Oats on the Pinhoti: Day 11

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 11, Tuesday

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.)

I, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb with my orange foam-cell sleeping pad displayed prominently on top of my pack. That was kinda the point – hunting season in the South was no joke. For every hunter I spotted in a tree or hidden in a blind, there were a couple I’m positive I passed with no knowledge of their presence.



“Are you out here alone?” The hunter in front prompted, wide-eyed. I nodded. The other pressed, shocked. “Did you sleep in that shed up there?” I nodded again. “My wife would NEVER,” said the first, followed by the second confirming, “Mine wouldn’t either,” shaking his head in disbelief.

I bit back the response, “Good thing I’m not your wife!”, saying instead, “Well, I love it.” After we exchanged what you could call “pleasantries”, we passed each other and continued on our separate journeys down the trail. I spent the rest of the day scanning the forest and trees for unperceived company, and tried to keep my frequent self-narration and singing quieter than usual.



Ten miles before the Alabama/Georgia state line, the trail passed through private property divided by several steep and rocky ATV paths. I found these so utterly annoying, after a couple miles they ended up prompting a small temper tantrum on the side of the trail.



I hit a shelter with 6 miles left in the day, and almost called it right there. But before officially committing to this Hilton for the night (it even had a porch!) my body needed some nourishment. I collected and filtered cold water from the nearby creek and slowly and intentionally stretched as I wolfed down snack after snack. I would arrive in Cave Springs tomorrow to spend the night and prepare for the next leg of the trip, so I had a pretty good idea of how much I could indulge without eating myself hungry for the evening. I was also driven by the knowledge that the more I ate now, the less I’d have to carry on my back. After my body got its needs met, I felt ready to take on the final stretch of the day. Funny how that works.



At one point through the woods, I thought I saw what looked to be a Confederate flag up ahead. It wasn’t impossible. But as I approached, I realized it was not one, but 2 flags – Alabama and Georgia – situated on sturdy wooden posts next to the trail. I made it to the state line!



Midday, I encountered a skeeeeeeeeetchy road walk. It wasn’t the sketchiest I’d ever faced (that honor was reserved for a section of curvy mountain highway on the Colorado Trail), but it was close. When road walking, I pay attention. I put away my headphones so I can hear cars approach from either direction, and cross the road quickly and intentionally when necessary. Every year, you hear about a hiker getting struck at a busy road crossing, and if I’m going to be taken out on a hike, it’s going to be because of a bear or a snake attack, or falling off a cliff, not because of a metal monster.

As I approached the shelter I intended to camp at, the blue blazes began to mark not only trees within eyesight of each other, but every significant tripping hazard along the treadway of the trail. My Gram would’ve been proud. Corners of rocks, large roots, and clipped stumps that poked out of the soil were plastered in robin’s egg blue. I’ve gotta say, I didn’t trip on a single one.

Up ahead, I spotted activity under the overhang of the tin roof and heard the noise of someone sawing wood. As I approached I called out to avoid surprising the man, his back turned to me as he faced the pile of growing firewood next to the shelter.



It’d been days since I last interacted with someone, so we happily chatted up a storm for upwards of an hour as the sun crawled slowly down the sky. He was a local trail maintainer who found hiking was the most enjoyable way for him to stay healthy amidst a myriad of health issues. We talked about my past thru-hikes and experience freelancing in the outdoor industry, and he shared stories of his time as a superintendent before he retired. “Oof. Thank you for your service,” I said when he told me of his past profession, and I meant it. I would’ve said the same to any K-12 teacher, but I couldn’t imagine the weight of an entire school system on my shoulders.

“You know what I would say to people who were too angry to listen, or just wanted to let me know how angry they were?” He paused, smiling impishly. “Superintendent has the same letters as ‘I need ten pears.’ Did you know that?”



A wide smile broke out across my face. I loved this strategy of dealing with difficult people: confuse them! If I feel threatened out in the world, I hope my instinct is to bark like a dog, or make Patrick-esque mouth sounds a la Spongebob’s Flying Dutchman episode until I scare away whoever dared engage with bad vibes.

Sitting here, expanding on the notes I took on trail, I now realize that isn’t actually true. Superintendent does not have the same letters as “I need ten pears.” I wonder now if I’m misremembering, or if it was never meant to make sense in the first place.



Eventually, as the sun sank lower and lower, it was time for him to move on. With a fist bump and wishes exchanged for happy trails ahead, he headed north, back to his life outside the forest.

As I enjoyed the evening in solitude once more, a memory lingered from my conversation with the former superintendent enough to demand my attention. In my most recent relationship, in the incredible city of Austin, TX, my partner had a kid. He had joint custody of his daughter, who just started elementary school when we got together, and I lived with them for over a year. She was objectively obsessed with Thru Dog. I taught her Go Fish, geocaching, and, to be fair, Thru Dog was obsessed with her, too.

Her Mom lived a couple miles down the road, central to the elementary school, and we all got along swimmingly. For Christmas, the two of them made me a pair of earrings (that to this day still hurts my heart to see in my jewelry box) and the 3 of us would often attend school events together. Even though my relationship with her Dad ended poorly enough to earn me a PTSD diagnosis, what we had as an unconventional little family unit was utterly beautiful. There was love there, and it mattered. And there, alone in the shelter in the middle of the woods, it made me feel so deeply sad.



It was a peaceful evening as I saw the line of light from the sun creep slowly across the valley, and I kept entertained watching the flurry of activity under the shelter porch. First, there were the carpenter bees. I watched their huge, fuzzy bodies drop in, buzzing loudly, as they searched for the holes of their hive in the wooden crossbeams of the tin roof. They made a satisfying “bonk” when they missed their target or came in too hot. I imagined what it looked like beneath the wood, where the big bee bodies crawled, where the eggs were laid, and information was exchanged with the rest of the hive.



Eventually, I spotted a small bird nest up in the rafters on the opposite side of the overhang and wondered whether anyone was home. After a while, I got my answer.

A small bird had been flitting around the perimeter of the shelter clearing, chirping occasionally. Before I could seriously wonder whether it was me or the bees stressing out the poor creature, it gained the courage to dive in towards the nest under the overhang. After several fly-by attempts, she eventually hovered briefly for a couple of seconds and settled down into the nest, her small, rounded head barely visible over the side. For a while after, her mate stared in at me from vantage points still outside the clearing but close enough to keep an eye on me. It was kind of sweet, actually. Or should I say, tweet?

Once the birds and bees went to bed, the soundtrack to my night became the gurgling of the nearby creek. Just like the critters around me, I felt right at home in the quiet Georgia forest.