Day 5 (2.88 miles):  Lost Cove to Roseborough

Last day.  Short day.  Up the trail.  Down the road, and hopefully to a “civilized” meal in Morganton.

Chuck and I have had an ongoing discussion since Wednesday, and if you’re experienced in this field, please share below.  How do you best keep your feet dry and functional when hiking is always a little wet, always crossing the water—as is the case in the never completely dry, always humid mountains of the American Southeast?

Kate (our Alaskan thru-hiker from Tuesday evening) claimed she simply wore her rain gear non-stop, but even that—with the persistent obstacles of creek crossings—would not solve the problem of wet footwear that lead to our boot/sandal toggle this week.  Inevitably, sandal hiking with moisture will lead to some irritation.  At camp, we had discovered what we dubbed “the old man’s solution”—socks and sandals—as a compromise; but you can’t really cross a creek in socks, and we had our first crossing 50 yards down the trail behind our campsite and four more before we hit the parking lot.  So for our exit hike, it was a Frankenstein of moleskin and waterproof tape keeping the sandal straps from rubbing the skin further raw.  


You would think that without a shoe issue, the dogs would have fewer worries, but they seemed even more reticent to cross.  Like us, their confidence ebbs and flows; unlike us, they are not the best at reading maps or moving water: they are tentative at easy crossings and foolhardy at difficult ones.  I found myself in the role of encourager, gently lifting the dogs by the strap and praising them; I’ve done this enough that I start to get low-key jealous that no one is there to give me a little lift over fallen logs or tell me I’m a good boy when I cross the creek.  

Usually, Atticus loves splashing in the water; he’s made bad decisions trying to get down to water.  But this morning, he just stands on the rock and looks at us: “Not another one” he seems to think.  But a gentle nudge and we’re off.  On one crossing, Juno thought she had the creek licked—a narrow but rapid crossing—and nearly slipped down a mossy rock, once again putting the handles into play.  We frequently meet day-hikers who look at the backpacks as an oddity, but it cannot be overestimated how many times being able to pick up the dogs like a suitcase has saved us all some headaches and heartaches.

Soon we reach Gragg Prong, which will unfortunately get filed away under “visit this on a day hike someday, as the push to get out and on the road at a reasonable hour negates side trips.  From the parking lot, Gragg Prong is neither a long nor difficult hike, and a quick side trail leads to both the bottom and the top of a long rock perfect for climbing and sunning with a vast pool below.  Indeed, like most of the last two days of the hike, the trail has many points where a little bushwhacking and careful steep descent could yield a large reward.  

The trail has followed a narrow but passable Cliffside hike up to this point and we finally make our last two creek crossings of the day.  The dogs are champs.  They barely move in camp, but put the packs on and they are ready to go, surmounting obstacle after obstacle.

Less than a half mile the end, a dog barked from across the creek.  Too tired to care, Juno and Atticus ignore him and plod on.  I look over and see the camp site across the creek with a full sun canopy and a dirt road behind it: car camping—we must be close.  I keep my eyes peeled for the bridge where we start.  But as one last cruel joke, the trail twists upward into a tree, making the easier to choice to get down in the knee deep water one last time.  

Soon, we reach the parking area to watch a purple she-shed getting pulled up the road.  I remember thinking on Monday that Atticus would lunge for the running water under the bridge, but he’s having none of it.  He follows Chuck up the trail, across the bridge, patiently waiting to jump in the car.  They were so excited on the car ride up; they are so wiped out on the car ride back.  Soon, we’re on the road and hit Abele’s.  It’s not the breakfast buffet I was hoping for, but it is a gluttonous repast nonetheless.

I was home by the afternoon, stopping to bathe the dogs at The Dog Salon (during which they barely moved) and settled in by 10:00 to write this final chapter, sitting “proper” at a table and chair to write for the first time in over a week.  It’s comfortable, but there’s something about sitting under the tent light that I already miss.  According to the official guide, our hike was 36.9 for the week; the Apple watch (for which I carried a charger so I could monitor mileage and heart rate all week) claimed we went 39.38 miles.  ON cue, it buzzes and gives me my gentle reminder that I can close my calorie ring if I’m willing to get up and have a brisk 23-minute walk.

I think not.

I’ve drawn a bucket of epsoms with which to begin repair of the damage to my feet.  But the final impression of this trip is not the fatigue, despair, nor the pain.  In moments large and small, there are sense memories—such as lying on a rock beside a waterfall under the perfect summer sky, the thunderous sound of the water washing over tired bodies with joy, staring up at the stars beside a glowing fire, or even a quiet log in the middle of lush woods—that will be touchstones of peaceful respite for years to come.  There are the long stretches of silence through which my mind churned through mental obstacles heavier than my backpack.  There are the unfettered rambling conversations blossomed in the absence of the distractions of the “to do lists” of the modern world.  With all the struggle, these moments justify all the pain of the undertaking, preserving ecstatic memories and the possibility of further lands to explore, both near and far.  Having the space, time, and companionship to take this trek is a blessing for which I am eternally grateful.

Good night!