Blackburn

Sunday, 4/6/25

Blackburn Trail Center, Mile 1013.9

Miles today: 4.7; Trail miles covered: 36.4

Just an hour of daylight left. Yesterday, I was up; today, I’m a bit down. It rained last night, and I packed up and geared up this morning in a cold, wet fog. As I cleared the first half mile, my rain jacket was too hot—it wasn’t fully raining, really, just…dripping. Hard to tell what was fog, what was rain, and what was drippage from the rain last night. My hiking pants were dragging on the ground, so I hiked in my shorts—another first. 

The descent to the creek was sharp, but only about ½ a mile. The last big ascent of the roller coaster was almost a mile, but it felt like forever. Low visibility, mud, and slippery rocks meant having to watch my footfalls and peer ahead. I kept having to stop and clean off my glasses. When I hit the sign that congratulated me for finishing the roller coaster, I actually started to cry. Never mind that I missed the very beginning of this stretch due to injury— it felt like enough. 

As I was practically sobbing in front of this sign, a thru-hiker came up from behind. She was up from Bears’ Den that morning—and hoping to get to Harper’s Ferry tonight. She’d started in Georgia. It’s April. Her trail name was Torch, which seemed apt. When I introduced myself, she recognized my name and passed good wishes to me from Fern. We exchanged smiles, and then she was away.

Some minutes later, I met her again, coming back. She’d dropped her glasses somewhere on the trail. Met her a third time on her way back north. No dice on the glasses, but she’d found some other fellows headed south who were going to keep an eye out for her. I have no doubt she’ll have made it to HF tonight. Envy.

I myself stopped earlier than hoped—the Blackburn Trail Center was my safety, and here I am. I think I could have done the additional 3.3 miles it would have taken to get to David Lesser, the next shelter, but I was cold, shivering wet, my foot throbbing, my hands aching from gripping the poles too hard. My glasses were still fogging up every few minutes, and I’d gotten some water in my phone. It felt ridiculous to be stopping my hike at 1PM, but I was done. 

I was surprised to see Ralph there. He was a hiker who had left Bears’ Den the same day I did, but aimed for Blackburn yesterday. He had seen the weather early on and called for a shuttle to pick him up at the trail center for a ride to Harper’s Ferry. The location is pretty remote, so he’d been waiting all morning. Ralph is a class act—he’d been leaving me messages of encouragement with south-bound hikers as he moved up the trail. We talked for a while before his pickup came. He’s the kindest soul, but I got the slightest whiff of a sense that even Ralph thought I could have pushed myself and kept going. That might be my own projection, I suppose. Another hiker came through at around 3:45. I thought he was staying, but no—he ate, called a friend, rested, and then got up and headed for Lesser. I found myself doubting. Am I not pushing myself enough to get better?

Now I’m here alone, and glad to be in an actual cabin. No light, but a wood stove to keep things warm. My sleeping bag was damp when I pulled it out—just moisture from the air last night, mostly, but I find myself glad to be under a roof with a way to dry things out before bedtime. I don’t really regret being here. I just wish I knew enough to know when to trust myself, when to push forward, when discretion might be the better part of valor. 

It’s supposed to rain all morning tomorrow. Lesser is only 3.3 miles away by trail, but Harper’s is more than 12. No terrible ascents, but a steady downhill to the city once I get close. I don’t know if I can do 12, but I’m damn sure 3.3 is too little. There’s a road crossing ~7 miles away at Keys Gap; I could get a pickup there if I had to. There’s also a campsite listed about 8.4 miles out, but all the comments on FarOut talk about falling/dry trees and copperheads. Think I’ll pass, given how many newly-fallen trees I’ve met on the trail so far. It gives me a real respect for all the volunteer crews. Keeping the trail open and passable must be a never ending task—like doing the dishes, only much harder, and with chainsaws.