The Len Foote Hike Inn, deep in a pocket of Appalachia, invited visitors to go backwards in time and enjoy the community of other hikers, resisting the urge to check in with the outside world. Its no-cell-phone policy found me wandering back down the trail to text our parents, to let them know we were still alive in the woods, and to call home to my son and his father, who, I found, were surviving well without me there to aid in locating missing socks, a wayward thermometer, or a favorite blanket.
That evening, the Hike Inn had the following activities planned for us: a “meet and greet” at 5pm, community dinner at 6pm, trivia at 7pm, and free time at 8:30pm.
A morning sunrise gathering was set for 6:30am the next morning—before which a bell would ring to let sleeping guests know that morning was imminent, and we’d better collect ourselves and head down to the back patio unless we were content to miss it.
I was content to miss it. I was looking forward to the indulgence of clean sheets, a pillow, and sleep in a heated room. To chatting quietly with my sister from the top bunk while staring at the ceiling, my sister just below me. Then, falling asleep and not waking up with anywhere in particular to go, except to Springer Mountain.
I was not much of a joiner, not much for organized fun. To our accepted cultural norms, I sometimes came off as a curmudgeon—my favorite indulgence being peaceful quiet time alone to think, smoke, and write. One major social occasion a day was plenty for me to plan for, and alternatively recover from, but I tried to adapt myself to the evening ahead as I cleaned up our small bunkhouse.
My thoughts turned to our Nana, who had once turned to me in the midst of a family celebration and whispered slyly “these people don’t know how to dance.” 98 years old at the time, she heaved herself up using her walker and ambled up to the stage. Darn it if she hadn’t danced in joy, rolling her walker across the dance floor.
All the eggs a woman will ever carry are with her in her mother’s womb, so I’d started my life as part of my Nana. I tried to picture all the dancing she and Poppy did on Saturday nights as she carried my mother who had carried me. Maybe I had just a bit of that pep and jive.
Just then, my sister pushed open the door to our room, having toured the entire Inn and declare it was just like Dirty Dancing.
And that was the moment. The moment the Hike Inn became fantastically fun and exciting to me. I would gladly have carried a watermelon into game night. It was just like Dirty Dancing with all these strangers becoming a loose-knit family group for the evening, all these meetings and shared meals.
I even discovered a middle-aged lady who seemed irreconcilably out of sorts, whether because of a secret romance and subsequent jilting, I could not say. She complained to the front desk about the hair dryers not working correctly and didn’t join in during activities, and I had the happy fortune to find myself on a collision course with her.
Each time she was griping to staff, I found myself standing nearby enough to overhear, and it delighted me. Either she spent her entire visit being grumpy, or I had the uncanny ability to always find her so.
Being a middle-aged lady myself, I found her glamorous and entertaining, always in her makeup with her dark brown silky hair fluffed and fixed. “She must have hiked here with a sherpa,” I thought.
Just before “meet and greet,” I found a fellow smoker out on the porch. “I thought this might be frowned upon,” I told him.
“Come be frowned upon with me!” He laughed. David was from California and had three sisters. An affable vagabond, he would only be hiking for a few days before he moved onto other adventures including traveling cross-country by train and hiking in South America.
My sister and I promptly adopted him for the evening, but we were only the first to do so. His easy-going nature found him mingling with all the guests there that weekend.
At dinner, we sat with him and passed savory, carbohydrate-laden dishes down the table, chatting with couples and families hiking together. Many of them staying the weekend, and a few of them starting out on the trail like we were.
Afterwards, we gathered for hiker trivia, and cajoled David into joining our team. My sister knew most of the answers, but I regularly offered my incorrect and confident input. David impressed us with his familiarity with plants in this region including those winding woody tornados we had seen growing at the sides of the trail, which he identified as Mountain Laurel.
As night fell, my sister and I retreated to our bunkhouse and climbed into our beds looking forward to the morning sunrise. The rest of the world floated away at the Len Foote Hike Inn. There was no yesterday and no tomorrow. Springer Mountain would wait for us. For now, we were present, warm, and asleep in our bunks.
“Myrt!” My sister was standing below me, pulling on her hat and then, kneeling to tie her shoes. The bunkhouse was dark, but I could see her sweet smile in the shadow. “It’s almost sunrise, are you coming?” She whispered quietly, peering up at me, gray on gray on gray on gray.
“Myrt!” She said again. Now, she was completely dressed and pulling open the door to the bunkhouse, “I’m going. Just letting you know.”
Rocks & Roots 