Walk the Appalachian Trail - 2

Mile 8.1 to 15.7 Total miles: 7.6

DAY TWO – Hawk Mountain Shelter to Gooch Mountain Shelter – Mile 8.1 to 15.7
Total miles: 7.6

You wake before the sun. Not because you want to; your body is sore, especially your hips and calves; but because the forest stirs early. Birds start calling like they’re announcing something you can’t quite understand, and someone nearby is already rustling their food bag. You stayed warm enough overnight, which surprises you. The shelter creaked a little, and your pad wasn’t as soft as you hoped, but you made it. Day one, survived.

Breakfast is quick; some oats, maybe a granola bar, cold water. You watch steam curl off someone else’s coffee and make a mental note to carry instant coffee next time. Everything takes longer this morning. Packing up, rolling your pad, figuring out how to shove your quilt back into the bottom of your pack like a magician doing a bad trick. But eventually, you’re standing at the trail again, boots laced, pack on, ready to move.

Your body complains from the start. The trail rises and falls, winding around the mountain like it’s in no hurry. Your legs feel heavier today. The thrill of starting has worn off a little, replaced with the steady ache of reality. You pass through forests that feel ancient—tall trees, thick moss, light trickling through the canopy like a secret. It’s beautiful, but you’re not thinking about beauty. You’re counting miles. You’re thinking about how a single uphill can make your lungs burn. You're wondering how long your knees will hold out.

Midday, you stop at a small clearing with a view. You sit on a rock, shoes off, eating jerky and trail mix. Your socks are damp, so you lay them out in the sun. A few hikers pass by and nod. One of them is a woman probably in her late 60s, moving at a steady pace. She smiles at you like she’s not tired at all. “Longest journey you’ll ever take,” she says, “but the shortest in hindsight.” You want to ask her what she means, but she’s already past you.

It’s strange how solitude here doesn’t feel lonely. It feels necessary. Like the space is helping you breathe deeper, think clearer. You find yourself remembering things you hadn’t thought about in years. A conversation with your dad. The way the house smelled after rain when you were ten. The day your friend said goodbye without meaning to. It all just floats in and out, carried by the rhythm of your steps.

By late afternoon, you reach Gooch Mountain Shelter. It feels farther than 7.6 miles. The shelter’s half full already, and people are hanging up damp socks and eating in quiet circles. You find a flat spot nearby and pitch your tent for the first time. It’s clumsy, takes longer than it should, but it holds.

Dinner tastes better than it has any right to. Something about eating outside, away from real work, makes even instant noodles feel earned. You sit with a guy named Ben and a woman who goes by “Quill.” They’ve both hiked before. Quill talks about Virginia like it’s paradise. Ben talks about Pennsylvania like it’s a curse. You laugh more than you expect to.

As the fire fades and stars start to prick the sky, you realize your body’s still hurting. But now it’s the kind that feels like it might get better. Your feet are sore, but they’re yours. Your breath is slower. You’re not rushing anything.

You lay down in your tent and feel the earth beneath you. It’s quiet, but it’s not empty. You can hear insects buzzing, the wind in the trees, the faint shifting of other tents around you. You stare up through the mesh and whisper, not to anyone in particular:
“Still here.”

And the trail, in its way, answers back:
“So am I.”