I woke up, grateful to not be swept away by the river and that it had stopped raining overnight. I bravely slid my last pair of dry socks into my soaking wet shoes and began my last full day of hiking on the Pinhoti Trail.

I made a very questionable decision. I attempted the sketchiest river crossing I’ve ever done alone. It’s a good thing my Gram passed last winter because if she heard about this adventure, I think it’d probably kill her.

The morning began like any other on trail. I was woken by the light of the sun starting to illuminate my bright white tent, and my dire need to pee.

I spent the last rays of light for the day stretching and snacking. While peepers were consistent company, tonight I fell asleep to the melodies of proper ribbits and croaks from toads and frogs along the creek.

The historic Hearn Inn was one of my favorite lodging experiences on a long trail, period.

Tuesday was the first day of turkey hunting season in Alabama. I was reminded of this fact early, as a couple of hunters startled me in the first mile of my morning. (In my defense, they were dressed in camouflage.)

On Monday, my luck avoiding the worst of rain and storms on trail ran out.

This morning, I was on trail at least an hour earlier than yesterday. It was a day of settling in to the trail sans Thru Dog, and I intended to savor it.

Without Thru I comfortably booked it down the trail, and came upon the first shelter of my trip.

Friday morning I arranged to drop my car near the northern terminus and scheduled a shuttle back to the trail, all before I crawled out of bed.

The final morning I’d have the present of Thru’s presence, we set off early down the trail, my broken trekking pole poking up at a right angle over the side of my pack.

As Thru and I closed with the Cheaha Wilderness, the trail became reminiscent of Rocks-ylvania on the Appalachian Trail.

I can confidently say that the Pinhoti Outdoor Center has the charm of all the best hostels on trail I’ve stayed at.

It all begins here! Day 1 of my Spring Pinhoti Trail thru-hike, Spring 2025.

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.