Oats on the Pinhoti: Day 8

Note: This article was originally published on The Trek and can be found at the link here. Oats’ packing list for the Pinhoti Trail can be found on Build A Pack at the link here.

Day 8, Saturday

TW: mention of suicide and sexual assault

I woke to the 4-note song of a bird overhead. As I slowly came to, I heard its call, the same 4-note melody, every 20 seconds or so. It reminded me of the motif of the resistance in the Hunger Games, how they managed to communicate outside of the gaze of the authoritarian, fascist government. Maybe it was just on my mind.

The pollen of the Pinhoti is not to be trifled with. Prepare for yellow… everything.

Since late elementary school, I’ve been a clarinet player (yes, like Squidward) and occasionally pick up the hobby back up now and then with a local community band. Now I mostly just break it out to jazz up Happy Birthday. The perspective shift from high school soloist to who I am now, just tootin’ a horn, was unexpected. My fingers remembered the notes and scales, my face fell easily fell into the ombachure, and I could still read music (albeit much slower and worse.) 

But lying there in my sleeping bag, the 4-note call inspired something even more unexpected: a visual. I imagined seeing the notes in relation to each other, accidentals and all, popping up one at a time in my mind’s eye as the bird sang on. Soft, pulsing colors eventually settled as the notes pinged, up and down as if on an invisible musical staff. With my background of relying heavily on sheet music, the perfect pitch my peers demonstrated has always been a mystery to me. I feel like that morning, I made a little progress in understanding.


My freshman year in high school symphonic band. Objectively the worst player of the bunch, but having a great time. If you’ve guessed I’m the type to also be in marching band, you’re right on the money.


The temperatures didn’t end up dipping as far as I expected, and I removed a couple of layers throughout the night. I had no real plan for the day, except that I wanted to arrive in Cave Springs by Wednesday night. I picked up the habit of only planning ahead until the next resupply on the Appalachian Trail. Back then I used AWOL’s paper guide, and ripped out pages as I made my way north (hey, evey gram counts, right?) I slugged on my pack, full of a couple days worth of snacks and a full load of water, thanked the campsite, and followed the blue blazes ahead.



A couple of miles into the morning, I happened upon a bench overlooking a beautiful scene of the far-off mountains and the green forests in between. I paused, lost in thought. I eventually relented to the feeling in my gut, removed my pack, and sat on the bench. I looked south to the mountains I came from, and took a couple of deep breaths. The wood under my fingertips was soft, my legs still throbbing from the climb. It was here that I let go.



By let go, I mean ugly cried for at least 10 minutes. I could’ve gotten a hold of myself if I wanted to, but this is what I was out here for. Processing emotions. I cried for Asheville and the devastation caused by Hurricane Helene. I cried for friends who lost their homes and those alive and dead. I cried for my Gram, who passed away through home hospice this past October. I cried for my Dad and the relationship that had been missing since the new administraton took power, and because I hadn’t had the strengh recently to give him the opportunity to share what he thinks recently. I cried for my Mom, a woman with possibly the biggest heart in the world, who has faced her own fair share of trauma over the last couple years. I cried for my Aunt Kate, my namesake who committed suicide alone in her condo during COVID.



Traumas notably absent from this episode include the sexual assault and abusive relationships I’d been on the receiving end of the first half of my 20s. The Long Trail in summer of 2023 was my intentional time to process those feelings, and I sobbed more than a couple times over the weeks. As my heart ached with loss I pushed on, and eventually let go of the need to be wanted or loved by people who don’t respect me. To this day, that is one of the most important skills I’ve learned in this life.



This scene, imagining Gram sitting next to me, patting my leg reassuringly, was different. In that moment I needed to feel loved, not alone. I’m able to give myself a great degree of emotional reassurance, but I wanted to feel connection. I wanted to ground myself; I wanted to call my family.


My brother Joe’s graduation from the US Air Force Academy, circa spring 2016.

Over the next half hour, my brother told me all about the muck-ducks of Minot, where he had recently been stationed with his family to fly B-52s. They were in the car, returning to base from the Discovery Center, which he referred to as a North Dakotan Health Adventure, reminiscent of our childhood in Asheville. My heart nearly broke as I heard the voice of my 2-year-old nephew coo, “I love you, Aunt Katie”, and I quickly brought up the next time I intend to visit. 

My Mom and I also connected, and catching up felt good. I haven’t been one for phone calls much over the last couple of years, but have always enjoyed calling while actively on a hike (when service allowed.) My parents were usually able to tell when I started a climb because of the heaving breaths and the fact that they’d have to take over the talking for a while. Lucky me, the service kept up until my cup overfloweth from my conversations, and I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders. Unlucky me, none of that weight physically came off my pack, and it was heavy as ever as I set off north once more.

I moved at a moderate pace for the rest of the day, but was just slow enough to get blocked this time when a train crossed the trail. It ended up working out; I took the time to crush a slim jim and grab my umbrella before the beginning drizzle became a downpour.



Without Thru I comfortably booked it down the trail, and came upon the first shelter of my trip. I’ve loved sleeping in shelters since my first night on Springer Mountain, curled up in freezing temperatures on the hard wood floor, eating dry oats with a broken spork. I was looking forward to the stretch of Pinhoti through Alabama featuring a half dozen of these shelters, which appeared approximately every 8-12 miles. As fate would have it, there were shelters at 15 miles and 25 miles from where I started the hiking day. So, that’s how I ended up putting on comfy camp clothes, settling onto my foam sleeping pad, and falling asleep at 2 pm.



When I stirred the sun was lower in the sky, and I was hungry. I pulled out my trail mix – composed of salted cashews, honey roasted peanuts, unshelled pistachios, and chocolate-covered almonds – and feasted until I was confident I’d feel the weight of what I ate off my back the next day. Once more I listened to the evening bird sounds shift to spring peepers, and learned something entirely new about my nights on trail; I was sharing the forest with hundreds of blinking fireflies. Because I slept in my tent up until this point, I didn’t notice. Now, I stared uncesasingly into the twilight of the woods as, one at a time, my fluorescent company blinked into existence. I love a good campfire, but this may be my new favorite channel on Hiker TV.

Before I knew it, I was soundly asleep again. But this time, the night felt much closer than before, like a warm, familiar blanket wrapped around me on the wooden floor.