Walk The Appalachian Trail Day 8

Off Trail Day (Rest Day)

DAY EIGHT – Zero Day in Hiawassee
Off Trail Day (Rest Day)
Total Miles: 69.1

7:00 a.m. – A Real Bed

You wake up and blink slowly at the ceiling. A real ceiling. Four solid walls. A mattress under you. For a second, your brain doesn’t know where you are. The air smells like laundry detergent, old wood, and hotel soap.

Then it clicks. Hiawassee.

You roll over and glance across the room. Quill is still asleep, sprawled on her bed, one sock half off and an empty bag of chips on her stomach. Her hair’s a frizzy halo around her head.

The room is quiet. No birds. No wind. No zipper to wrestle with. No damp sleeping bag or aching hips from a root in your back.

Just stillness.

You stare at the ceiling a little longer, not moving. You know your body needs this zero day. But you also know something else: the trail doesn’t exactly leave your head just because you step off it.

You miss it already. Kind of.

8:30 a.m. – Motel Morning

You finally drag yourself out of bed. Your legs are stiff, but without the weight of your pack, you feel twenty pounds lighter. Literally.

The motel’s small, basic and worn, but clean. There's a little microwave, a mini fridge, and a weak pot of coffee from the lobby. You down two cups like it’s medicine.

You take a long, hot shower, and it’s borderline spiritual. Steam everywhere. Dirt in rivulets. You scrub the trail off your skin, but somehow it still feels like it’s in you. You examine the bruises, the blisters, the lines of sunburn on your arms and neck.

Quill groans awake around nine. “Did we die?” she mumbles. “Because this feels like heaven and also like I got hit by a truck.”

“Welcome to recovery,” you say.

10:15 a.m. – Resupply Run

You both catch a shuttle ride to Ingles, the local grocery store, after a lazy breakfast at a diner across the street. Eggs. Toast. Hash browns. Bacon. Real coffee. You clean your plate like you haven’t eaten in a week. Because, let’s be honest, trail food isn’t really food, it’s survival.

At Ingles, you grab a cart and start the usual zero day dance: figuring out what your next four days of trail meals will be. It’s weird how quickly you’ve learned to think like a backpacker. Calories. Weight. Simplicity.

You grab a box of Pop-Tarts, some tuna packets, ramen, granola, tortillas, jerky, and peanut butter. You both circle back twice to look for anything that could break the monotony. Trail mix? Again? You settle on a bag of sour gummy worms for morale.

Quill finds a pack of mini Snickers and says, “These are non negotiable.”

You nod. “Trail gold.”

The cashier gives you a look like Are you two going camping or going to war?

11:45 a.m. – Laundry and Gear Check

Back at the motel, you each take turns doing laundry. The clothes reek. Like woods, sweat, and wet dog. But after 70 miles on the AT, that smell kind of becomes part of your identity.

While the laundry spins, you lay out your gear across the motel bed, checking everything. One tent stake is bent. You’ll live. The filter’s holding up. Your stove needs a cleaning.

Your journal’s damp at the edges. You flip through it anyway. Notes from Springer, jokes about your first night freezing at Gooch, little sketches from Blue Mountain Shelter. It already feels like a lifetime ago.

You sit on the edge of the bed and suddenly feel exhausted again. Not physically, this is something else. A kind of mental weariness. A pause that feels too long, like if you stop for too long, you might not start again.

You won’t say it out loud, but part of you worries about heading back tomorrow. It’s comfortable here. Warm. Easy. It’s amazing how fast comfort becomes a trap.

1:30 p.m. – Lunch and Locals

You and Quill hit up a local pizza place for lunch. You order a whole pie to split, thinking you’ll have leftovers. There are no leftovers.

While you eat, a guy at the next table overhears you talking about the trail and says he hiked in 2018. He’s got that far off look, like he never fully came back.

He tells you that Georgia was hard for him too. That the first two weeks nearly broke him. “But if you push past that,” he says, “something changes. The trail gets into your blood. You’ll see.”

You nod. You get it. It’s already happening.

Back at the motel, Quill lies on the bed and says, “I think I’m in love with sitting.”

You flop onto your bed and say, “I forgot what it feels like not to stink.”

You both crack up.

3:00 p.m. – Hiker Box & Quiet Time

You check the hiker box in the lobby. People drop off gear they don’t want to carry anymore: half empty fuel canisters, weird snacks, trial sized sunscreen, even a pair of socks that somehow don’t smell horrible.

You trade in your busted lighter for a tiny Bic someone left behind and grab a nearly new pair of toe socks just to see if you like the feel.

Back in the room, you kill a quiet hour just lying on your back, scrolling through photos you’ve taken. The mountains. The weird mushrooms. Quill making a face while balancing on a log. A selfie where your cheeks look sunken but your eyes are alive.

You text a couple people. A “Still alive” update. You’re not in a hurry to reconnect with the outside world yet.

Honestly, the world feels far away.

4:45 p.m. – Trail Legs and Trail Thoughts

Quill gets up and stretches. “My body’s confused,” she says. “Like it wants to move, but also wants to dissolve into this bed.”

You nod. You feel it too. The rest is necessary, but also uncomfortable. Stillness reminds you of pain in a way motion never did.

You talk for a bit about the hike so far. What surprised you. What you didn’t expect.

“I thought I’d feel free right away,” you say. “But I didn’t. Not until, like, Day Five. Maybe not even yet.”

Quill nods. “Same. It’s like freedom costs something. You don’t just wake up with it.”

You both sit in that thought for a while. Then Quill says, “Also, my knee still hates me.”

6:00 p.m. – Dinner, Laughter, and the Bubble

Dinner’s at a small bar and grill down the road. You spot two hikers you recognize from Tray Mountain. You join them. They’re a couple from Minnesota, trail names Jackrabbit and Sticks.

The four of you talk trail for two hours straight. Gear disasters. Bad decisions. That one awful uphill near Unicoi that everyone remembers like a trauma. You laugh harder than you have in days.

Quill raises a fry and toasts: “To pain, sweat, and going uphill forever.”

You all clink fries like they’re wine glasses.

Outside, it’s drizzling again. You walk back to the motel under the soft glow of streetlights, the kind of quiet you only find in small towns at night.

8:30 p.m. – Packing and Doubt

Back in the room, you pack up slowly. Everything smells cleaner. Your bag feels organized again. But there’s a weight in your chest. Not physical.

You stare at the map for tomorrow. The climb out of Dicks Creek is no joke. You’ll be crossing into North Carolina. A new state.

You sit on the edge of your bed, holding a fresh pair of socks, and say, “You think we’re really doing this?”

Quill looks up. “We already are.”

And yeah. She’s right.

9:45 p.m. – Lights Out

The lights are off. The motel’s quiet.

Your body still feels like it’s moving, even while you’re lying still. Like the rhythm of the trail is still thrumming through your blood. You’re not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

You think about your reasons for coming out here. Not just to walk, but to... clear something. Prove something. Fix something. Maybe all three.

You don’t know yet if you’ve started to do that.

But you know you’re not ready to stop.

Not even close.

End of Day Nine
Total Trail Miles: 69.1
Zero Days: 1
Tomorrow: North Carolina Line