30 days or bust

March 30, 2025

Molly and Jim Denton Shelter/Manassas Gap Shelter, mile 983.1

Today miles 5.5/Trail Total 10.7

Bobby Darin in my head

We got picked up in Harper’s Ferry earlyish today for a shuttle down to our starting point in Front Royal, VA. Our shuttle driver, trail name Strings, had done a thru-hike in 2009, and we made good conversation on the way down. Seems like a lot of folks who do this stay involved in the trail ecosystem. He was nice enough to take a pic of my brother and me at the trailhead.

Randomly, there was also a chicken there. 

Strings said he’d seen a lot of stuff on the trail, but that was his first chicken. We set off to the tune of rooster crows and laughter.

The weekend had panned out much hotter than expected, and we hit the first big ascent quickly, which kicked me to the curb energy-wise. After that, things evened out, and we reached the shelter by about 1:30. It had taken us about 4 ½ hours to cover just over 5 miles.

Denton Shelter is a really cool space, with a separate pavilion for cooking, a horseshoe ring, a composting privy, and a solar shower (sadly not hooked up for the season yet). But I was in a weird headspace. The shelter had been our target, and we were here, but it was absurdly early. Better hikers could lunch here comfortably, relax a bit, and move on for another 5.5 miles to the next shelter—or even further. But I was too wiped to contemplate another couple of ascents like the one we’d finished. I was hot and sticky and sweaty. The hotspot on my foot that I’d duly taped up had blistered out anyway—the tape had sweated off my heel. There were a few other people staying at the shelter as well, but I wasn’t really jiving with them. (More on that later, as it turns out.) 

And after setting up my tent, I was just…there. I know it’ll take time to build up my mileage—I’d planned for these first few weeks at the very least to do low miles, shelter-to-shelter, to take time, etc. but the reality of my own limitations, and the prospect of all those long, empty afternoons was a harsher one than I’d imagined. I saw hundreds of days like this lined up one after another in front of me and felt something like despair.

I felt better the next morning but the ascents were worse, and so was the heat. I had to keep stopping to rest or to replace the blister packs and tape that wouldn’t stay on for anybody’s business. The hiking day had felt longer and harder, even though we made it to the next shelter, a slightly longer distance, in about the same time as we’d taken the day before. This shelter was deserted. A lone Nalgene bottle filled with orange liquid sat abandoned on the picnic table outside. It kind of felt like it had been there a long time.

I walked down to the creek to filter my water for the night. Unlike the day before, there was enough water and enough space this time for me to sit downstream and soak my bare, battered feet in the cold water. It was a glorious end to what had originally felt like kind of a miserable day.

A thunderstorm was predicted to start in an hour or so, so we hustled to get dinner together and put tents up. By the time the winds really got going, I was fully settled for the night, with plenty of time to think. 

I may indeed not be cut out for this. Still, it’s had its moments. And I’ve given my word not to quit before I’ve done at least thirty days. I can do anything for thirty days. I can definitely suck at hiking for thirty days. If I’m lucky, I might suck a bit less by the end.