Unexpected Friends, Wrong Road...

MST. Chapter 28. Segment 8 (Part 2)

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 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 below for reference.

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I wake up in the first hour of morning light and realize that already joggers are running the parameters of the Oak Ridge athletic park. I see no reason to delay getting started and quickly pack up and refill my water bottles with my plastic sandwich bag. My goal is to walk 26.7 miles to a location off of the Dan River where I have arranged for a local trail angel to show me where I can camp for the night. When I start tomorrow, Danbury, a small town at the base of Hanging Rock, will still be five miles away, but my plan is to quickly hike to Danbury, eat breakfast, then continue on and hike up Hanging Rock Mountain to the Visitors Center where Segment Eight actually ends.

By six-thirty AM I am on my way and soon into a local forest reserve that extends for three miles. It’s a great way to start a long day, though I am cognizant of the forest slowing me down like yesterday. But still, three miles of rolling forested land is just about perfect, and by the time I reach my first road, I am heated up, I haven’t lost too much time, and I’m ready to take on roads for the rest of the day.

As I come out of the forest and walk through the parking lot trail head, two guys who are about to walk into the woods, spot me with my backpack and ask me where I’m going and where I’ve been. They are amazed at my journey. They say they couldn’t imagine walking across the state. If I wasn’t already attempting it and more than six hundred miles along my way, I don’t think I could imagine it either.

However, my focus is not on the big picture, but rather the convenience store I read about in my printed directions seven miles away. I want to refill my water bottles there and buy at least one bag—maybe two—of potato chips. Salty potato chips can be a real motivating force in getting to a remote convenience store, and, as I have eaten only a protein bar this morning, I am definitely motivated.

About a half-mile away from the store though, I come up on an older man standing next to his pickup truck. He is wearing a Wake Forest cap. I think his vehicle must be broken down, and, as I approach, I ask him if I can be of help. He laughs and says he’s fine and lives just down the road.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, and hands me a wet bottle of cold water along with a packet of beef jerky. “I thought you might be able to use these.”

“Oh, how nice,” I say and take the water. I tell him I’m vegan and he can keep the jerky, but I truly appreciate his taking the time to wait for me. The water is really, really cold and I start drinking it right away. I tell him of my fantasy with the convenience store up ahead and he laughs and says he should have bought chips!

He’s a preacher in the local Baptist church and when I asked if he went to divinity school at Wake Forest, he says no, his dad went there. Wake Forest is the university nearby in Winston-Salem. He says when he drove by me earlier, he thought he would help me out given how hot it is outside. He starts talking about his own hiking experiences and the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, which he knows all about. He has hiked several miles of it up in the mountains as part of various day hikes and says I should take plenty of water. I tell him of my new strategy as of yesterday, of being extra careful from now on and he is impressed.

The convenience store is a godsend and I buy two bags of chips with sea salt, a Snickers bar, and a bottle of orange Gatorade. It’s nice eating breakfast at a small table in the store, though the woman at the counter is not so sure of my intentions and keeps me in her sights. When I take two bottles of water from the refrigerated unit and pour them into my half empty bottles, she is sure I must be stealing water, but the moment passes when I buy the bottles I needed. We are all good when I head out the door.

By twelve-thirty I am in Walnut Cove and am feeling positive about where things stand. I have hiked fifteen miles and only have eleven more to go to reach my trail angel meeting spot just off the Dan River. I decide to go into Walnut Cove and find a restaurant for lunch. A local establishment called The Milk Bar sparks my interest so I go inside to see what it offers.

The Milk Bar has a full menu, it turns out, and plenty of midday customers, so I take off my backpack and sit at a table. My lunch consists of a grilled pimento and tomato sandwich (on cornbread) and a slaw dog (without an orange hotdog). This, to me, is truly good Southern eating, especially when combined with plenty of sweet ice tea and hot coffee. The customers near me are full of questions regarding my hike. Two guys, one with a gray shirt that says he works for a plumbing company, tell me they passed me hiking out of Oak Ridge. They can’t believe I am doing this at my age. I tell them at their ages, I can’t believe they’re not. We all get a good chuckle at that and the plumber jiggles his heavy belly and says he is totally out of shape to attempt anything even remotely like what I am doing. I nod sympathetically at that and, in truth, I can’t help but feel how fortunate I am.

The plumber and his sidekick get up and wish me luck with my hike. The way they walk to the counter, it looks like they have had a full day of it already. The plumber comes back from the cash register, and I think he is leaving a tip at his table, but he walks over to me and says he went ahead and bought my lunch. “It’s the least we can do,” he tells me, “to help you with your journey.” I am stunned.

“Thank you.” I stand up and shake his hand. “This is so nice of you.” The waitress smiles and the people at the other tables shake their heads like they’re all in agreement. Such a nice surprise! The Milk Bar, I’ll remember the good people here!

I find it hard to get started, but it’s one-thirty and I still have eleven miles to go to meet the trail angel I talked with a week earlier. I fill up both of my liter bottles before leaving the restaurant then head out for at least three more hours of walking. This time the road seems long and my pace slows, but still, I need to be at the Dan River by five this afternoon.

It’s about four when I stop for a brief break. It’s hot and I have walked the last two miles uphill on a stony, unpaved road. I am tuckered out, my feet are sore, and I am now down to one bottle of water. On the positive side, earlier in the afternoon I saw my first glimpse of Hanging Rock off in the distance and that proved inspiring. I take a moment to eat the final protein bar I had put in my pocket this morning. It’s half-melted but tastes great. I have a mile-and-a-half to go to reach the Dan River and, after nearly twenty-six miles, I am ready.

Soon I see the parking area on the other side of the Dan River Bridge and walk to it. No cars are in the parking lot, but I find some shade and sit down to wait. After more miles than I care to think about, sitting on gravel is not a problem. I send a text to my trail angel that I have arrived and wait for a response. After awhile, I call the number I used a week earlier and leave a voice message. Still, no response. I realize, then, that maybe II should have stayed in touch more frequently. Who knows where she is now.

At five o’clock I start feeling antsy about my situation. I have about three-quarters of a bottle of water remaining. If I were to camp near here, without the help of my trail angel, water could become an issue—or I could drink from the Dan River, which I am loath to do as, in fact, it looks quite muddy.

The next convenience store is the historic Priddy’s General Store, a famous landmark in this area as it opened back in 1888 and is still being run by the same family. Priddy’s is about two-and-a-half miles away. I google the store and see that it closes at six P.M. I could wait for the trail angel to contact me or use the hour to get to Priddy’s Store and buy more water. I decide to go for the water and take off down the road, knowing I have less than an hour to hike nearly three miles.

I am moving fast and watching my time. I am walking fifteen-minute miles and should be there by five-fifty. Only at five-fifty, five-fifty-five, six o’clock, six-ten there’s no store, and I have walked nearly three-and-a-half miles. Something is definitely wrong: no trail angel, no general store, and no idea why.

I sit on the stoop of a burnt out building and begin to assess my situation. My google maps app tells me I am five miles away from Priddy’s General Store and seven miles from Danbury, the nearest location where there’s an actual campground. I am devastated—I have just lengthened by three miles the distances to everything.

In turning on the GPS locater for the Mountains-to-Sea Trail, I realize I made my mistake all the way back at the parking lot next to the Dan River. I took off for Priddy’s in a mad rush on the same road I had been hiking. Instead, I was supposed to turn onto the smaller road that intersects there.

Now it’s six-thirty and I have only a half-a-bottle of water, and I used a ton of energy and an hour-and-a-half of daylight. I call the trail angel one last time but, once again, I get no answer. I call the campground in Danbury, and, thank god, they have open sites available tonight. To top it off, they’re okay if I arrive late. This last piece of news generates a massive sigh of relief, and an amazing amount of tension releases from my body: I have a place to go, I just need to get there.

I hike back the three miles to the Dan River parking lot. It is now seven-thirty and, in total, I have walked thirty-three miles—six of which were pointless. I now have a dilemma: if I want to follow google maps on my phone, I should go straight ahead, back over the Dan River Bridge, in order to get to the campground in five miles. If I go with the MST route, I should turn at the intersection (where I was supposed to turn to begin with) and walk to Priddy’s General Store—even though it is now closed—before hiking on to Danbury. This route is six-and-a-half miles to the campground.

As the whole idea of my journey has been to walk the entire Mountains-to-Sea Trail and in recognizing that this trail has never been about hiking a direct line from Point A to Point B, but rather a tour of interesting North Carolina sites, I decide to turn onto the smaller road and longer route. My goal is to make up time while being careful with what I have left of my water—basically a couple of swigs in my last bottle.

Thirty minutes later my water situation becomes dire. Damn! How many times have I had this issue walking across North Carolina? I am beginning to think hiking this state is only about one thing: water, water, water, and more water.

I see a woman on a sit-down mower mowing a large lawn on my right. I realize I have no choice but to wave her down. I walk towards her across her lawn. She stops the lawn mower and gets off, yelling to her son, who I didn’t see previously, to run into the back yard. I apologize for interrupting her and tell her I have run out of water. I ask if she has a spigot where I can refill my two bottles.

She takes pity on a poor, wandering soul—me—and leads me to the spigot on the side of her house where I unfasten the hose and turn on the water. I place my bottles under the spigot—while drinking large gulps of water—and refill the two of them once more. She is truly a life saver. Her son, who looks to be five or six, joins us and asks me a ton of questions. I try to answer them all between drinking and filling my bottles, but I can’t take too much time. With a huge wellspring of gratitude for her kindness, I am soon on my way. When I look back, they are waving to me.

I arrive at Priddy’s General Store and, as expected at this hour, no one is there. Still, I take some pictures. The store is definitely old and, from looking in the windows, quite a mix of convenience items and curiosities. Had I not walked three miles down the wrong road, I definitely would have gotten here in time, while the store was still open, and I bet all the tea in China they not only sell water but chips too.

It’s now eight-fifteen, though, and I still have two-and-a-half miles to walk to get to Danbury. The campground is another mile-and-a-half further.

I move as quickly as I can with my sore feet after so many miles. Dusk grows darker around me but, finally, I cross over the Dan River, once again, and, from what I can tell from the bridge I’m on, a beautiful park is next to the river. It’s about ten-of-nine when I arrive at a key intersection into Danbury. To my right is a convenience store with its bright lights. The MST directions indicate I should turn right here at this intersection and walk past the store. However, the campground I contacted is to the left and another thirty minutes of walking.

I cross to the convenience store and come up on two older, heavy-set men sitting near the front doors. They seem to be enjoying the darkening cool of the evening as well as the coming and going of customers. One of the men gets up and pulls over a metal chair for me, and I gratefully take off my pack and sit down. The man says his name is Hank but he doesn’t introduce his friend. He too asks me where I’m coming from and where I’m going. He and his friend subsequently engage in a discussion—first, on whether or not a campground is located near here, and, then, when I say it’s about a mile-and-a-half away, whether or not it’s in the direction I plan to go. Finally, they agree with my campground and directions and, strangely, I am relieved.

Hank tells me the store closes at nine in case I need anything. I ask him to watch my pack and hobble inside. My feet are definitely hurting and I have been wearing the same pair of socks since 6:3O AM. Inside the store, it’s like I am living a deja vu moment from earlier this morning. I buy a Snickers bar, a bag of potato chips, and two bottles of water. Thank goodness I ate lunch at the Milk House in Walnut Cove.

Soon I am back at my metal chair refilling my two bottles and drinking the remainder of the extra water—all the while eating the salty chips and Snickers bar.

Hank says, “You look like you needed that.”

More than you could ever know, I think. “Dinner,” I say.

After my quick replenishment, I get my headlamp out of my pack and put it on.

Hank says, “If you want to sleep in Dan River Park, the sheriff won’t disturb you. I lost my drivers’ license for five years, and I often sleep on a picnic table near the back of the park. You can join me if you like.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I have reservations at the campground and they’re expecting me.”

A disheveled young man walks up to us at the station. Hanks speaks up and tells him if he wants anything from the store, he better get it now.

The man says, “I have no money.”

“Wait,” Hank says, “I know you, you’re Bob Miller’s boy. When did you get out?”

“Couple of weeks ago,” he says, “but I ain’t been home.”

Hank asks, “Are you hungry? You can sleep in the park if you want. I’m sleeping there tonight. Do you have a jacket or something?”

“Naw,” says Bob Miller’s boy, who looks to be in his early thirties, or perhaps, as unkempt as he is, he could be in his late forties.

“You need a tent and sleeping bag like my friend here,” Hank says, pointing to me.

Bob Miller’s boy now looks me over as I stand up, lift my pack over my shoulders, and get ready to depart. I know what he must see: an old, worn out man with a full pack ripe for the picking.

“Hey,” Hank says to the man, “Come with me, and I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Naw,” he says, “I think I’ll stay here.”

But, Hank won’t take no for an answer. He gets up and gently pushes Bob Miller’s boy toward the convenience store doors. “You look like you could use something good to eat. How’s your old man?”

The two of them step into the store, but not before Hank turns to me at the door and winks.

I nod to him and the other man, who hasn’t said a word since the campground discussion. I immediately set off in the direction away from the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. After two hundred yards or so, I turn on my headlamp. I do not waste time walking the final mile-and-a-half, but that road—the road is all uphill.

At nine-thirty I arrive at the Sunset Park Campground (thank god, it really exists!). Only, there is no one in the office and no note as to what I should do. I walk to the nearest camping site and set down my pack on the picnic table. I am near a creek with ducks in the water—they’re honking at me and I can tell they are not impressed.

Shortly thereafter, a young man walking a little lap dog stops by my picnic table and gives me directions to the bathhouse. I thank him for the information and tell him I’ll pay for the site in the morning—just in case he’s checking up on me. While talking to him, I begin emptying my pack to set up my tent. There’s not a chance in hell, I’m leaving this site. Minutes later, he’s gone and shortly thereafter, with squawking ducks and all serenading me, I crawl into my tent.

This has been one heck of a day: thirty-nine miles and more than fifteen hours of walking with a thirty-pound pack. I think about Bob Miller’s boy. What his life must be like and what a sad situation—standing outside a convenience store with no money and no jacket or blanket for the night. Mostly, though, I think of all the people I met today: the preacher with his Wake Forest cap, the plumber who paid for my lunch, the mom mowing the lawn and her son, and even Hank and his wink. What an eclectic group. I am so blessed to have met up with each of them when I did.

After a long drink of water, I take off my shoes and socks and rub my poor feet. My only regret, lying down, is not having an extra bag of potato chips. Soon enough, though, I close my eyes—still in my clothes—and fall fast asleep.

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Map of the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. This post focuses on Segment 8