Cumberland Island: A trail journal
Indulge in some escapism with me this January
Dear reader,
This is a self-indulgent piece in which I wrote…a lot about one day. But I had fun writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it too. I’ve decided to just share one day from this trip, for brevity’s sake, and I’ll likely do that with upcoming adventures.
Happy trails!
Mumble
Day One
The hotel bed is a cloud, a quiet oasis just far enough from the highway that I finally feel still. Nothing has ever been this soft. Jeremy rolls over to hold me for just a moment, before my alarm nudges me awake. We’ve been asleep for less than five hours, but it’s easy to spring out of bed. We’re going backpacking! I whisper. We pull on our hiking pants and pack away our gear and quietly ride the elevator down. The same employee who checked us in last night waves us out. I can’t stop grinning.
Then I nod off for most of the five hours we drive to St. Mary’s, Georgia, where a ferry to Cumberland Island awaits. Even the anticipation of finally being warm and of greenery waving in the gentle breeze cannot keep my eyes open. Only the pull of my coffee cup in my hands at an increasingly perilous angle and the sudden sense of falling pulls me back to see the sunrise, briefly. I close my eyes against the bright sky, and drift off. I wake again when Jeremy points out the wild boars feasting on pecans along the highway.
The thermometer climbs as we approach the sea, from 19F at 5AM to a balmy 45F when we step out of the car and greet Jeremy’s parents, who drove down earlier. The day after Christmas, ferry-goers seem to be the only people in town. Backpacks lean against the pavilion and wheel carts are piled high with food, sleeping bags, and beer. I try not to be too smug about my little thru-hiker backpack, half the size of most bags. Mostly I’m just relieved to not have to carry much weight. I haven’t tested my battered feet since the PCT, and I don’t know how they will fare.
While we wait, we make sandwiches, spreading peanut butter and honey on the back of the car and inspecting its coating of road salt. We may have made it out of the snow, but we’re in puffy jackets and preparing for frosty nights. Still, the sun, which I haven’t seen in weeks, feels so gentle on my face. The last soft, fresh(ish) food for the next few days is shoved into a bag with some apples, and we board the ferry.
The Cumberland Lady carries us toward its namesake barrier island without losing sight of civilization. Inside, we debate if we brought warm enough gear and lament the extras that should have been left at home. When someone exclaims from the second deck, we’re all momentarily breathless at the sight of wild horses along the beach, below trees draped in spanish moss. The island greets us with a show, and I forget the smokestacks just out of view.
I’ve done little research on the island. I’m tagging along on Jeremy’s family trip, and my plan is to check the weather and relax. The latter is a more difficult task for me, but since I’ve now dragged myself 2,000+ miles across the country, I don’t feel the need to make this trek a feat. Meandering sounds luxurious. Anything green and blowing in the wind is a welcome reprieve from winter.
What I’m not prepared for are the armadillos. After we check in with the ranger, we lean our bags against the visitor center deck and head towards the ruins on the south of the Island, the opposite direction of camp. Jeremy’s mom repeats her one wish to see an armadillo, which we all murmur agreement to, and minutes later there’s rustling to the left. Not one, but two armadillos are just off the trail, heads buried under leaves in the hunt for food. I squeal with glee and all of our cameras fly out. The lighting is patchy, and they’re half hidden by saw palmettos, but still we try. The photos are fine, the armadillos are unbothered, and excitement is sky high.
The ruins, an old Carnegie mansion, are crawling with people and feral horses. I watch the tourists just warned about getting trampled mosey up to the wild creatures with cameras, unafraid. I allow myself some angry muttering, and then try to let it go. Hike your own hike. I pull out my goldfish and eat them slowly, savoring the salt.
The mansion is the perfect subject for photos and we gawk at its size (who needs fifty rooms!?) but I’m quickly ready to hike to the quieter parts of the island. We follow a road back to the visitor center, which has sand dredged up from the ocean, and shark teeth to be found. The canopy of live oaks tower above us, spanish moss hanging in tattered curtains that catch the light. At the forest floor, there are the fanned-out fronds of the saw palmetto, just shoulder high, leaving much of the forest open. The island feels expansive here, quiet except for the rustling of armadillos.
We pick up our packs from the deck, and they’re untouched, as the ranger assured us they’d be. Where are the squirrels? I wonder. Other visitors bike by or walk with trailers in tow, off to the nearby campground. Our trail is foot traffic only, and heads north.
With the pack on and the scenery unchanging, my mind wanders, and lands on my feet. They hurt, an old familiar ache. How did I hike with this? I have to rush to keep pace with Jeremy’s parents, who are happily chattering about how well their plan to have kids young so they could keep up with them worked out. I’m embarrassed to ask for a break to stretch out my calves and ease my achilles pain. It feels like I’m hiking in slow motion. I sit in the dirt and munch on goldfish while massaging my calves, trying not to worry about the miles ahead. I avoid looking at everyone standing above me, looking mildly concerned. You hiked the PCT, you can make it to camp. My attempts to reassure myself feel more harsh than helpful.
Jeremy and I send his parents ahead, and we shuffle along. His ankle is flaring up with a running injury, so we walk gingerly together. My mind settles into a familiar groove: how am I going to fix my feet? Out loud, I make plans to buy barefoot shoes and do toe yoga everyday. I promise myself that I’ll continue my physical therapy exercises for a year, even if the pain goes away. Comforted by plans and renewed determination that I know will fade, we keep moving towards camp.
“This is what I thought about all the time on the PCT.” I sigh. “All the time.”
We reach our campsite just before sunset. Well, we’re not sure that we’ve found the designated site, but the dirt is trampled down beneath trees whose branches swoop low to the ground and create a sense of shelter. My fingers are cold, and I throw on all my layers before we set up the tent. If I think too much about how cold I am, I become useless. So I keep moving: Tent up, sleeping bag fluffed, journal set out.
We prepare dinner in between our tents. Jeremy and I sit on my sleeping pad, his parents in their chairs. Into my ramen goes soy sauce, miso, almond butter, hot sauce, and seaweed. Salty, sticky carbs. Food I haven’t missed, but is comforting in the gathering darkness.
Now that we’ve stopped moving, I am shivering, partly from cold, largely from exhaustion. We hang the food to keep it from the raccoons, and crawl into our tents. It’s not even 7 PM. A barred owl calls out from above, and I hoot back: Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you allllll? Laughter rings from the other tent, and we settle in for bed.
