Oats on the Pinhoti: Day 10

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.

On Monday, my luck avoiding the worst of rain and storms on trail ran out. The morning sky was dark and foreboding, and didn’t appear any kinder as the sun started to rise. I had a few glorious hours of hiking in the morning before I heard the telltale signs of a drizzle on the leaves overhead. I was anticipating this, and as quick as I’ve ever moved I swung my pack off, put away my trekking poles, and grabbed my umbrella (plus, a motivational slim jim.)



It started slowly, as it usually does in the Southern Appalachians, then grew in strength around me. I left off my rain jacket, clad only in my usual hiking garb of a thin long-sleeve and shorts, in anticipation of pushing through the rain until the midday shelter, which lie 6 miles ahead. And, I was in the middle of the most significant climb I’d see that day. But this wasn’t too much of a concern; when I was on the Appalachian Trail, I classified any climb with an elevation change less than 600ft/mile as a Little Dinker. I don’t think that I exited Little Dipper territory the entire Pinhoti.

In my opinion, if you’re caught hiking for a couple hours in a rainstorm, there’s no staying dry. There’s no rain jacket that will keep out a 3-hour downpour, or umbrella that will keep you protected when there’s sideways wind. If you do have something hydrophobic, while you’re moving, you’re eventually destined to drown in sweat, which you’re ultimately destined to freeze in.


I definitely preferred my Pinhoti shower to the hailstorms of the Colorado Trail (circa 2020).

I got cold, but not uncomfortably so. The knowledge that without movement I would get cold fast stopped me from taking any semblance of a sit-down break, so I kept moving forward for several hours as the rain came down around me. My hands stayed under my shoulder straps near my armpits, my fingers searching for any body heat they sap from my core, with my umbrella situated rather snugly over the top of my body near my collarbone. It was also a nice relief for my shoulders and hips to have my arms carry a bit of the burden for a while.

At this point, I had been on the trail long enough that my hip belt just barely reached the extent of its ability to hug my waist effectively. I first encountered this problem about halfway through my AT thru-hike. Legendary Trail Angel Fresh Grounds fixed it hiker trash style by helping me rig a segment of my foam cell sleeping pad behind my pack to make some extra slack. I figured I wouldn’t be on trail long enough this time for it to become much of an issue.


This sign made me smile. You go, Eastern Continental Trail thru-hikers!

You may be thinking the hardest part about hiking in the rain (as long as you’re not cold or exhausted) is having a good time. But it seemed the stars were aligned for me to catch a vibe out there and jam out for the majority of the miles. My playlist Nature Wonder Walks helped a lot. I sang about the wolves in the woods, the cold of the winter, the songs of the mountains, and everything else you’d hear an indie folk band mention. But boy, did I JAM. My pace kept beat with the music as it played from my phone pocket loudly and proudly. Yeah, you heard me: no earbuds. I’m quite the rebel.

Do you ever have a song that, when it’s played, you’re taken back to a specific memory? Well, Big Rock Candy Mountain by Harry McClintock came on, and a memory jumped into my hollow head with an emotion to process STAT. One of the last times I heard that song, I had it on repeat while driving up the gorge to Asheville in the dark, trying to remember all the words and the order of the verses. A few hours later, I sang it to my Gram on her deathbed. That brought on a couple tears. They joined the sparkle of drops on my face, but were warm and familiar as they ran down my cheek.



After a while, my umbrella was pretty useless. Well, I did feel like Mary Poppins (which isn’t nothing.) Gradually, the creek crossings on trail jumped their banks, covering stepping stones and blazes, gushing milky brown water that aggressively raced against gravity to the bottom of the mountains.

I slipped and fell in the creek right before the midday shelter. I was so absorbed in the stumble that I didn’t grab water, telling myself I would top off at the source at the shelter just over a quarter mile ahead. I’ve done this before, made the mistake of not topping off at a source, and my gut screamed at me as I walked past. But my ADHD “voice of avoidance” screamed louder. I didn’t accept my fate of having to backtrack until I made it all the way to the shelter and, in hopes there was a secret spring nearby, effectively combed through every FarOut comment since 2023.



It was probably an additional ¾ of a mile to go back down to the road crossing, collect and filter enough water for the next umpteen miles, and return to the shelter. It wasn’t flat either. But I did relish how feather-light my body felt as I left my pack behind, several articles of clothing and gear spread out on rafters and nails in the walls.

I did this for 2 reasons. 1 – I figured stuff might as well have a chance to dry. 2 – if I put any of my wet stuff on the pollen-coated cabin floor, I don’t think I’d ever be free of the pale yellow dust again.

Can you tell my camera wasn’t pleased with the humidity?

I was pretty pumped (and virtually dry) when I reached the shelter I planned to sleep at and immediately started making my way through camp chores so I could savor a well-earned rest: Camp shoes. Drink remaining water. Collect water. Filter water. (I skipped soaking my feet; they were already plenty soggy.)

Next up, I retrieved my SPOT GPS from the breast pocket of my pack and held down the ON button. After a couple seconds, 2 green lights began blinking, letting me know it was attempting to send my preset “I’m alive” message to my parents and roommates. I try to send a message daily on trail, but sometimes storm systems and shelter roofs can interfere with satellites. When that happens, a blinking red button appears so you know your message won’t send unless you get better signal.

That’s what happened here.



Once while I was on the Appalachian Trail in the Great Smoky Mountains, there was a period of 3 days that I was unable to get service on my SPOT. After hiking through cold storms all day, my desire to leave my cozy sleeping bag and search for service at camp was at an all time low. I told my parents as much, and instructed them not to panic if they didn’t hear from me for a couple days. With all the other people on trail and resources available to thru-hikers, they wouldn’t be the first to know if I was in trouble anyway.

When I finally got a single, suffering bar of service near the north end of the park, I had a message request on Facebook. It was from an inn in Fontana Dam, located at the south end of the park, about 75 miles back.

“Hi Katie. Are you alright? Your Mom is starting to gather a search party for you.” 

Somehow I don’t have a single photo from my time in GSMNP in 2019, so here’s one from my first 100 miles on trail in Georgia. Don’t let the light and my smile fool you; it was cooooooold.

As it turns out, my Dad was also en route from Asheville to Newfound Gap, about 75 miles behind me, armed with a plan to start asking random thru-hikers if they’ve run into “Oats.” The hubub was at the behest of my Gram, but I was still grouchy about the whole thing.



This time around, my roommates are more my emergency contact than my parents. I instructed them similarly and reassured them that if something did happen, they would likely not be the first to know. (I like to think that was comforting knowledge for them rather than worrysome.) If I get myself into a situation I can’t get out of (meaning, walk to a road), my SPOT has an SOS button which calls the cavalry and sends out my coordinates to search and rescue.

For the last several thousand miles my “I’m alive” message sent from my SPOT has remained the same.

“Katie here checking in from the trail! I miss you more than potable water, go ahead and take a swig for me :D”

Who can be worried with a whimsical message like that?

Eventually, I settled into my cocoon of down, surrounded once more by the sound of spring peepers and the blinking fireflies of the forest, when I realized I hadn’t seen another soul all day. I smiled. This was exactly the hike my heart needed.