Oats on the Pinhoti: Days 16 and 17

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 16, Sunday

I stirred to the sound of constant, tapping raindrops against my tent. My jaw ached; I’d recently been grinding my teeth at night. My setup of the Hyperlite Mountain Gear Unbound 2P the night before must’ve left something to be desired, because I woke up with a small puddle forming next to my head, and the tent’s interior was soaked.

Sorry(ish) for starting this one off with a couple creepy crawlies. But I’ve gotta say, they’re ridiculously intriguing when alone in the woods.

It was a 10 or so mile hike that morning into Dalton. Expecting disappointment, I decided in advance I wouldn’t even try to hitch the 2-mile road walk into town. Not many folks will stop for a soaked hiker on a rainy day, and frankly, I don’t blame them. The road walk was sketchy, though. I climbed in and out of guardrails and hugged the corner as tight as possible, my bright orange sleeping pad a beacon on my back, poking out of either side of my umbrella.

NOT my leg! You know your girl is wearing that Picaridin.

The day was brought to me by a full listen-through of Hadestown, and Inside by Bo Burnham (plus the Outtakes, cause they also rock.) Honestly, I was in a great mood all morning. It was the perfect temperature to be wet but not miserable while moving, and I sang until my voice hurt. Plus, there was town food and a clean bed waiting for me at the bottom of the mountain! The trail literally carried me right into town.

Speaking of, my first stop in town was a sandwich shop, where I purchased a footlong 3-meat Italian sub. Heartbeat beat me into town and was resupplying at the grocery store down the road (and indulging in his own town food feast of breakfast food). I decided to head to the hotel at around noon or so to see if they’d be able to accommodate an early check-in.

Hummingbird and Sparks!

When I walked into the hotel, I immediately spotted two thru-hikers! I excitedly introduced myself to Sparks and Hummingbird (another Trek blogger!) and stood dripping in the lobby exchanging tales from the trail and a shared enthusiasm for the outdoors for the next half hour. They were just leaving town with a plan with a friend to shuttle the rest of the Dalton road walk that afternoon, and were just waiting for him to arrive. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. As soon as their friend pulled up in his truck out front, the lady at the front desk let me know a room had become available. And boy, was I ready.

While I made the effort to lay out all my clothes and wet gear, I didn’t need a full load of laundry again. I’d washed my clothes in Cave Springs, so I was set until the end of the trek.



Heartbeat texted me he’d be there in a couple hours. I doom scrolled the majority of the afternoon away to catch up on the cruel dumpster fire that is our current administration here in the United States, when Heartbeat arrived and we walked next door for dinner.

Unlimited salad, breadsticks, dessert, and two absolutely humungous pasta plates later, we somehow were able to overcome the food coma we’d just eaten ourselves into enough to make it back to the room. But that didn’t stop me from making my midnight snack the leftover pasta (I somehow didn’t finish at the table).



It was nice to spend time with someone, and Heartbeat and I got along well. I’m always a bit wary and sensitive of who I choose to make plans with on trail, specifically guys around my age (because trauma) but he made me feel safe. We talked about my favorite pieces of gear (my down booties and hood) and why he was exchanging his pack after nearly 2,000 miles. He expressed an interest in my writing, and we jumped topics of conversation from musicals to tarantulas to goats, and full circle back to hiking. The trail makes it easy to make these kinds of connections, and it’s a part of why I love it so incredibly much.

That night, despite the incredible accommodations of a bed and access to potable water, I had a lower back flare-up. It might stem from my years hauling boxes and working gem shows for Enter the Earth, or possibly all the miles carrying my home on my back. Regardless, a couple times a year I have a pretty gnarly flare up (usually around my period) that’ll sometimes escalate to vomiting in the middle of the night. Thankfully, I had the space and tools to work it out without too much fuss or sleep lost. I carried a cork ball for the precise reason of targeting and massaging pained muscles, like my sits bones which were currently trying to, it felt like, leave my body. I dropped it on the wood floor and rolled around on my lower back for a while, and eventually I was able to find sleep again.

Day 17, Monday

Heartbeat and I bid each other adieu the next morning as I climbed into the shuttle I’d scheduled with Rick the Trail Angel. We were both pretty confident our paths would cross again, if not on trail than in a month at Trail Days in Damascus. He, unlike me, valued the continuous footpath of his adventure and was planning to hit the road.

The water was high. Like, everywhere. Rick said they got 8 inches of rain where he lives in North Georgia. Turns out we’d met before – or I’d at least seen him receive a reward from the Pinhoti Trail Association at Pinhoti Fest 2024 for Hiker of the Year. He’s also a trail maintainer and angel extraordinaire, and had a perfect little dog named Tucker in the backset.



Blazes on rocks were covered by creeks breaking their banks, and any hope of keeping my feet dry was lost when I realized every stepping stone was so far underwater I couldn’t even pick them out.

Heartbeat and I had a merged playlist to remember each other by, and I listened to it for the first couple of miles of the morning before I realized that my full focus wouldn’t be a bad idea through these creek crossings. I slammed the second half of my monster meaty sub from the day before with a view of a cascading waterfall through the trees in the distance.



Then, 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.

In college, I dated a guy who’d hiked the trail right after high school. The scariest story he had from the experience was when he forded a river in Maine and was swept under, forced to recover pieces of his gear a half mile downstream. I remember how much it scared him to talk about it. Staring into the intense, cloudy current, I made it about halfway through the original crossing before I tested depth with my trekking pole, and it went nearly over my cork handles.

I didn’t have many options. I could’ve waited for someone to arrive, but I’d gone days on this trail without seeing a soul, and Heartbeat was at least 20 miles behind. 

Next, I started looking for a natural bridge across, and I lit up as I saw a huge, thick, sturdy tree fallen directly over the river. I sinched all my pack straps down, zipped all my pockets, and shrunk my trekking poles and left them dangling from my wrist. It was a bit of a climb at first – I propped my foot up near my hip and pulled myself onto the top of what was left of the stump. Crouched and balanced on the log, several feet over the rushing river, I realized this absolutely was not going to happen. The wood was sleek and soaked, and I knew without a doubt that I couldn’t even boot scoot across. I sighed and lowered myself down, determined to find another way across.

I like to think I have a good idea of what I can handle, so I moved upstream in search of a crossing where I could see the bottom well enough to ford. I eventually picked a path that looked like the safest option in eyesight. I took a big, slow breath in and out and focused in. I was making it across this river, and I wasn’t going to fall. 

My trekking poles extended once more, I used them as extra limbs as I slowly moved away from shore. I made sure I was confident in a position before making any further moves forward, which felt safe but took quite some time. I inched myself from foot hold to foot hold, at one point seriously doubting I’d make it across without falling. I made a plan and prepared my body to push left as hard as possible if I was swept away so I would hopefully make it to the other side before getting carried further downstream. 

I shouted to no one in particular, “I WILL NOT FALL.” I repeated the phrase over and over as I gripped the cork of my trekking poles in my hands, fingers aching. Eventually I made it to another fallen tree, this one much closer to the water, and used it to brace myself against the current, which was a relief because the right side of my body was becoming increasingly tingly (exhaustion, but fueled by adrenaline.) Time stopped, and it was just me and the river.

The last 10 feet I threw my poles javelin-style across the water to the other side. Then, grasping the tree in my other hand, I made it successfully to the other side. 

I couldn’t help myself. I screamed out to the forest, where I felt so at home, feral and alive, my heart racing. There isn’t a lot these days that makes me feel alive. This was important, and you can bet your ass I savored every second. I laughed and laughed, pulled out a couple of snacks, and drank down my water as I settled back into my body and the adrenaline slowly wore off. The right side of my body, the one I’d braced against the current, was definitely starting to feel it.

Eventually, I picked myself up and calmed down enough to say goodbye to the river that’d so nearly carried me away and continued on down the trail. Little did I know, less than a half mile awa,y I’d encounter a hiker by the name of Betty White.



Betty White was SOBO on the Pinhoti and had started at the northern terminus a couple days ago. I guess I was close enough to the finish line that I was bound to cross paths with a few of them; if only I’d known he was just over the mountain when I forded that river alone. Just then, alarm bells went off again in my head.

“The water crossing at the bottom of this hill is really rough. Would it be alright if I come back down with you and let you know what I did and watch you cross?”

Betty White enthusiastically agreed, and we shared pleasant trail tales until we reached the crossing. I gave him the rundown of my experience, and he approached the river, confident yet careful. In less than a minute, he was across the river with not a stumble to be seen. Frankly, he made it look easy. It probably helped that he was a dude with over a foot on me and a bit more heft to weigh him down, but I still felt a tinge of embarrassment.




“Have a good hike!” We shouted over the rushing water and waved across the river at each other, and both continued on in opposite directions down the trail on our own separate journeys.

After leaving some relevant comments on FarOut for the hikers following in my footsteps before the current subsided, I decided to call it a day at 2 pm and just under 10 miles. It felt good, as ridiculously early as it was. I only had a couple days left on trail and I wanted to savor my time.



What was on my mind as the afternoon turned to evening was the security of the place I’d chosen to camp. I was right next to a river, my tent fly open, and turned to my favorite channel of Hiker TV. I knew logically that I was safe. The water had risen as much as it was going to, and it had stopped raining. But maybe it was the river crossing earlier, or some lingering trauma of Helene devastating my region, but I was worried the water would rise and take me away before I was able to escape my tent. I slept with the opposite fly door open, one eye on the rushing water several yards away.