Angry Troll Brewing

MST. Chapter 32. Segment 6 (Part 3)

This is my serialized story of hiking the Mountains-to-Sea Trail (MST), a 1,175-mile route that crosses the state of North Carolina. I’m hiking west from Jockey’s Ridge near Nags Head on the Outer Banks of the Atlantic Ocean to Kuwohi (formerly Clingmans Dome) near the Tennessee border in the Great Smoky Mountains. If you’d like to start at the beginning of my story, click here.

See the Mountains-to-Sea map at the bottom for reference.

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I arrive in Elkin at around 7 PM. I have been walking on and off since 6:30 this morning and, after twenty-nine miles, I am relieved finally to be here. It’s been a long, hot day with temperatures rising into the mid-nineties Fahrenheit. On top of that, with all the water I’ve drunk this afternoon, I feel like I have three bottles worth sloshing around in my belly—like I could throw up and it would be a geyser of water, like an Old Faithful-type of geyser, spraying everyone within twenty feet.

I squish down Main Street and stop at a renovated building in the downtown area with an Angry Troll Brewing sign hanging above the door. I came to this brewery and restaurant on two other occasions—both times with my family when visiting wineries in the area. I must admit, I’ve been dreaming of this place all afternoon. I promised myself I would buy a large draft beer first thing to celebrate reaching Elkin, the last significant town on the Mountains-to-Sea Trail within North Carolina’s western Piedmont.

This brewery is exactly where I want to be to celebrate reaching Elkin—in spite of my tweaked right knee—in spite of the hellacious heat. I go inside immediately, even though I am still carrying my backpack and hiking sticks—even though, I am sure, I am totally gross and sweaty. It’s been two days in these repeatedly sweat-soaked clothes and I know I smell, but I promised myself I’d drink that celebratory beer the moment I arrived in this oasis of a town.

At 7 PM Angry Troll Brewing is packed with customers and has a line of people waiting for tables that extends to the front door. I go past them to the bar to find another crowd of customers. I spot only one open stool between two couples who are maybe in their early fifties. They are wearing nice clothes and both couples look like they’re each on a date. The two men are dressed in pressed khaki pants with soft Hawaiian-style shirts and their partners look nice too in cute dresses with fresh makeup and red lipstick. I feel sorry for them as I plop down. I am about to stink up the joint.

The bartender, a guy with a black Angry Troll tee-shirt and a trimmed black beard, comes over and I order a mug of their brew. He directs me to move my backpack and sticks that are sitting in the aisle behind me to the hostesses station near the front.

The beer looks great but after a full day of walking with a thirty-five pound backpack—thirteen hours in mid-ninety degree heat—along with all the water I have been handed throughout the afternoon, I must admit, I am not into it. Perhaps, I am suffering from a mild case of heat stroke, I don’t know, but I can only take a few sips of the beer before I feel like I am going to throw up. (I wonder if I should warn the couples on either side of me that Old Faithful is about to erupt.)

I order a glass of water (no, not more water!), but that doesn’t help. I put my chin on my hands resting on the thick padding at the front of the bar’s counter and focus on watching the bartenders working the Friday rush. I just need a few minutes to be stationary before leaving for the municipal park.

“Hey, my god, you’re here!” A hand slaps my back.

I turn and see Bob Puckett, the trail angel who drove me to Pilot Mountain yesterday. He is with the two other people—a young couple who look like hikers.

“Oh,” Bob says as he wipes his hand on his pants, “you’re soaked.”

I respond. “Bob! Wow! I didn’t expect to see you! I literally just hiked in and probably should have taken a few minutes to dry off.”

He laughs, happy to see me again. “No problem, but, damn, you are wet!”

“I told you, remember, I’d be in Elkin by tonight. It has been one heck of a hot hike. I am totally wiped out!”

For a few minutes we discuss how far I’ve come and my water bottle adventures. In fact, Bob interjects, “I am sorry to hear about the Rockford General Store. No wonder I couldn’t get through to tell my friends about you. They must be on vacation.”

Bob then says. “Let me introduce you to Tyler and Heather. They too are backpacking the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. I just picked them up at Stone Mountain State Park.”

Tyler and Heather are fairly young and do not appear to be anywhere near as wiped out as me. They are full of smiles and are happy to be with Bob in the Angry Troll.

“We’re hiking east,” Tyler tells me. “Our plan is to spend the night here in Elkin. With Bob’s help getting us back to Stone Mountain, we’ll actually make the hike from Stone Mountain to Elkin tomorrow.”

“How cool.” I say. Finally, my first thru-hikers! Tyler and Heather look really fit. Maybe they’re in their late twenties or early thirties. It’s hard to tell with Tyler’s beard but Heather looks young.

“I reached Elkin this evening,” I tell them, “but I’m walking west.”

“Maybe we’ll pass you on the route tomorrow,” Tyler says. “That would be great.”

I wish I was feeling better. A part of me doesn’t want to continue talking, but they are standing wedged between me and the couple on my right. Rather, I wish I could find a quiet booth for us all where I could close my eyes. But, I can see, as busy as this bar is, along with the dinner rush on a Friday night, the surrounding booths are packed.

Still, Heather and Tyler are my first MST hikers since my brief meeting with that older couple crossing the dunes on the Outer Banks in Segment Eighteen—that couple, after years of walking various sections of the trail, were finishing the next day. They said they were excited that members of their family will be at Jockeys Ridge, the final endpoint of their hike, to celebrate their achievement. Meeting them on the dunes as I was just starting out seemed fortuitous and I, too, congratulated them. Here, though, it seems crazy to meet Tyler and Heather in a busy bar of non-hikers.

Tyler tells me they aren’t doing the entire route all at once, but are tackling it in large segments every time they go out. Following the Mountains-to-Sea route, he says, they plan to bike as much of the Piedmont and Coastal sections as possible. So far, though, they’ve had to backpack the five MST segments in the mountain section.

“We are habitual backpackers,” he tells me. “Just a week ago we returned to South Carolina—where we live—after hiking three of the tallest peaks in Vermont.”

“That’s so cool!” I say. I want to be a habitual backpacker too.

Soon we are talking about other hikes, and it’s clear they have had a lot of experiences in the Smokies and Blue Ridge Mountains.

“On segment four of the MST I asked Heather to marry me,” Tyler confides.

“Wow! Congratulations,” I say to him. “Congratulations to you both!” Heather doesn’t know exactly what we are talking about but leans over and says, “Thank you!”

Dick and Jane, the country club couple next to me on my left, get up to leave. I hope it’s not because of the rising odor on their right: not only do I smell, but with Tyler and Heather, it’s now a group stink. I’ve been wearing the same pants for two days and after miles drenched in my tee shirt and a lightweight long sleeve shirt that I’ve worn the entire time since Pilot Mountain—if only to keep the sun off my arms and neck—my smell must be the essence of “caveman”—Tyler and Heather, no doubt too!

“Hey,” I should yell, “if anyone wants to know what the MST smells like, join us!”

I scoot over for Tyler and Heather to sit down beside me. Bob stands next to Heather. They are having their own conversation and he already has a beer.

Tyler tells me that their bikes are at Bob‘s house where they will get showers and spend the night. I don’t know about showers, I tell him, but they can sleep for free, if they want, in the municipal park. Tyler doesn’t seem interested though. Given how sweaty I am and the possibilities of a shower at Bob’s house, I suspect, I too, would have accepted such an invitation.

Soon I order a vegetarian sub and, when it arrives, even though it looks great, I discover my digestive system is on lockdown. I can’t chew anything right now and my throat is adverse to swallowing—food or liquid. I really do need to lie down.

I excuse myself and go to the men’s room. Sitting on a toilet in a locked white stall, I am finally alone. I don’t know whether I want to throw up or have a complete internal tsunami. Soon, though, the wave of bodily nausea passes, and I realize I need to use this moment to get out of the bathroom and away from this bustling bar.

When I get back to my barstool, both Bob and Tyler ask me if I am all right. I must look horrible: a seventy-one year old completely sweaty, dirty, and dog-tired—not the best of sights. It seems like I’ve only been away for a few minutes, but they say I’ve been gone for so long they were about to send out a search party.

I tell them I have to leave. My excuse is I need to set up my tent before it gets dark. I ask the bartender to wrap my sandwich so I can put it in my backpack, and then, make my goodbyes to Tyler, Heather, and Bob. The bartender is surprised that I didn’t drink any of my beer or water, but clears away my two glasses.

At the hostess stand, as I pack my sandwich, one of the hostesses asks if I want my water bottles filled with fresh water. So, in a funny way, the night ends in harmony with the afternoon—more water. Soon my four one-liter bottles are filled to the brim and I am out of the brewery walking to the park. What a day!

Crater Park, Elkin’s municipal park, is near the Yadkin River where I’ve received permission to camp. On my way, I pass active pickle ball courts on the edge of the park. Amazing how many people—young and old—are playing pickle ball this late on a Friday night. I sit at a picnic table nearby and watch for awhile, before deciding I really do need to head into the large, soccer field-like area to put up my tent.

Shortly thereafter, in my tent, I finally eat my veggie sub without any chewing or swallowing interference and fall asleep—in spite of the outdoor flood lights left on all night over the pickle ball courts.

Waking up at six, I look outside and realize, once again on this hike, I am the only camper in the surrounding area. The Friday night pickle ball players are long gone and no one has yet to start up on the courts this morning. Lying here, it is just me. I can’t help but wonder if I will hike the entire length of the MST while camping out almost continuously alone. Clearly, this trail has been embraced by day hikers and section hikers who drive from trailhead to trailhead, but not necessarily by thru hikers—that is, other than Tyler, Heather, and me. Certainly, though, it’s been challenging, but fun, finding campgrounds and motels, and staying overnight in locations and accommodations provided by trail angels on this 1,175 mile hike.

This morning I am meeting an extraordinary gentleman who is bringing me coffee at 6:30 AM. I very much look forward to seeing him, so, though I am still tired and feel a bit draggy from yesterday, I get up and pack up my tent. I am sitting back at the pickle ball picnic table with my pack when he arrives.

Bill Griffin is a retired doctor who practiced in Elkin all of his life. He is an incredible poet who I have been fortunate to get to know while serving with him on the board of the North Carolina Poetry Society. Though my term ended after three years, he continues to be an integral part of the Society. In early June, in looking at Elkin’s Trail Days postings on Facebook, I discovered he is also an excellent naturalist leading group hikes as well. I went ahead and contacted him before I set out on this segment of the trail, and he agreed to an early morning coffee and a hike as I depart Elkin.

Bill arrives at the appointed time and the coffee in flasks he has brought is hot and tastes great. Perfect on a cool morning. We follow the trail through the town and he tells me how the locals have come to embrace the Mountains-to-Sea experience. On the main street a large sign points to locations in every direction—which is very cool. Hogwarts is definitely next on my list.

Today’s hike is twenty-seven miles to the Upper Campground in Stone Mountain State Park. Tomorrow, then, I will tackle the final ten miles of Segment Six. Between today and tomorrow I will climb up and down mountains, but in doing so, I will gain a total of 2,500 feet in elevation, and, of the 2,500 feet I expect to gain, the final five miles of Segment Six, hiking into the Blue Ridge Mountains, will be the hardest. I’ll actually climb most of the 2,000 feet, then, in reaching the Devil’s Garden Overlook.

Unfortunately, I can’t get a trail angel to pick me up at the Overlook tomorrow, as the road is closed for bridge repairs. So, my plan on Sunday, then, is to hike back down the five miles to the lower Backpackers Parking Lot where I’ve arranged for a trail angel to drive me to my car.

In making the arrangements, the trail angel I contacted seemed incredulous on the phone and offered to come later in the day—as he says I definitely will need more time. This has me nervous and anxious to get started bright and early on Sunday.

Still, I have got to get over Stone Mountain first before I can even think about hiking up into the Blue Ridge Mountains. Even with Bill’s help starting me off in such good spirits, I recognize I am tired and achy from the previous days of hiking across Pilot Mountain and over the rolling farmlands of Yadkin Valley.

Bill takes me on a delightful tour of Elkin following the MST route and I learn much about the town’s textile and manufacturing history, though, by the end of the 20th Century, many of the factories on the Yadkin River and Big Elkin Creek had closed. After three miles, though, Bill turns back to Elkin, away from the trail. I enjoyed his company, stopping to look at various wildflowers and ferns along the way.

About a mile later, at the intersection with the highway US 21, I come upon a Sheetz Convenience Store and stop to fill my water bottles. I take the opportunity to eat a breakfast of protein bars and potato chips. Three EMT guys get out of an ambulance that has pulled into the Sheetz parking lot. They pass where I am sitting with my backpack, chips and coffee and wish me luck with my hike. I tell them I might be contacting them later. They say they’ll be ready. Just give ‘em a call.

I soon realize, heading into mid-morning, I’ve delayed too long and need to get started. With the sun bearing down on me, I pick up my pack and leave the metal picnic tables near the parking area. I can honestly say I am not into this hike—this is a feeling I have not experienced very often on this trail, but today, though, here it is. I should have taken a zero day, I realize, and not hiked at all. In fact, I should go back to Elkin, treat Bill to a big breakfast, rest my knee, eat a few good meals throughout the day, and regain my strength.

Instead, I continue my walk along US 21 to a side street a mile up the road, and soon I am following a trail heading toward Stone Mountain.

Four miles later, I come to Byrd’s Branch Campground and stop at the office/store. Dwayne and Lorraine, the owners, are both inside and invite me to rest on their deck overlooking the RVs in the campground. Lorraine gives me a candy bar and a protein bar, along with an orange soda, to help me with my journey. This is such a nice gesture. Dwayne and I sit and talk about how they relocated from Florida after years of him working as a roofer. He says, in heat like this, running a camp ground is much more fun than pounding nails into shingles on a roof.

The location of their campground is perfect for backpackers hiking East from Stone Mountain. They say, though, they don’t see many hikers heading west. I tell them about Wrong Way Peach Fuzz and they nod like they “get it.”

Dwayne tells me to visit Carter Falls about a half-mile up the road. The falls are a quarter-of-a-mile from the trailhead parking lot, but not on the MST route. He assures me, they are worth seeing. I take his suggestion and visit the falls before pushing ahead to Stone Mountain. Carter Falls reminds me of an area like this back when I was a teenager. It was on private property. We would skip school, cross under the barbed wire fence, and hang out on the rocks. If girls joined us, it was even nicer!

Noon is upon me and, it’s clear, the day is passing me by. I’ve still got miles to go to reach Stone Mountain. However, my immediate obstacle a couple of miles down the road is a bump of a mountain known as Wells Knob. The climb up Wells Knob is perversely straight up for nearly a thousand feet, then, there’s a descent of nearly five hundred feet through a series of switchbacks on the other side.

The challenge for me this Saturday afternoon is to climb this beast of a blemish with temperatures rising into the high nineties. The route puts me on a gravel road that turns into a jeep path following up a clear-cut power line. Soon I am working my poles and pushing up with my legs, taking numerous stops and water breaks. Through a series of self-admonishments and various mantras I employ at my home gym, I finally reach the turn into the woods near the top, and am grateful to be alive. A half mile later I sit on a well-placed bench looking out over the coming Blue Ridge Mountains and enjoy another long reprieve. I try not to focus on how far I still need to go. Rather, I watch the ants on the forest floor and enjoy being here and now.

Hiking down the west side of Wells Knob, I follow the long series of switch backs—everything the east side was not. Still, at one point I trip over a root and land flat on my face—no time to react at all. Still, after dusting myself off, I am fortunate not to have sustained an injury, or harmed my right knee further, or broke any of my equipment. Still, it’s a real wake up call to be doubly-focused on where I am stepping in hiking down a mountain.

Passing the trailhead on the west side of Wells Knob, I am, I realize, soaked again in sweat. Nonetheless, I turn my attention to reaching the Rex Triplett Grocery store about two miles away. Triplett has been my only planned rest stop and, given my history with other remote stores, my fingers are crossed that this one is open. I feel like it takes forever to reach the location, but, to my surprise, the facility is not so much a grocery, but a convenience store. Cars are pulling in for gas and people are walking in and out of the small building’s front door.

I go inside and ask if I can put down my pack. The woman at the counter says, “Sure, honey, you must be hot,” and points to a spot to the right of the door next to the trash.

It truly is an old-time convenience store with shelves of food items, like ketchup and mayonnaise, as well as a wide selection of pet food and car parts. I buy an orange Crush soda and a small bag of Lays potato chips before noticing I can order store-made sandwiches too. The woman’s daughter agrees to make me two lettuce and tomato sandwiches and I am in heaven. I go back to the back where two older men with long unkempt beards are sitting at a small kitchen table. A stool off the side is next to a horizontal ice cream freezer.

I ask the two men if I can sit on the stool nearby. I desperately need to sit down. They say, “Sure, old fella.” I guess I have to be careful who I’m calling old.

I perch down on the stool and eat my chips and sandwiches, watching customers up front come and go. I wonder if anyone in the store saw Tyler and Heather, but I assume they have not—otherwise I would have seen them on the route. I hope the hikers are doing better than me. I take a moment to text them. Tyler responds with a selfie of the two of them and says they got to a later start than they hoped.

It’s not long before I recognize that it’s nearly four o’clock. I am at a point where hiking another ten miles to Stone Mountain State Park is problematic. It will take at least three to four hours to walk that far and I am so tired. I simply am not up for hiking into the dusk of another hot day like I did yesterday. This grocery store, rather, has to be my “go/no go” spot where, if I don’t go any further, I can still call a trail angel for help.

So I go outside and call home and tell my wife Karen and daughter Helen I’ve decided to call it a day and not walk to Stone Mountain as I had originally planned.

“Dad,” Helen says, “I am so proud of you for following your gut and stopped.” Karen is relieved too. “You can go back to Elkin and spend the night.”

But it’s more than that. I’m done. I text the trail angel I have lined up for Sunday and cancel my pick up. He writes back with an emoji showing a smiley face with clapping hands. Clearly, he’s happy with my decision.

I think of the last time I called a hike short of my goal. I was just outside of the Croatan National Forest in eastern NC. I was staying in a Days Inn when I woke to driving rain. Rather than go on, hiking in the day-long downpour, Karen drove three hours and picked me up. That was a tough ride home with a strong sense of giving up, especially in passing a girl on a bike with heavy rear rack bags pedaling in the pouring rain.

This time Bob Puckett’s wife, Suzanne, agrees to come and get me and I am so very grateful. When she arrives she asks if they let me pee at the grocery store. I am surprised by the question. She tells me that when she hiked this section of the MST, they did not. I have to admit, I haven’t peed all day. That, too, is not a good sign.

By five o’clock I am back at my car in Elkin. Shortly thereafter, I drive to the Angry Troll from the night before. I use their bathroom, then head into the bar for a quick drink. I am so thirsty. I see the same bartender from last evening and order an ice tea.

“You’re back,” he says. “Aren’t you the backpacker from yesterday?”

“I was hiking today too,” I say, “but decided to stop—too hot.” I am thinking—too tired, too sore, too late in the day, and too far to get to the state park campground. “I’ll complete it the next time,” I add.

“Well, you look like you’re feeling better,” he says.

“Yesterday was hard. It’s been hard today too, but definitely, I feel better. Sometimes I just have to learn when to stop.”

“I agree. Sometimes,” he adds, “that’s the best thing you can do.“

He refills my ice tea as I ask for my check and prepare to drive home.

“It’s hard, though, once you set a goal,” he says, “but it’s good to listen to your gut.”

That “gut” statement—first Helen, now him.

“I definitely did today,” I say. “Maybe not yesterday, but I definitely did today.”

It’s been an interesting three days: covering sixty miles in ninety-plus degrees. I made it beyond Elkin but not to the Devil’s Garden Overlook. Now, standing in the Angry Troll, I make a vow to complete the toughest section of Segment Six the next time I go out. I will return to Elkin one more time and, starting at the Rex Triplett Grocery Store, begin my push into the Blue Ridge Mountains and, at last, undertake the final 350-mile mountain section of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail.

“Thanks,” I say to the bartender. “See you soon.”

Click here to read the next chapter.

Click here to read the previous chapter.

Map of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. This post focuses on Segment 6.