Walk The Appalachian Trail - 5

Too real to wake up from

DAY FIVE – Neels Gap to Low Gap Shelter
Mile 31.3 to 42.5 — 11.2 miles
Total miles: 42.5

5:59 a.m.
Your eyes snap open.

You forgot where you were for a second. The bunk. The quiet hum of someone snoring softly on the other side of the room. The smell of clean laundry; yours, drying overnight. You lie still, staring at the underside of the top bunk above you.

Then you remember.

Neels Gap. Blood Mountain. The road. The real bed, even if it’s nothing but a stiff mattress wrapped in a thin blanket. And now the next day.

You roll over and check your phone. Battery's at 42%. No signal. You don’t care. The phone goes off. Back into the bag. You're not here for that.

6:12 a.m.
Your feet are stiff. Legs tight. Shoulders a bit better, though the ache’s become part of you now, like the weight of the pack is fusing into your body. You swing your legs out of the bunk and stand up slow.

Outside, the sky is turning that soft watercolor blue. You sneak into the bathroom, brush your teeth, wash your face, and splash your neck with cold water that makes you gasp and laugh at yourself.

Another day. Another walk.

7:05 a.m.
Breakfast is light. Oatmeal made with hot water from the hostel’s kettle. You scarf down a banana someone left in the communal basket. It’s bruised and soft but you eat it like gold. You refill your water bottles, check your socks, and tape up your blister again. It's not worse, but it hasn't gone away either. Just a little red badge of effort.

You see Quill outside packing up. She offers you a nod and a little smile, and you both end up starting out together.

“Long one today,” she says.

You nod. “Yeah. Hoping for Low Gap.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

And with that, you both shoulder your packs and cross the road, stepping back into the green tunnel.

7:45 a.m. – Out of Neels Gap, Climb Begins
The trail doesn’t waste time. Right out of Neels, it throws you up into the hills. You feel it fast. Your thighs burning, your back groaning, the familiar What did I sign up for again? voice kicking in.

But your body’s not the same as it was five days ago. You’re learning how to suffer with rhythm now.

You climb, breathe, drink, step, and repeat.

Quill is ahead of you, gliding up like she’s part deer. She doesn’t talk much in the morning. Neither do you. There's a comfort in that.

9:20 a.m. – Cowrock Mountain
You hit a clearing and suddenly—bam—views.

Cowrock Mountain gives you a taste of altitude. Long stretches of forest below, fading into blue ridges far beyond. You drop your pack, sit on a rock, and let the wind dry your sweat. You eat some almonds and dried cranberries from a plastic bag and drink water, slow and steady.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” Quill says suddenly.

You look over.

“Pizza. Like stupid big slices. Greasy, cheesy, hot.”

You laugh out loud. “God, yes. I’d do terrible things for a pizza right now.”

She smirks. “We should keep a running list of stuff we’ll eat in town.”

You nod, making a mental list:
Pizza.
Iced coffee.
Pancakes.
Anything that isn’t nuts or noodles.

11:00 a.m. – Climb After Cowrock
The next stretch is tough. A rollercoaster of mini climbs that feel endless. It’s warm now, and the sun is high. You find a rhythm again, hiking alone now—Quill has drifted ahead.

You catch your thoughts bouncing around like marbles in a cup. Old memories. Conversations from years ago. Regrets. Hopes. Sometimes, you catch yourself talking out loud.

At one point, you whisper:
“I think I needed this more than I knew.”

You stop, take off your pack, and just breathe for a while. Your heart’s pounding. But there’s a strange lightness in your chest. Something shifting.

12:45 p.m. – Lunch Break at Tesnatee Gap
You cross a forest service road and drop down into Tesnatee Gap. There's a big log and a few other hikers already resting. One guy with a massive beard playing with a harmonica, a couple in matching gear, and a solo woman maybe in her 50s.

You sit and boil water for ramen. It’s salty, hot, and stupidly satisfying. You don’t even care that it’s barely noon. You scarf it like it’s a holiday meal.

Everyone talks about the weather; clear skies, warm air, a hint of spring already in the trees. The woman offers you a packet of peanut butter. You trade her a mini Snickers.

Trail magic, small and sweet.

2:00 p.m. – Hogpen Gap and Beyond
The next several miles are steady. Long, gentle climbs and descents through pine woods. You zone out completely. No music, no talking, just the crunch of your boots and the whisper of wind through dry leaves.

You think about your life.

Your job, your friends, the noise of it all. The way everything back home felt so packed in, overstuffed. Now, here you are, walking through a forest with your whole world strapped to your back, and somehow… it feels simpler.

Not easier. But clearer.

At one point, you stop just to touch the bark of a huge tree. No reason. Just to remember that you’re here.

4:30 p.m. – Approaching Low Gap Shelter
The trail begins to flatten and dip toward Low Gap. The sun is slanting golden through the trees, hitting everything with that soft glow you only get for maybe ten minutes a day. The shelter appears like an old friend waiting around the bend; wooden, weathered, sitting beside a little trickling stream.

You’re beat. Your feet feel like bricks. Your shirt is stuck to your back. But you made it.

Quill’s already here, sitting on the edge of the shelter writing in a small notebook. She looks up, nods.

“You made good time.”

You drop your pack and groan. “Barely.”

You both laugh.

5:15 p.m. – Setting Camp
There’s a flat tent pad just down the hill. You pitch your tent slow, hands a little shaky from tired muscles. Then you walk barefoot into the stream. It’s ice cold. Your feet scream at you, then thank you.

You wash off the grime, splash your face, and filter water. It feels like some old ritual. Basic. Important. Grounding.

Dinner is couscous with tuna stirred in. You sit next to Quill and two other hikers, chatting and eating as dusk creeps in.

The woman from lunch shows up, settling into her own tent a few yards away. She offers a tired wave. You wave back.

There’s a little fire going. You don’t even know who started it, but it pulls you in. People gather. Not a big group, maybe seven of you total. Someone passes around chocolate. A man shares a joke so dry it takes you a second to realize it was funny. Everyone laughs too hard.

8:25 p.m. – Nightfall
The woods go quiet.

It’s strange how still it gets. The wind hushes, the animals quiet down, and all that’s left is the sound of the creek trickling nearby and the slow creak of someone’s hammock ropes shifting.

You’re back in your tent. Journal in your lap. You scribble:

"Today hurt in all the right ways.
The miles didn’t lie.
And neither did the mountain.
I'm not sure where I’m going yet. But I’m walking toward it."

You stop, listen to the quiet, and smile to yourself.

You zip up the flap, slide into your sleeping bag, and pull it over your shoulders.

9:04 p.m. – Final Thoughts
You’re sore. Tired in a way that only walking all day can make you. But there's no part of you that wants to be anywhere else.

Tomorrow is just more trail. More steps. More forest. And somehow, that feels like the best thing.

You whisper to yourself, eyes heavy:

“Let’s see what Day Six brings.”

And then you sleep.