Senses.

The sensations of being on the trail, not the feelings, but the shivers, scents, scorches, are a big part of what makes being here different.

The smell of a wood-smoke fire. I can't say I missed it, I hadn't thought of it in years, but when I hit the first shelter, fire burning, laughter, the occasional moan, it felt like home. A home I hadn't been to in a long, long while.

There's the shiver, cold along your back, you're dressed for the weather, but it's early and the weather hasn't arrived. There's the glorious warmth that hits when you crest a ridge catching the sun switch fills the valley below. Enough to take your breath away if the climb to get you there hadn't done that job already.

I met a man, who's name I sadly can't remember. He was sitting in a van, waiting for someone, I think his daughter, to get to the crossing. He said hello, asked if I'd seen her and offered me some supplies: water, OJ, fruit. Being less in need of pampering than a normal hiker, after all I'd slept in a bed last night, I picked some fruit.

Later, sitting on a peak, looking out on the shadows mountains make, I bit into the, still chilled, crisp red apple.

It might be the best thing I've ever tasted.

Today I hiked from Helen to Hiawassee. 16.6 miles. The original plan called for fewer miles, but this one gets me another bed.

It went well, a stretch, but a comfortable stretch.
Talk soon.
T.