10. The End of The Beginning

Person of the Week: Brass Knuckles Guy

BONUS PERSON OF THE WEEK: My Greyhound Bus Buddy

The sunrise was beautiful on our last morning in the wilderness. We climbed out of the tent at the first light, eager to move around and try to warm up as we anticipated Ron’s arrival; he was supposed to get there early. We periodically tried to get in touch with him over the course of the morning, but reception was spotty and our phone batteries were quickly waning. We redoubled our efforts when he didn’t arrive at the appointed time; if I remember correctly, we received word just before my phone died that a fallen tree had blocked his route and the alternative would postpone his arrival by a good bit. So we sat on a log.

Ron eventually came to our rescue; it was a happy meeting. He helped us load our bags into the back of his car, we got in, and were quickly on our way; we couldn’t help but note that, in Ron’s car, we were backtracking that which had taken us 10 days on foot in less than 2 hours. The car ride was enjoyable; Ron was impressed by our success—increasingly so as he heard about the details—and he pointed out some of the landmarks we’d crossed as he drove along. Much to Chandler’s discouragement, he told us that, regardless of how we felt in that moment, we would eventually come to miss and yearn for the trail: The trail always calls you back, he told us.

When we finally pulled up to the Atlanta Greyhound station—a location we had yet to visit, having been picked up by Ron part-way through the trip on our way there—there were two police cars out front and a lady was being escorted away. With several hours to kill before our bus left, it was a disconcerting sight. Seeking an oasis in the area to pass some of our time (and missing the comforts of home after 10 days in the forest), we Googled the nearest Waffle House. Chandler’s phone was confused though, and led us, we would soon find out, in the opposite direction of where we hoped to go. We briefly sought refuge in the Burger King that his phone had believed was a Waffle House, regrouped, and set off a second time with renewed vigor.

The actual Waffle House wasn’t far down the road, and it was not an ordinary Waffle House: there was outdoor patio seating, a large screen on the wall playing Waffle House Trivia, and a host’s stand to give your name before being seated. People were waiting in their Sunday best to be seated for post-church brunch. Having not showered in over a week (we were wearing clean shirts though!), Chandler and I stuck out. But the meal was worth it; I had two waffles (with peanut butter and chocolate chips, of course), a large order of hash browns—covered, chunked, and peppered (that’s cheese, ham, and jalapeños, for those of you who don’t frequent WaHo)—and plenty of coffee.

After enjoying a civilized meal, we walked across the street to relax in a beautiful public park. We dropped our bags and reclined in the shade of a big tree, lounging on the grass for probably close to two hours. It was a beautiful day, and we welcomed the opportunity to rest. Though we’d managed to avoid any sunburn throughout the hike (Without sunscreen! Our hats and the trees kept us well covered.), we were both a bit red by the time we got up. Fastening our packs for the last time, we set our course for the Greyhound station.

While en route, though it was a relatively short walk, we managed to make another friend. He was walking to the Greyhound station as well; I think he told us some story about his car breaking down while traveling with his family, and he was either on his way back to retrieve the repaired car or still in the process of going ahead to salvage the situation while his family waited behind. Whatever the case was, he told us about some brass knuckles that were creating issues for him. Traveling alone in his personal vehicle, carrying them with him had been no problem, but now, traveling on the bus, there were complications with the possession of such things. As I struggle to remember the specifics of his story, it’s also difficult to recall his course of action regarding the brass knuckles; he bid us farewell a few blocks from the station, peeling off to meet a guy standing in a nearby parking lot and either (A.) sell his brass knuckles to this man or (B.) retrieve them from this man who had held them during the period of time in which our friend could not carry them. The more I think on it, the more I’m convinced that we never fully understood his explanation in the first place, and my current memory issues are in no small part due to a lack of initial comprehension. I’m pretty sure Chandler and I discussed the various possibilities of what he had meant for most of the short remainder of our walk.

It wasn’t long before we were in the Greyhound station, doing our best to mind our own business in the crowded space. We didn’t have a terribly long time to wait before our bus prepared for boarding. We didn’t get to sit together on the bus, but, luckily, we were able to stow our backpacks behind some of the seats rather than holding them on our laps again. It was a worthwhile trade. I apologized to the lady sitting next to me for the way I smelled, and we shot the breeze for awhile, talking about mine and Chandler’s trip as well as her being in the Marines; it was pleasant. The rest of the bus ride carried on pretty uneventfully, and soon enough we were standing in the exact same spot where we’d begun our journey only 10 days (though it felt more like 10 weeks) prior: the Nashville Greyhound station. We pushed through the double doors, tossed our packs in our friend’s truck, and turned our backs on the trip for good.

And now, more than a year later—in a world of smartphones, shiny cars, paved roads, and fast food; meetings, deadlines, morning alarms, and to-do lists—whenever I think about the hike, I look forward to the day that Ron’s words come true:

The day that the trail calls me back.