feel like a hiker yet. Not fully. But something’s shifting. You’re not the same person who stepped off the bus at Amicalola.

You’re becoming someone else. Someone stronger. Someone more aware. Someone who’s learning the rhythm of the woods, one mile at a time.

Tomorrow, North Carolina.

But tonight, rest.

And maybe, just maybe, another cookie.