4/27-Mile 568.1-Chestnut Knob Shelter Dear Andrew, This is a frigid and tragic tale in which our beloved heroine survives four days of end-of-the-world rain, near-freezing temperatures, washed out bridges, and the loss of childhood innocence that can only come from not even seeing a single pony. But let me switch to first person and explain from the beginning. After Damascus comes Grayson Highlands, a famed stretch of State Park in which wild ponies run free. Imagine sloping green pastures speckled with budding flowers, fluttering butterflies, and majestic ponies doing what ponies do best: being goddamn beautiful. I never knew how much I wanted, needed to see the ponies until I walked 500 miles, and then it became my singular desire. Would they eat instant oatmeal out of my palm? Would their manes be flowing in the breeze? Would they look into my eyes and understand me in a way that no human ever had, or ever would? I was all ponies, all the time, and I couldn’t wait to find out. And then the rain struck. Sideways, pelting rain bullets with 40 mph winds that chilled you to your very bones. There was no seeing, or thinking, or feeling- there was just walking, only walking, always walking. Twelve blurry miles later I made it to a shelter shivering, drenched, and ravenous. It was only noon but I knew I had to stop hiking or risk hypothermia at that elevation, and so I peeled off my layers, pulled on mercifully dry clothes with feeble fingers, and crawled into my sleeping bag to take what I can only describe as an “emergency nap” Are you picturing me doing all this alone? Because I wasn’t, in fact, I survived the storm with three older men who I would now take a (rain) bullet for. There’s Scout, the reluctant civil engineer from Michigan who has spent a life alone traveling the world; Hodge Podge, a 47 year old charmingly witty goofball; and Trainwreck, a retired railroad mechanic from Alabama with a wry sense of humor. These men and your dear sister became a rag tag group as we huddled together in an attic perched on the top of Mount McKinley, Virginia’s highest peak. We passed the storm the only way we knew how: eating, then talking, and then sleeping. When the next day dawned the storm appeared to have no intention of leaving. The magical land of ponies and open pastures was shrouded in a thick, chilly fog; the trail was less of a trail and more of a creek; and I would hike the next 30 miles with drenched socks and shoes. As the Smokies taught us all, this is a recipe for blister disaster. And, well-you know the ending. I did not see a single pony, but I did see a hell of a lot of pony poop. I hiked out of the storm and into the next town with my fellow crisis survivors, where we split motel rooms, did our laundry, and ate even more Subway. We found out that just about every other hiker behind us had gotten off the trail during the storm, except those too foolish and/or stubborn, like yours truly. But as I plodded with squeaking socks across the fogged-out terrain softly singing Sheryl Crow’s “Every Day is a Winding Road” to myself, I came to terms with the fact that sometimes when you want to see ponies, you only get pony poop. But then you can turn that soggy animal waste into real human friends who keep you warmer than your $12 Walmart rain jacket ever could. And thus our heroine has learned an invaluable lesson, and takes comfort in the knowledge that somewhere out there those ponies are gleefully trotting across sun-kissed mountain tops while the voice of 90s radio pop tells us that every day “you get a little bit closer to feeling fine” Love, Laura P.S. I saw my first bear with her cub! Have not yet been eaten.
1 Comment
Sandy Vinje
5/10/2017 10:16:41 pm
Love living vicariously through you!
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LettersThese are the letters that Laura has sent her brother over the course of her hike. They are faithfully and painstakingly transcribed in their entirety. They are meant to keep people updated on how many facts she has learned about trees. Archives
July 2017
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