After leaving the Smokies, the world has suddenly turned green; the new leaves sprouting from tree branches already the size of my thumb; flocks of butterflies doing their delicate dance above the purple, orange and red flowers; golden sun filtering through the canopy. On Saturday morning, we stop to resupply and have breakfast at Standing Bear Farm. Arriving, we see hikers in t-shirts and shorts, drinking coffee in the secluded garden – with the sun out, the snow from just days earlier feels like a distant dream. It’s only 40 miles until Hot Springs, and, surrounded by the sudden beauty of the springtime forest, I am in high spirits as we head out into the late morning sun.
The days that follow are hot and heavy, as if to prove that winter is truly over. We are now walking between 14-16 miles per day – a long way from the 8 mile days we started with, if still equally far from the +20 mile days some of the more ambitious hikers do. On some days, there is a new ease to my hiking and I barely notice the mountains I’m crossing. On others, I’m exhausted and by lunchtime I feel as if someone has filled my pack with stones. On those days, with the mountains turned into insurmountable beings, I face them with a determined rage, as if the only way to conquer them was to run to the top, never stopping.
Just before crossing over the famous Max Patch, we run into some particularly impressive trail magic: a group of previous thru-hikers have set up a full pop-up breakfast diner, serving hot coffee, orange juice, mimosas, turkey sandwiches, vegetable casserole, hot dogs, fresh fruit and berries, natural yogurt, and cookies. One of these brilliant trail angels comes out as trans, and we talk for a long while while getting second and third servings of everything. I realize how nice it feels like to have trail magic without the sense that if the people knew more about us, they would be way less friendly. After 2h, we finally say goodbye and with our bellies full, slowly tumble up to Max Patch to admire a perfect 360 view of the surrounding mountains.
On the day we finally arrive in Hot Springs, the sky is a uniform grey colour, and the air stands unbearably still and heavy. Lately, it has become clear that our schedules and paces are starting to diverge. Raven wants to go home for one week, and Grocer is starting to do bigger, faster miles. As we get ready to check in at Elmers guesthouse, I wonder whether this is the last time the four of us are together. However, I quickly forget about this concern as we make our way past the blooming cherry trees, and climb up the cold stone steps to enter the house. A Victorian villa, each room is decorated by antique furniture and a collection of various curious objects. There is a sitting room, a large wooden porch with rocking chairs, a library full of anti-capitalist literature, and a room dedicated to musical instruments. And every night, the owner Elmer cooks vegetarian dinner and entertains the guests with his stories.
Named after the natural hot springs underneath, Hot Springs itself is a small, quiet trail town with a drowsy sense of slowness lingering somewhere between the wooden buildings and the well-kept flowerbeds. In fact, the entire place is so chilled out I immediately lose motivation to do anything but eat cheap ice cream cones from the Dollar General, lazily staring into the creek that runs by the town’s only street. The idea of hiking suddenly appears preposterous, and we decide to stay for another night at Elmers. This means goodbyes are inevitable sooner rather than later, as Raven and Connor want to get back on the trail the next morning. It feels strange to sit down for dinner together, not knowing when we might see each other again.
On Sunday morning we exchange quick hugs and say goodbye to our first trail family. Dark clouds are gathering above the mountains as they slowly walk out of town, and I feel a familiar sense of loss as I often do when traveling; far away from home, friendships form faster and yet they are inevitably fragile as people are eventually pulled apart by time and geography. It starts raining as we head out for lunch, and we hurry to step inside the restaurant, grabbing a table overlooking the creek. After ordering burgers, we sit in silence, both of us immersed into our thoughts. In this rather somber moment, a lady approaches us, smiling and asking if we are thru-hikers. When we answer affirmatively, she offers to pay for our lunch! Her name is Mary, or “Angel”, and she is a trail angel who is in town to do some short section hikes in the area. Immensely moved by her gesture, we invite her to join us, and the three of us eat together while laughing and exchanging trail stories.
That same night, I lay awake in our 100 years old bed, feeling like we are entering a new chapter in our hike. I wonder what the trail will bring next; it seems like it will throw at me exactly those challenges I don’t want to face, but it also contains tiny miracles, those fleeting moments of grace that are impossible to capture in words.
The Rainbow Blaze 