Date: 2017-04-22
From: Thomas Knob Shelter

To: Dickey Gap
Miles today: 21.2
Weather: overcast clouds

I'm an early riser, so I left the shelter this morning while most were still in there bags. There's no line for the privy before the sun is fully up.I'd not traveled more than 100 yards when a brown and white wild pony accosts me. I see it emerge from the woods, so I pull out my camera. It then occurs to me that the pony is heading straight for me, fast. At that moment, I was glad I had visited the privy before heading off, or there might have been some brown blazing. The animal goes directly for the waist pocket on my backpack, where I keep my energy bars. It starts nibbling at it, so I give him a thwack on the nose with my hiking pole. It stares at me in wonder, as though saying, "Now why did you go and do that?" After a moment's pause, it pushes at me again. I crosscheck it with my pole, keeping it between me and the beast. It leaves, heating towards the shelter. I leave a proud and mighty victor.Today's march takes me through the Grayson Highlands, the land of the wild ponies, but I see only one more though I walk through the park for hours. I pass through a rock formation known as fat man's squeeze, with no trouble at all. Perhaps 7 weeks ago I'd have experienced a little more difficulty, but I venture I have lost at least 15 pounds since March 1st. In the park I pass the 500 mile mark, another noteworthy milestone. Shortly after it starts to pour, coming down sideways, driven by a stiff wind. The ridiculousness of the situation makes me laugh. I ask a passing hiker, going southbound, also caught in the deluge, "What are we doing out here?" I hear a response muted by the wind and the rain pounding on my hood, "I'm asking myself the same question."Every dark cloud has a silver lining, and this one is trail magic down at The Scales, a corrall where cattle were in times past weighed. Another hiker heading southbound tells me about it, as encouragement. "How far away is it?" I ask. "About one and a half miles," he replies. "Oh, that's a little too far for me to run." But I do pick up the pace.After devouring a hot dog, two meatball subs, a package of yodels, potato chips, and I bottle of water, I am refueled and ready. But the skies are a fury. Gusts are all but ripping the canopies from their stakes and water is falling in sheets. In comes Pogo, followed shortly by Tailgate. They feast, too. We chitchat about the miserable conditions, I eat an oatmeal creme cookie, and the wind abates. This is my chance, I say thanks to my gracious hosts, toss a nightmarish 35 pounds onto my back, and lumber on my way.About two hours later, Pogo and Tailgate catch up to me. Both are about 35 years my junior, so this is no surprise. We are all heading for the same shelter tonight, Hurricane Mt. Shelter. Its name is troubling. The youngsters get their well before me, but I find they have not gone to the structure. Rather, they wait for me on the trail and ask if I'd be interested in doing 5 more miles with them. Flattered that they think I can do 5 more miles, I say yes. We knock those miles off in two hours. But now it's raining hard, and I'm thinking we probably should have stopped at the shelter. I set up my tent in pouring rain, spending about 30 minutes mopping up rainwater inside my tent with both my bandanas. My air mattress raises me above the damp tent floor. Bear bagging is a foregone conclusion; any animal out in this mess is welcome to my food. I sleep with my bag of food at my side. The other guys are sleeping with theirs, too, so I figure my odds at 33%. I fall asleep quickly to the patter of raindrops on the fly of the tent and to the occasional drop of mist that falls to my bag.