This past weekend GetBackpacking! set an SKT — Slowest Known Time. In this case, the Slowest Known Time for a lunch break on a backpacking trip.
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Before we set out Saturday morning from our campsite at Yellow Mountain Gap on the Appalachian Trail, I outlined the morning plan. “We’ve got a long climb — 900 vertical feet in 1.7 miles — up to Little Hump Mountain. We’ll take a break there. Then head on to Hump Mountain for lunch.”
Spring: you can’t wait to get out on the trail — and stay on the trail. Which is why backpacking was invented. We’ve got opportunities for you to do just that this spring: hit the trail Friday and not leave it until Sunday.
Your options …
This recent spate of bitter cold, snow and ice can’t last forever. This is the South: It just can’t.
Before you know it, maybe within a week or so, you’ll be out on the trail and you’ll see a bright yellow daffodil poking through the turf beneath a stately oak, near a loosely arranged pile of rocks. A non-native ornamental favored by early homesteaders to get them through the last half of winter, a harbinger of spring and warmer weather. They will be followed shortly by trout lilies, spring beauties and the rush of spring abundance. You may not be thinking about sleeping in a tent now, but it won’t be long. And you’ll want to be prepared.
You watch a video of a spellbinding adventure. You think, “Man, I would love to do that … .”
And it doesn’t happen.
It doesn’t happen for any number of reasons. More often than not, though, it falls victim to overthinking the logistics: What kind of preparation do I need? How will I get there? How will I know what to do when I do get there? Before you know it, you’re mentally exhausted and have moved on to the next video.
On Saturday’s final hike of our 2018-2019 Winter Wild hike series, we decided to add an extra mile or so. It was a mile of trail I hadn’t hiked.
As we made our way up the north bank of New Hope Creek, I could hear the gradient increasing upstream, the sound of water cascading over rock a bit more intense than we’re used to hearing in the Piedmont. As the noise grew, some mild scrambling was required; we shinnied up a rock outcrop overlooking the creek and emerged on a slab 30 feet above the water.
