It wasn't much longer before I charged, feet aching, up the final hill to Burnsville Town Center and through the doors of the Visitor Center. 'You look like you're going hiking!' The cheerful lady at the desk greeted me. 'Well, I just finished actually.' In the parking lot I met my Gram and Mom, who were probably even more excited than I was that they no longer had to think about me being alone in the wilderness all day and night (for the time being). I admitted if they had been 2 minutes later I would've snuck into the ice cream shop next door for a celebratory treat. It turns out the treat would come in the form of 5 donuts, a beer, and great company to end my Appalachian High Route thru-hike.

I woke up slowly to the sound of rain on the shelter roof. With cell service, I was able to see the storm would pass around 8 am and snuggled back into my sleeping bag for another precious hour of rest. The gash on my right knee was still bothering me, especially when I tried to kick my leg up to my chest to sleep on my side or attempted to sleep on my belly. I tossed and turned for the next hour, grateful to be dry and warm, and eventually stirred just as the final drops finished their symphony on the shelter roof. I had a slow breakfast of S'more PopTarts at the shelter, contrary to my usual morning routine of immediately hitting the trail. I only had 18 miles to a tent site near Devil's Creek Gap, leaving me in perfect position to tackle 21.8 miles of the Burnsville Connector tomorrow. My final day on trail, tomorrow. With the sweetness of my breakfast on my tongue, I poured out the water I didn't use the night before (careful to leave enough to hold me over to the first source of the day) and set off towards the trail.

Dense fog and humidity were heavy in the air but there was no thunder or lightning, so I opted for the scenic route that would take me directly up and over the rocky summit in lieu of the bad weather alternate. I soon found myself hopping from one large boulder to another in a natural playground, at times firmly planting my booty and lowering myself down to ease the impact on my knees, and others using my hands to help launch myself up and over exposed sections of the traverse. As I rounded a particularly large boulder in my path, I began taking steps down what seemed to be an overgrown section of trail. Between the branches and brambles, it wasnt long before I decided to whip out my GPX track and FarOut Guides to double-check my bearing - the only problem being the trail wasn't always a straight line with a true bearing north, and that was especially true of this winding rocky ridge. I turned around several times, took a few deep breaths, and headed back the way I came.

With only 2 miles left to Little Laurel Shelter, my final destination for the evening, I decided to check my phone for any service on the climb up. As luck would have it, a flickering few bars made their way to the top of my screen and notifications began rolling in. Among the texts from family and friends wishing me luck on my final stretch was a message from my Dad, only one word and a picture to accompany it. The word was “Oops” and the photo, my long titanium spoon. '#%&$!' I knew instantly I’d either be shoveling my final meals on trail by hand, pouring them out of a Ziplock bag, or whiddling myself a spoon.

Only 3 nights left on the Appalachian High Route, and several things were swirling around in my head - a feeling of excitement for the end of the trail approaching, homesickness for the smell of my dog and the arms of my partner, and anxiety for the 4 planned 20+ mile days still left on my itinerary. And then, what comes after the trail? Being thrust back into daily life is no easy task, even with a shorter 3-week trek like this one. The minor inconveniences and routines of living in society would once again become my every day - but so would the adventures I share with my family and create for myself through my work.

As I slowly climbed toward the summit and left the treeline behind, I was reassured that whatever was being done to rehabilitate Max Patch was working. I admired a vast array of butterflies, wild blackberries, wildflowers of all colors and sizes, and birds darting between the tall grasses lining the trail and let out a breath of relief at the healthy ecosystem before me. As the Blue Ridge Mountains appeared in a panoramic view with every footstep north, I thought of the man at the hostel who had been called to trek on foot from Houston to these very mountains. Those moments soaking in the sun at the summit of Max Patch, admiring the panoramic view around me, I knew I was answering the same call by exploring these mountains I'll always call home.

After a friendly check-in and promise of beer and pizza on demand, I claimed a bunk at Standing Bear and took my first shower in 6 days. I cleaned around the KT tape stretched expertly across my left knee and thoroughly scrubbed the gash on my right in an attempt to clean it out as much as possible. After the shower, I took a closer look - minimal redness, it wasn't hot, and the pain felt related to the awkwardness of the location and not acute as if caused by infection. My left knee was certainly feeling the climb out of the Smokies, but it was nothing a 24-hour Stretch-A-Thon and a 15-mile day over Max Patch couldn't fix.

Characteristically, it was a foggy day in the Smokies. We approached the blue blaze trail in high spirits regardless, something I'd never have considered on my AT thru-hike as I avoided off-trail miles whenever possible. This time, the slick rocks and vastness of the sky just beyond our feet was mesmerizing. I now understood my Gram's anxieties about cliffs I may fall off of, though generally those were few and far between in the Appalachians. RD, well-versed with many of the trails in the park, described the other side of the vastness, usually speckled with tiny hikers embarking on their own adventures to the summits of Mount Le Conte and Mount Kephart just across the ridge.

After a few hours, I saw my Mom's familiar red Honda pull into the spot closest to me and the other hikers. She emerged carrying several bags, her husband donning a Styrofoam cooler, and both carrying umbrellas. She quickly ushered me to into the car as the storm picked up and had the medical kit she assembled on the car ride over laid out on display. After handing me a few sprays and insisting on many thorough scrubbings, I put a thick layer of liquid bandage over the gash on my knee and it was determined to be as in good a shape as it was going to be considering I'd soon be heading back into the woods. Jerry took to advertising the various candy bars and Gatorade he and my Mom had brought for any backpackers passing through - their first experience as trail angels on the AT. A somewhat silly scene took place as the rain picked up and my need to reorganize my pack and resupply was still clear and present - it involved 2 sets of umbrellas held by my Mom and a fellow hikers covering myself and various electronics, my open bear canister, and clothes bag as I quickly refilled my small Ibuprofen bottle, switched out my charging blocks, and exchanged soaked socks for dry as fast as my now-numb fingers would operate. Sure I'd turn blue if I stayed any longer, I threw on my rain jacket (inside-out at first and then as intended) and gave my Mom a hug I'm sure she'd be able to smell on the way home, and took off towards Icewater Spring Shelter.

My first trip through the Smokies I did in an impressive and ill-advised four days. It required early mornings before the sun came up and arriving at shelters closer to hiker midnight than I had ever pushed before. It also resulted in the rapid development of the achilles tendonitis and shin splints that would keep me off trail for weeks to come - you could say this section of trail and I have some leveling to do.

My first steps on the trail in the Smokies instantly satisfied my cravings to once more be alone in these magical mountains. Nothing could spoil my mood; the storm that had appeared overnight was unrelenting, but it was also warm and welcoming. Even the 5-foot slide down I took down the side of a ridge to pass a fallen tree made me smile as I realized the dirt and mud I was covered in likely wouldn't disappear until Hot Springs, still over a week away. With no roads to worry about or cars to listen for, I resumed my singing routine once more.

The last mile of my Blue Ridge Parkway road walk, hitchhiking was already on my mind. My knee was sore from the extended downhill and the impact of heavy steps on asphalt and I knew if I didn't catch a lift I'd be adding on another 3 miles to my already 20-mile day - miles that were technically off trail anyways. Suddenly, a white pickup truck pulled up beside me on the BRP and a man with white hair and a green ball cap spoke while lowering his passenger window. 'You want a lift? I start work in 10 minutes, I'm with the National Park.' He promptly removed and presented his ball cap which true to his word read, GREAT SMOKEY MOUNTAINS NATIONAL PARK. I didn't have to think long.

Today was the day I realized my body was no longer tip-top. My left knee started aching so severely I began dipping into my supply of Vitamin I liberally halfway through the morning climb. I was meeting my Gram and Mom only 10 miles from Moonshine Creek Campground, and it was all uphill. I let the sounds of podcasts and music drown out the strain on my inner hip as I criss-crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway several times before finally approaching the final forested stretch between myself and Waterrock Knob.

The first 2 hours of the day I spent blithely singing anything that came to mind. I sang so well, in fact, a certain yellow jacket was unable to handle the vigor of my voice - and stabbed me in the arm to prove it. I peered down almost in confusion and spotted the lone attacker, equally confused, spinning around seeking traction on my sweaty arm, its stinger still embedded. One carefully positioned flick later and I was bounding down the trail at full speed, nervous he had a few buddies around to defend his honor. After it was clear I had outrun the danger, it didn't take long for me to resume my dancing and gallavanting as another absolute banger - 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' by the Scissor Sisters - filled my ears.

One of my Dad's first lessons to me about hiking was that the person leading the way should be wearing a hat - about three hundred face-fulls of cobwebs into the morning, I was kicking myself for not taking his advice. But knowing myself, fidgeting with a hat inconveniences me as much as waving my trekking poles around like a wizard, and one is much more fun. Though I was cruising most of the day, I eventually approached a section of my trail guide that read, 'the tread of the trail will soon become much more rocky and difficult; the next two miles are among the most difficult of the entire MST'. I gulped down the last of my Gatorade, cameled up for camp only mere miles away, and headed onwards down the trail.

After getting in my morning stretch and snack, I crossed paths with a pair of hikers that looked like they had been out for some time. 'If you're headed to Clingman's Dome it's 117 miles that way!' the man greeted, cheerily. 'Good to know!' I smiled back. One-hundred seventeen miles until I reach the Appalachian Trail.

From ages 11-12, I slept in the tree house my Dad build for me and my brother in the side yard of our childhood home. I piled on blankets or threw them aside when temperatures threatened my good time, and eventually even hung a hammock inside to snuggle into. Today, I woke up from a rock-hard sleep reminiscent of those curious nights.

A few joggers and I exchanged pleasantries on my way to Pisgah Inn, and I tried to quietly sneak behind a small private wedding at an overlook just as the bride was reading her vows, but the *clink clank* of my pot and stove were likely audible to the teary-eyes audience.

I've had a tumultuous relationship at best with the water sources marked in the MST trail guide - and today was no exception. As I began questioning the reliability of the source near where I was planning on camping, I kept an eye out for springs around Sleepy Gap mentioned in another resource I had perused earlier. But when all the spring beds I encountered near Sleepy Gap were suspiciously dry, I knew I'd need to find water or start rationing. Just when my anxiety approaching my destination for the night was reaching an all-time high, my first trail angel of the trip whipped out her own SmartWater bottle at an overlook and without hesitation poured the entire container into mine, careful to assure me she had another full one in the car. I felt incredibly grateful for the difference that would make for my next 24 hours on trail.

Today I walked past the gazebo where I had the initials of two different high school sweethearts carved next to my own. This was my first visit to Craggy Gardens I've been unsuccessful in locating either of my memories etched into the wood.

Today I walked past a fallen tree that my brother and I always climbed as kids. I'd watch in awe as he'd venture to the furthest branches that rose just above my head. 'Just be like the Little Engine that Could!', he'd chime up at me when I gave it a go myself. 'I think I can I think I can!'

Today I walked through the site of my undergraduate research in college, across railroad tracks I once led a boy down on a first date, and past the spot where one of my best friends and I exchanged Lunchables and imaginary tales under a bridge in a cow field.

Today I walked down the trail where, the day after my parents told me they were getting divorced, my Dad took me and the family dog for a hike to answer all the questions I had about what would and wouldnt change in our family.

Today I walked over a creek I used to take the big brother of the kids I babysat during hot high school summers to read aloud from my favorite book. We'd later decide to send the book back and forth with notes in the margins, and even later quietly decide to stop. But for that summer, we had the creek and our book and that was enough.

After some stretching, brushing my teeth, and well-earned Poptarts, I began my descent from Mount Mitchell to my first miles of the Mountain to Sea Trail. I especially love flat or easy downhill grades because it allows me to sing without getting short of breath; and that's just what the MST had in store for me today. I performed 'Elma Turl' by Mike Cross, 'Cleopatra' by The Lumineers, and 'I Dreamed a Dream' from Les Mis for a swarm of blood-thirsty biters forming a cloud in my wake.