The “Perfect” Plan (and a Very Long Drive)
For months, I looked forward to a 6-day Appalachian Trail hike through Georgia and into North Carolina. I planned, packed, studied maps, repacked, and reviewed everything until the day we finally drove 12 hours to the Chattahoochee-Oconee National Forest. My husband, daughter, and dogs were set to complete 105 miles for the week, and I was beyond excited to begin.
We spent a full day driving to Georgia and checked into a cute little cabin at Enota Mountain Retreat near Hiawassee. The cabin had just enough: a small kitchen, a bathroom with a shower, a king-sized bed, and a fold-out sofa that practically kissed the bed. Our backpacks and dogs filled every remaining inch of space. It was absolutely perfect for a good night’s sleep—and for stashing our suitcase of “clean clothes we would definitely miss later.”
During the drive, I happily prattled on about the trail, mileage goals, food planning—really, all things Appalachian Trail logistics. About four hours in, my husband casually mentioned he had invited his best friend to join us. Brad would be arriving from Colorado via Florida about an hour after our check-in. A lodge room had been booked, I was assured, and everything would be awesome.
Brad, apparently, was also bringing fresh fish for a celebratory first meal, so spirits stayed high.
Enter Brad (and the First Plot Twist)
After dinner, Brad announced he was going to set up his tent “somewhere” and would meet us at 6 a.m. for breakfast. (I thought he had a lodge room? Minor detail.)
At 5 a.m., our cabin door flew open, the dogs erupted, and a soaking wet Brad stormed inside.
“My tent leaked and everything is wet. I’m going to hang my stuff in here. We won’t be able to backpack today.”
I was not thrilled. But what choice did I have? We unloaded the week’s food from our packs, and my husband removed his tent. Out of pure stubbornness, I kept my pack fully loaded with my sleeping bag and gear. I might not be sleeping outside—but I was not emotionally accepting that fact.
I quickly reworked the plan. Day one became a shorter point-to-point hike with parking logistics built in. We spent two hours driving just to make it happen: 45 minutes to drop one car at the end point, then another 75 minutes to the Springer Mountain trailhead. In the process, we lost two hours of hiking and reduced our first day from 16.7 miles to 12.3.
We finally regrouped at Cooper Gap and drove the long way back to the cabin. We returned well after dark, hungry, tired, and—speaking for myself—extremely cranky.
Groundhog Day: Cabin Chaos Returns
After dinner, I laid out the next day’s plan: early start, quick breakfast, back to Cooper Gap, and onward. Brad, meanwhile, decided to sleep in his sleeping bag in the back of his rental SUV parked beside the cabin.
At least, that was the idea.
At 4 a.m., the cabin door burst open again. Deja vu. Brad stood there—soaking wet, dripping onto the floor, creating a puddle that spread quickly under the beds.
“Why are you so wet?” I asked.
“Because I just ran five miles in the rain wearing my Crocs.”
“Why were you five miles away? Weren’t you sleeping in your vehicle?”
“Well… I got to thinking. I drove somewhere I saw earlier. Then I tried to pull off the road and ended up in a ditch. We’re not going to be able to hike until I get the car towed. I don’t have cell service.”
Silence.
We sent Brad to the resort office (where cell service and patience hopefully still existed), then drove into Hiawassee for a hot breakfast and a collective reset. Food helped. It always does.
The Bumper Incident and (Another) Rewritten Plan
By the time we returned, Brad was back—with his car. And with what looked suspiciously like a bumper in his hand.
Yes. A bumper.
“Hey guys… um… we can’t backpack because I need to be here in the morning for the garage guy. The bumper kind of fell off in the ditch.”
No words.
I walked away, reopened the map, and recalculated everything—again. We were already behind. Now we were just negotiating with reality.
That day we hiked in steady rain through mud and puddles. Honestly, the weather was a gift. It gave me an excellent excuse to keep my hood up and my commentary minimal.
At one point, my daughter bent down on the trail.
“Hey, Uncle B! Did you lose your earbuds?”
“Oh yeah… and I can’t find my wallet either. Did you see it?”
Of course he couldn’t find his wallet.
We ended day two at Woody Gap, 8.4 miles behind schedule.
Letting Go of the Plan (and Finding the Trail Anyway)
By day three, I had a quiet conversation with myself: no matter what happened, I was going to enjoy this hike. Surely, there couldn’t be more surprises.
“Morning,” Brad said over granola bars. “Still haven’t found my wallet. I’m going to cancel all my cards. I’ll head to the office and handle it. Want to make today another day hike?”
Oddly enough, I laughed. “Sure, why not.”
At that point, the original itinerary had fully dissolved. We hiked in rain for a third straight day and returned—again—to our cabin.
That evening, we revised the plan. Our daughter decided to continue exploring the area and meet us later at Deep Gap, mile 85, our new endpoint. Brad, after eventually locating his wallet (minus a debit card and several layers of dignity), opted to head off to his next adventure.
Sometime during the night, Brad quietly disappeared. No fanfare. No explanation. Just gone.
Sunlight, Summits and a Very Lucky Penny
The next morning, it was just us. We were dropped at the trailhead under an overcast sky, but eventually the sun broke through. The mountains lit up, and so did our mood.
We hiked under warm light, through mountain laurel and ridgelines that finally revealed themselves after days of gray. On the summit of Tray Mountain, we actually had a view—and we stopped long enough to appreciate it.
We laughed about the chaos of the first half of the trip. Only Brad could turn a well-planned adventure into something resembling controlled chaos.
As I bent to grab my pack, I noticed something glinting in the sun: a penny, heads up.
I picked it up and slipped it into my pack for luck.
As we continued north, I thought about the week—the delays, the rain, the detours, the bumper incident, all of it. And I realized that despite everything, we were safe. We were still hiking. We were dry at night. And most importantly, we were together.
Lucky hike, after all.
