It was three years ago, a month after I stopped a twenty-six year smoking habit when I clawed my way up what we call the murder hills on section one of the Pinhoti. It was his second time, my first. He was going to attempt a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail, and the Pinhoti Trail was where he was training on his days off.
"You're too slow," he said.
"You don't know what I can do," I said and began to train with him but not hard enough to join him.
He laughed, but our stellar crew of three redid the first two sections of the Pinhoti this weekend, and it was easier and we were faster but still those inclines just keep coming. Twenty-eight miles, at least five of which are torture but the other twenty-three and the finish are sweet.
Today and the past two days I am grateful for the very kind and generous people and dogs and horses and cows who surround the Pinhoti Trail. I am grateful for Friday night and Saturday morning comedy hours from the guy who assessed the situation and said, "No way." I am grateful for those who hike the trail and the beautiful stories they bring.
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