Solo Hiking the Foothills - Part 1

This is part one of a three-part blog recounting my experiences solo-thru-hiking the 76.2-mile Foothills Trail along the North Carolina/South Carolina border.

It was the words "heartbreak ridge" that allured me as they slipped through a friend's mouth. He was talking about the imfamous 500 stair ascent to the top of a ridge somewhere along the Foothills Trail. "It was horrible he said," with a satisfied smile - an infinitely confusing conundrum - that left me curious. How does one find happiness in pain? There's no medal at the finish line, no crowd cheering you on, and there possibly might not even be a view. So why do people hike hundreds or thousands of miles in one direction with no goal other than reaching the other end of a trail?

When I pressed the purchase button for a Foothills Trail map online, I committed - with gumption - a whopping, nonrefundable $3.50 to find out.

My answer-seeking adventure started on November 6th at Oconee State Park South Carolina - where I would be finishing the trail 5 days later - when my shuttle driver hopped out of his 2018 firetruck red Chevy pickup with a tired smile, a green baseball cap that drooped over his left eye, and oversized red, untucked polo, and a loosely knotted tie picturing the Tasmanian devil from the Looney Tunes hanging proudly. Unironically, the tie is how he got his name. He started hiking 20 years prior with the same tie, and it stuck; he is now forever known as Taz.

Taz navigated us along the scenic route, approximately 8 minutes longer than the non-scenic route, through winding backroads adorned in fallen leaves that looked like they were kissed by fire. The mountains that hugged the sides of the road looked paradoxically ominous and inviting. A fluttering sensation sprung in my body; my heart and my stomach played dueling intricate drum solos fighting for attention with no clear winner. After 10 years of shuttling thru-hikers, his commentary on mile markers, explanation of trail history, and navigation advice sounded worn and scripted. In his script, he made space for intentional long pauses and I worked hard to fill them. Are you married? Have you hiked the full trail? Do you like shuttling drivers? To all my questions he answered "no" (this guy was truly an old fart), but we shared some laughs that filled the uncomfortable void between us just long enough until we picked up two other hikers.

"Hi!" I yelled from the front seat as I craned my neck backwards to face them, "what are y'all's names?" "I'm Cookie and this is Cool Rocks" he responded coolly. Wait...what? It took me a few seconds to realize that they were not real names, they were trail names, granted to them through one of the renound triple crown thru-hikes (the Pacific Crest Trail, the Appalachian Trail, or the Continental Divide). I responded sheepishly, "I'm Haley... just Haley... no trail name...yet." Cookie is a middle-aged portly fellow with one of those hairstyles that ran disconnected from his head right into his beard. His gray shirt was stained with sweat and his forehead looked sticky like an unwashed pan. He was out of breath, he was smelly, but he was jolly - oh so jolly. Cool Rocks is less middle-aged and less portly. She is an REI model type, rocking top of the line hiker gear from head to toe and a septum piercing. She IS cool. The two of them are the definition of hiker trash, which apparently is a sought after identity in backpacking culture, and well, as for me, I was just no-trail-name-Haley.

The four of us - a band of misfit toys - arrived at the Table Rock State Park campground where I would pitch a tent and arise the next morning to begin my travels. I hopped out of the red Chevy and thanked Taz feeling like a child again. Suddenly I was back in the preschool drop-off line on the first day of class - little kid, big backpack, no friends - wide-eyed and anxious about what lays ahead. I said goodbye to my new companions as the near full moon shined on the highest tree limbs backlit by the setting sun.

The air was thick as a damp towel. I pitched my tent with sweat pooling above my collarbones to the sound of children howling around me. Tonight, I realized, dishearted, would not be peaceful. Rather, I would cuddle up inside my sleeping bag to the sound of parents playing a never-ending game of human bowling, crashing into their kids, with bellies full of booze and hot dogs.

As the sound of crickets drowned out the sound of children, questions surged through the floodgates of my mind. Why do people backpack? Is it escapism or realism that brings people into the wilderness? What is the magic that lies between footsteps? I fell asleep with excitement for my alarm to buzz at 5:00 am, I was ready to seek answers to all of them.

Next week I'll dig into the first half of my venture on trail. Thanks for reading and following me on this adventure!