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There is an excellent view of the valley far below and the mountains all around. It is a gorgeous afternoon: gauzy fair-weather clouds streaking across a soft blue sky. I am just going to lie in the sunshine and enjoy it for a while. My shoes, socks, tent, sleeping bag, and towel are all spread out on the grass next to me, finally beginning to dry out from all that rain.

More of My 1983 Hike in Photos at georgesteffanos.com/places-i-v

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In one corner of the meadow a larger tree had been through some things and survived. A significant section of its trunk now ran along the ground where winds must have knocked it down, but the roots held. At the other end several large, gnarled limbs thrust upward towards the sky.

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A large, rather steeply-sloping meadow ran down the side of the ridge from the crest there, bright green grass broken by reddish brown channels where several runoff streams (dry today) exposed the clay soil. A few smallish trees with bright yellow buds or tiny bright green leaves just emerging sprinkled the meadow.

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May 9, 1983, 41 years ago today: Dave and I had lunch in Bly Gap, just across the state line into North Carolina. One state down and eleven to go.

2/3
I awoke this morning at first light. The temperature had dropped down to near freezing and the breeze had died. A heavy, gelid mist hung suspended in the still, frosty air. Like most of the forests through which I passed in Georgia’s Blue Ridge, this one was a maze of vines and creepers draping down from gnarled, moss-covered trees.

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May 9, 1983, 41 years ago today: Dicks Creek Cap in Georgia is the point where the Appalachian Trail crosses a lonely stretch of US 76 less than nine AT miles from the North Carolina border. Our tents were pitched in the woods a short distance from the roadside, a few feet away from a roadside picnic area beside US 76 where we could make and eat dinner and breakfast in style.

🧵 1/5
May 8, 1983, 41 years ago today: There is nothing like trying to pack up everything you own in a downpour. My sleeping bag was soaked, my tent was hopeless; everything was drenched. Adding insult to injury, the rain came to a dead stop about five minutes after I had finished packing.

🧵 May 8, 1983, 41 years ago today: Awakening in my tent just after midnight, I instantly felt a vague sense of uneasiness rippling through the dark forest. Outside, the air seemed leaden and dead. The evening breeze had died, and the gorgeous starry canopy beneath which I had gone to bed had faded to dark grays and black.

They say a rainy November day in Connecticut can be dreary, but sometimes you just need to look around and look closer. Finch Brook Preserve, Wolcott, Connecticut. November 7, 2019, 4:24 PM.

2/2
The beautiful day and the fine views from Tray Mountain did little to lift my spirits. I don’t know how I can go on now carrying 220 pounds of me and 50 pounds of supplies with merciless leather boots scouring the gouge in my toe, but I cannot quit.

From my book Then the Hail Came (A Humorous and Truthful Account of a 1983 Thru-hike). Available in paperback & eBook: amazon.com/dp/B09QFG4ZR6

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May 7, 1983, 41 years ago today: Dave was shooting for a fifteen-mile day to Montray Shelter, and I tried to stay with him. I struggled on through a haze of pain and fatigue until almost dark, but I only made thirteen miles to a campsite located on the site where an old “cheese factory” once stood, perched on a ridgetop high up the slopes of Tray Mountain.

2/3
chased the little bastards away, and attempted to hang my entire fifty-pound backpack from another nail. The nail spun around just as I let go of my pack, sending the whole thing crashing down several feet onto the little toe of my shoeless right foot. Blood instantly began gushing out and I knew right away I was screwed. It was very dark, and I was very tired, so I merely wrapped the toe up with gauze, hung my pack on another nail, and left the wound to be attended to in the morning.

🧵 1/3
May 7, 1983, 41 years ago today: And then, disaster struck. Last night, swarms of mice, the only permanent inhabitants of almost every Appalachian Trail shelter, staged a mass assault upon my backpack. Dave, more experienced than I, had put his food in a stuff sack and hung it from a nail projecting out from a rafter beneath the shelter roof. I stood up,

3/3
The lower, much flatter Piedmont country stretching south and southeast to the horizon was wearing the deep greens of a much later spring than I had yet to see in the highlands.

More of My 1983 Hike in Photos at georgesteffanos.com/places-i-v

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George Steffanos

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