The Appalachian Trail isn’t just a stroll in the woods. It’s a reckoning, a relentless pilgrimage that demands you face the weight of your own baggage, step by step. These ten days weren’t just a series of miles. They were confrontations, memories, revelations. Each one left a mark, chipping away at the walls I’d built, forcing me to strip down to something raw, something real.

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May 1st – Fog and Solitude

Woke up early today, nerves jangling over the weather, half-expecting a storm. But all we got was rain—just enough to make the trail muddy, nothing serious. Minda and I hiked together, and it was good. Easy, even. We put in a short day, maybe 7.5 miles, and hit Shiler Bald Shelter with plenty of light left. Then the crowd rolled in. A big, chatty bunch with endless small talk and that campfire friendliness that starts off nice but wears you down. Should’ve set up my tent somewhere quiet, but here I was, caught in their orbit.

May 2nd – A Taste of the Magic

We kicked off the day with breakfast, nothing fancy, and set out for Shiler’s Bald. The view up there? Unreal. Photos wouldn’t come close, and words fail it—just a sweep of mountains stretching out like the world decided to show off. Later, we hit Wayah Bald, where a stone observation tower stood watch over everything below. We claimed a shady spot inside, ate lunch, and soaked it all in.

There were a few tourists around, asking questions, looking impressed. For once, we were the cool kids on the block, trail-worn and knowing something they didn’t. A mile later, we reached our campsite, a relaxed 7.5-mile day in the books. I’ve got the itch to push harder, go for longer miles, but it’s good to have Minda around. There’s a comfort in her company, an anchor to the miles to keep me from pushing me too hard.

May 3rd – Ghosts Along the Way

Today started heavy. Minda wanted to hike alone, and as I watched her walk off, I felt something strange—relief mixed with dread. The trail was quiet, but it felt like something was walking with me. My mind drifted back to the faces, the moments in EMS that haunt you but don’t belong to you. By midday, I found a small spring, and for the first time in a long time, I just sat. The ghosts, the shadows—they were part of me, part of what I couldn’t save. And maybe that was okay. The trail doesn’t let you hide, and I was finally learning not to.

May 4th – Wrestling with Shadows

Today’s grind wasn’t just in the miles. Each step brought up memories, faces, fragments of calls that ended in silence. The trail doesn’t let you pretend. There’s no “next call” to hide behind, no routine to fall back on. Sitting alone on a rock, I felt the grief, the weight of what I’d pushed down for years, rising like a slow wave. It wasn’t pretty, but it was honest. The mountains don’t care about the walls you’ve built; they’re here to tear them down.

May 5th – The Uphill Grind

Crushed the climb out of NOC today, all the way up to Stecoah Gap—a solid 14 miles, and it felt damn good to leave that place in the rearview. The climb was rough, steep as hell, but there was something satisfying about pushing through it, about leaving the baggage back on that mountain.

I spent most of the day hiking solo, watching my own boots more than the trail ahead. Not many views, nothing spectacular, just the quiet rhythm of one foot in front of the other. It wasn’t a great day, but it beat yesterday.

When I finally hit Stecoah Gap, a couple pulled up—traveling the country, living the life. I told them about my Cape Hatteras trip road trip, and by the end of our talk, they were planning to go there themselves. Felt good to share that piece of my past, pass on a little of the magic.

Then, just as I thought the day was winding down, another family showed up, offering me ice water and a ride into Robbinsville. I took it. The weather’s supposed to get nasty tonight, so I’m holed up in an Airbnb, watching the storm roll in from the comfort of four walls. Sometimes, the trail provides exactly what you need when you need it.

May 6th – Robbinsville’s Unexpected Solace

A zero day in Robbinsville, and I needed it. There’s something grounding about a small town, about the way people look you in the eye, ask you how you’re doing, and actually listen. I stocked up on supplies, chatted with locals who didn’t know a thing about the trail but cared enough to listen to my story. The slower pace was a reminder of what it feels like to breathe without pressure, without deadlines. A world away from EMS, I felt strangely human.

May 7th – The Trail Provides

What a day. I started out with Jacobs Ladder, which, for all the hype, turned out to be a bit of a letdown—it wasn’t nearly as brutal as everyone made it out to be. Rain poured down, steady and relentless, turning everything into a misty, cloud-wrapped wonderland. Hiking in the rain like that is something else, like walking through a dream.

A few miles in, we met a trail maintainer who waved us down, said he had a surprise in his car for us. We made it to the gap, only to find his car locked tight with a box of Girl Scout cookies taunting us from the passenger seat. Total heartbreak.

We reached Cable Gap Shelter around 2:30 and found Chuck, Lauren, Lemon Drop, and Van-Go Girl. They were all planning to push on to Fontana and convinced Minda to join. She was hesitant, but we wore her down. So we headed out for another six miles, and let me tell you, it was brutal. The uphill seemed endless, stretching out under a steady downpour. Rain picked up, and I threw on some music, head down, just grinding it out. As the miles dragged on, guilt crept in—I’d convinced Minda to keep going, and now here we were, trudging through hell.

Finally made it to Fontana Marina, hoping to find Van-Go Girl waiting, but there was nothing—no cell service, nobody around. I was about ready to collapse when, out of nowhere, the same car we’d tried to break into earlier rolls up. Lemon Drop jumps out, shouting, “We’re hiking 1.5 more miles! No packs—hotel rooms and food waiting!” I was still piecing it together when the trail maintainer from earlier, Ox, popped out of the driver’s seat and said he’d come to pick us up at the shelter. Suddenly, we remembered Minda was somewhere back on the trail in the dark, and my stomach dropped.

Lemon Drop and I booked it up the trail, practically jogging the 1.5 miles to the shelter. Just as we arrived, up pulls Ox with Minda in the passenger seat. Relief washed over us, and then, like magic, he handed out the Girl Scout cookies we’d missed earlier.

Turns out, Ox isn’t just any trail maintainer—he’s the Smokies trail supervisor, and one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. The restaurant in town had lost power, so he managed to scrounge up free pulled pork sandwiches for us at the lodge. We sat around, crammed together, eating with Ox, the whole group back together, and it felt like pure trail magic.

It’s wild how the trail provides just when you need it most, lifting your spirits and bringing people like Ox into your path. Today reminded me why I’m out here—it’s not just the miles; it’s the community, the kindness that shows up out of nowhere.

May 8th – Sunburned and Satisfied

We all met up for breakfast, the kind of slow, easy morning that makes you forget you’ve been living out of a backpack. Decided on a laid-back day—a short three-mile stretch between the dam and the marina. I’d already covered some of those miles with Lemon Drop, but I’d do them again to stick with the crew. There’s something about moving as a group that changes the feel of the trail, makes it less about the grind and more about the experience.

We hit the dam together, taking in the view, and then walked on to the marina for lunch, swapping stories and laughs. Afterward, Van-Go Girl and I claimed some prime poolside real estate, and Flowers joined us. I closed my eyes for what felt like a second, only to wake up with a brutal sunburn—a badge of a lazy afternoon gone a bit too far.

Dinner brought us all together again, Ox included. Sitting there with the group, making plans to stay together through the Smokies, I felt a sense of belonging that’s rare out here. The miles matter, but it’s these moments—the laughter, the shared meals, the kind strangers who become friends—that stick with you.

May 9th – The Brutal Climb

We set out today with big plans—14 miles, give or take—but the trail had other ideas. We barely made it 11.9 before calling it. The climb out of Fontana was relentless, one of those grinds that doesn’t quit, each switchback just leading to another. But the views from the fire tower made it worth the sweat—mountains stretching out as far as you could see, a reminder of why we put ourselves through this day after day.

Hiked a bit with Flowers, and we both agreed—today was rough. By the time we stumbled into Mollie Ridge Shelter, seeing Operator, Magic Hat, and Van-Go Girl waiting there was like a sight for sore eyes. We were wiped, and the relief of familiar faces was like a warm blanket.

Dinner was one of the best yet—brisket, mashed potatoes, green peppers all wrapped up. Real trail luxury. We’ve got another 12 miles on deck tomorrow, so here’s hoping for some rest tonight. The trail doesn’t care how tired you are; it’s waiting, ready to test you all over again in the morning.

May 10th – The Hardest Miles Yet

The day started off easy, almost deceivingly so. The trail was wide and smooth, soft underfoot, with enough level ground to lull you into a sense of comfort. Made it over Rocky Top and Thunderhead without a hitch, each summit rewarding us with wide-open views and a perfect breeze that reminded me why I’m out here. For a while, everything felt effortless.

But the downhill that followed? Brutal. Every step jarred, and the uphills that came after felt like they were taking it all back, step by step. Ox warned us this section would be one of the toughest, and he wasn’t kidding.

Tomorrow, we’re headed up Clingmans Dome, another long push. It’s strange being back here after that hike with the Sea Cadets, retracing steps I thought I’d left behind. But out here, every return feels like a fresh challenge, a new chance to test myself. For now, though, I’m beat. Good night.

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Reflections on the Trail’s Teachings

The trail doesn’t let you pretend. It strips you down to something real, something raw. It teaches you that healing isn’t a quick fix—it’s a process, a choice, something you have to recommit to every day. Out here, there’s no rush, no pressure, just the chance to breathe, to be, and to let go. I didn’t expect to find this kind of peace, but maybe that’s the point. Sometimes, the only way to save yourself is to let go of everything you thought you needed.