Drizzle, Drazzle, Drezzle, Drone

MST. Chapter 13. Segment 16 (Part 4)

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.

---

Rain, rain, go away… I remember the old nursery rhyme as I study the pouring rain through the window of my room at the Days Inn in the small town of Cape Carteret, near the Atlantic coast in North Carolina.

Today my plan is to hike the final thirteen miles through the Croatan National Forest on the Mountains to Sea Trail, reaching my destination, the campground outside the tiny town of Stella. The importance of Stella for thru-hikers is that it marks where the current segment of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail ends and where the next segment of the Trail begins - a route that will take me through Jacksonville, home of the marines, then down to the Crystal Coast of North Topsail Beach and Surf City. A ninety-mile hike before reaching the edge of the 64,000-acre Holly Shelter Game Lands twenty miles inland.

The thirteen miles to Stella, though, is my immediate focus. This will be my second day of hiking alone primarily on sandy, firebreak roads of the Croatan National Forest. Just like yesterday, no traffic, no buildings or towns, no convenience stores, no fellow hikers, and no food or water except for what I am carrying.

On second thought, as I stare out the window, water won’t be a problem…

Stella, from what I can tell on Google maps, has no motels, hotels, or places to stay other than my destination: that one campground. I planned to spend my last night on this segment of the MST there - with my support team, Karen and Helen, my wife and daughter, driving tomorrow to pick me up from our home halfway across the state.

I remind myself as I watch the wind sweep the rain across the parking lot, I am fully prepared for bad weather: I have my trusty raincoat deep in my pack as well as a large plastic rain cover for my backpack - and, heck, my shoes are already wet from yesterday. So what’s a little rain?

In fact, isn’t this the inevitable test for thru-hikers? Sooner or later the weather will turn bad. As someone who is truly, a true thru-hiker hiking his way across the state, shouldn’t I be more than willing to rise up and meet this challenge?

Hmmm…

Delaying that answer, I decide to skirt along the side of the sidewalk to the Days Inn lobby, where I proceed to eat a breakfast of dry toast, sugary pastries and hot tea. Sitting near me at other tables are Hispanic workers who also stayed the night at the Days Inn. They, like me, are trying to wait out the rain. We can’t help but notice that the forecaster on the mounted tv on the wall above the utensil tray is calling for precipitation all day that extends into tomorrow. He says this is the soaker that they’ve been waiting for.

Jeez, I mumble to the screen, looking around at all the workers who aren’t getting their hours in, you don’t say?

On the Camino de Santiago, hiking across Spain with Marlene, my sister-in-law, we walked in rain numerous times, ending each day soaked. But when we reached our destination, waiting for us was always a warm hostel where we could get showers, change our clothes, set our shoes out to dry, and dry off our packs.

Here, though, I am planning to hike a similar amount of miles, but rather than a cozy hostel or warm motel to finish my day, I will need to put up my tent in driving rain - especially if the downpour continues as forecasted. How dry will my tent be after the fifteen to twenty minutes it takes me to put it up? Well, that’s the question. And, for that matter, what do I have to wipe the inside of the tent dry once I do? A dirty shirt from yesterday or the day before?

I am back in my room, now, looking at my poor backpack. From the window I can hear the rain and it has not let up one bit. People from other rooms are talking to each other scurrying past my window to the Days Inn lobby and back.

To put the question before me more bluntly, I think to myself, who would leave a perfectly warm room, like this one, to walk thirteen miles through a remote forest in an unrelenting downpour to put up a drenched tent in a strange campground?

Hmmm…

Let alone, I recognize, someone whose feet are already suffering from large blood blisters. What will those bad babies be like by day’s end? Huge loofah pads?

Probably some truly, true thru-hikers would, I force myself to admit, not delay the inevitable and head out into the rain. Looking in the mirror, I recognize suddenly the fellow before me, and that’s not the me I thought I am. Instead, I see an old man hiker-wannabe stuck on his own in a motel room in Carteret, North Carolina.

Of course, I could - like many thru-hikers - take this as a zero day and spend the entire time in this motel room. For me, though, paying out eighty bucks for a second night simply so I can get an early start tomorrow and walk thirteen miles to a distant campground in order to be picked up by my family, seems crazy.

I recall, the turtle Tooter, from an old Saturday morning cartoon show I watched as a kid. He would get into trouble or get all discombobulated and cry out, “Help me, Mister Wizard.” I don’t want to do this anymore.

And Mister Wizard would say, "Drizzle, Drazzle, Drezzle, Drone, time for this one to come home."

Then, shaking his head, Mister Wizard would admonish Tooter: "Be what you are, not what you are not. Folks who do this are the happiest lot."

Sooooo…Taking Mister Wizard’s advice…

At 7 AM, I call my wife, Karen, who agrees to change her plans for the day and drive the three hours in the pouring rain to pick me up.

Sitting on the chair next to the bed, having gotten off the phone with Karen, I berate myself for being way too Tooter-like in the face of adversity.

But, likewise, I pledge to myself to start the next “episode” of my great adventure here at this motel. What’s a few extra miles, I tell myself. Like Tooter, I’m already envisioning the next segment of the MST. I’m already including the thirteen to the ninety miles in my head.

Still, an hour or so later, the overriding feeling I have, as I wait for Karen on a bench under the carport outside the reception office, is one of guilt. How fortunate I am to have Karen and my daughter Helen to help me on this crazy quest. How guilty I feel calling on them all the time for their help. I didn’t have a clue as to how instrumental they would become when I announced my plan to attempt this hike. But here we are: Karen driving three hours in the pouring rain halfway across the state to pick me up and drive me home.

In truth, I realize, watching the rain, my wife and daughter are everything. I can’t make it to Clingman’s Dome in the Great Smokey Mountains - the end point of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail - without them. This realization in recognizing how much I need Karen and Helen’s involvement is humbling. If I complete this hike, it will because, as a team - as a family - we pulled this off. Is this, perhaps then, the lesson learned, Mister Wizard would say, of what truly experienced thru-hikers know in starting their hikes?

Click here to read the previous chapter.

Click here to read the next chapter.

Map of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. This post focuses on Segment 16b.