06/20

I woke up that morning, and a stye, which began to make itself known a few days ago, had swollen my upper eyelid shut. Gross, painful, and inconvenient to say the least. Instead of eating breakfast, I spent my morning heating up water and using a gauze pad as a warm compress… You don’t think of “what if I get a stye on the trail?” while prepping for the AT. I’ve found that the most obscure problems arise when you’re least capable of handling them. Still, I tried my best to tend to my impairment. The morning sun’s gentle rays peeked over the grassy pasture. Bringing with them an all-too-familiar warmth that graduated to a blistering heat within hours. Hiking up “Fullhardt Knob”, it wasn’t long before I was dripping sweat. So much so that my hands could no longer grip my now-slick trekking poles. Today would be the first day of the next few under an “extreme heat advisory”. Temperature highs of 95° with “feels like” temps over 100°… I promise we’re having fun out here. I put on my headphones and shuffled a playlist called “classical bangers”, a series of orchestral music I found to be quite enjoyable listening to, while frolicking in the woods. Hoping I’d zone out and be transported back to spring, when the sun was still kind and the bugs had not yet been on crack. “Coleridge-Taylor: Petite Suite de

Concert, Op. 77: III. “ Un sonnet d'amour” for anyone wondering. We sidetracked off the trail and went to a nearby shelter hoping to find some water. Instead, we found “Cuppa,” a Brit who’d “gotten a late start” to his day and was a few days behind his tramily. He hiked ahead wearing pants and a long-sleeve shirt. This I found to be off, given the sweltering heat, but I didn’t think much of it. He told us that there was water in the cistern behind the shelter, which collected rain from the gutters. Yum! We eventually stumbled upon a creek just deep enough to soak our feet. Tiny fish nibbled on our toes, giving us a sort of hillbilly pedicure. We sat around admiring them for about half an hour before pressing on. Our day ended at a small, unmarked tent site on the side of the mountain. No real flat ground to set up on, but we were too tired to care. After dinner, I went off to find the nearest restroom. I spotted a fallen tree down the hill and bushwhacked through the underbrush to reach it. Shovel in hand, I began to dig myself a cat hole and noticed the ground was peculiarly soft. A couple of scoops in, and I discovered I hadn’t been the only one who thought this was a good spot. Now that I’ve checked digging up someone else’s shit off my bucket list, the question is: what do I do with the shovel?