A light breeze was rustling the rainfly when we awoke the next morning, but the downpour was over and waves of sunlight rolled past, lighting up our little orange home. I flipped from side to side a couple of times on the hard ground, trying to keep myself from tumbling down the slope. More sleep being evasive, I was eager to start the water heating for the first cup of coffee in the woods ā a unique pleasure that combines two of my favorite things into one. I sat up and put on my old pair of backpacking glasses, found my meter case safely stashed in a plastic bag, and checked my blood sugar. 160 mg/dl ā a little high. This was, I thought, to be expected, since I was 137 when I went to bed and Iād cut my Lantus dose by half in preparation for the day of hiking. Better than fighting lows all day, I thought. I unzipped the soaked rainfly which now clung to the tent after its stick stake had crumbled and given way overnight. I managed to haul myself and my pack out from under it and stumble into the bramble patch that weād appropriated in the night. Ahead of me, a few short oak trees canopied blueberry bushes and huge ferns. Further, at the border where the land turned steeper, big Balsam fir trees spread their evergreen branches into regal teepees. To the right, mountain after soft mountain, rolling in the Virginia way. Behind me, a taller peak with a bright green bald was dotted with what could have been nothing else but a herd of wild ponies.
Unbeknownst to us, we had set up our camp in paradise. I ran back to the tent and crawled into the deflated vestibule. āItās so beautiful out here!ā I shouted to my slowly stirring companions. āReally?ā āOh yeah?ā I had already run back outside. The Navigator unzipped the trail side door of the tent, just in time to say hello to a pair of early morning hikers. Also unbeknownst, we had set up our camp at most 10 feet from the Appalachian Trail. In the night, in the rain, it had felt like we were far from the pedestrian thoroughfare. This was an accident of minor importance though. We set up our first breakfast on a small rock to enjoy the views of ponies and passersby. I took about half my normal dose of Novolog to go with a higher carb breakfast than usual and halved my morning Lantus dose (Iām on a split Lantus regimen right now) once again, to set myself up for a day with less lows.
From there the skies just got bluer, in every way. After weād retrieved our wet clothes from the branches weād decorated with them, we set off again, this time North on the AT, to begin our āloop.ā Within moments we stumbled upon this scene:

Unlike my last eager venture to Grayson Highlands, I decided that this time I would allow the ponies to come to me if they wanted, but I would not approach them first. Luckily this worked out just fine. They were very friendly. They also seemed intrigued by my hiking poles (just another reason among the many to carry hiking poles).
Sometime later, we said goodbye to the ponies and continued on our way. Light clouds dappled the sky and the colors around us shone in response ā bright greens, sunset oranges from the just-past blossoms of the wild, fire azalea bushes. It was slow going because we had to keep stopping to greet and photograph every pony in the area. We could probably provide a pony census to Virginia if it was ever needed. And just when we thought ponies had come to rule the Highlandsā ecosystem, we happened upon…
these lovely (and somewhat intimidating) ladies. They were lunching on a high mountain pasture, so we decided to as well. For the first few minutes of lunch I fed the low blood sugar that had crept over me as I gazed out over the 360 degree views in a partial daze. It seems like for those first few hours of backpacking I canāt ever eat enough to keep my blood sugar up. I slowly came back to our beautiful reality while Raindancer, who had quickly become comfortable with the herd, fell asleep for a 15-minute nap.
Somewhere before or after lunch the trail took us over a little stream and we stopped to refill our Nalgenes. Hiking/life in general with diabetes requires a lot of water. I recently learned (remember this for your next trivia night) that diabetes comes from the Latin for: āIt has to flowā (I know that clinically this is not a good thing, but philosophically I really dig that slogan). So anyway we got out our Aquamira and engaged in the process of readying our water. In life, Iām not always patient with the process, but thereās something about the process of purifying water with Aquamira that I love. Maybe this is part of āthe best thingā about backpacking ā engaging deeply with the process of getting where you want to go.
Sometime around 7 pm we made it to a crossroads, literally and figuratively. We needed more water, we had reached a large boulder that supposedly offered good views, and we were tired. We decided to set up camp and go in search of water, rumored to be just around the bend, after eating dinner. Prior to eating dinner though, we ascended the curved face of the boulder and were met with a literally breathtaking view. You hear people say things like, āshe looked breathtaking,ā or āwow, this sunset is breathtaking,ā but if something is really breathtaking you canāt speak because you are gasping. And thatās how this view was ā like, āAhh!ā So beautiful, so unexpected. The sea of clouds had parted and the mountains were everywhere. Although Iāve grown to love the Piedmont of NC, views like this remind me that thereās just nothing like having your breath seized by the mountains. Could this be the best thing about backpacking?
Minutes later, I had wondered if perhaps tearing into a tortilla bowl of beans, tofu, cheese, and avocado as you stretch your tired legs out on the bare ground was perhaps the best thing. Thereās nothing like eating dinner in the woods when youāre really tired after a day of hiking. Also, hereās where Iāll make my plug for never going backpacking without hot sauce ā itās worth the weight. I carry mine in a small Tupperware given to me by none other than the Navigator, who understands my love of sauces. Itās very lightweight and a huge improvement over the whole glass bottle of Cholula I carried last time I was in Grayson Highlands.
The day was perfect ā magical in every way, and so it shouldnāt have been a surprise to us that the night sky would have been perfectly clear, illuminated only by the pinpricks of a million tiny blazes of light. Why should we have been shocked that the ground flickered with the slow awakening of mountain fireflies, who move with more direction and purpose than the rapidly flitting lowlanders? And yet still, with stars above and around us, we stood mesmerized. Iām all about favorites, ultimates, zeniths, etc., and so I could say that if there was a thing that was best about backpacking, it had to be this mountain field under the cover of darkness ā air the definition of fresh, a comforting silence filling the space in between the calls of katydids and click-click of bat wings.
But, I just canāt say that. In fact, no one of the miracles of the day could take the title of ābest thing.ā To categorize our time would have been to leave out the process, the parts of sum; to forget that each moment was a combination of feeling connected to the Earth and to each other. Perhaps, if I want to answer my friendās question, Iāll land on connection as the best thing about backpacking. Itās different every time, but it happens, somewhere in between bailing water out of the tent with your bandana, spotting a speckled salamander under an old log, and helping each other find the trail.
A quick acknowledgement and plug for the amazing blog of Hiking Bill. He provides in-depth descriptions of many hikes in the Southern Appalachians and includes helpful ‘hike planners’ at the end.Ā
You can find his description of the Pine Mtn/AT Loop that we used to plan our route here.