The Georgia Loop Day 2: A Story of Rain

Field Notes III.XVI: Backpacking and photographing the 60 mile Georgia Loop

Welcome to Field Notes!

This is part 2 of the 4 part Georgia Loop series. Check these out to catch up-

• Read some background and Logistic info on the trail HERE

• Read about Day 1 HERE

*Where some images appear in a square gallery format, try clicking each one to see the full photo.

Gentle rain tapping on a tent overnight can be the most soothing of sounds. Not so this night. Despite deep physical exhaustion, I roll and turn through the small hours of darkness. Concerns of heavy rain in the morning intrude into my dreams. Soreness sets in. My back and knees and shoulders protest against any laying position suitable for all. A breeze rippling the bottom edge of the tent fabric sounds suspiciously like an animal investigating my perimeter.

Hooting of a great horned owl nearby wakes me. It is morning, cold and still dark. The rain is light but steady. Overcoming mental rebellion, I leave the warmth of my quilt to retrieve my food bag. Numb fingers fumble with the cord suspending it from its branch out of reach from mischievous bears. My breath billows visibly in the bright beam of my headlamp.

Back in the tent vestibule I prepare hot coffee. It is warm dark magic that works to prepare me for the day ahead. The rain stops as I drain the last of the cup. Now is a good time to break camp.

The skies release a deluge as I am still taking down the tent. I hurry, but keeping the water off of it as I pack it away is impossible. Hastily cramming my pack full, I shoulder it and throw my poncho over all.

The morning is still dim as I start out into a world of heavy mist yet again. I planned to use my headlamp as I walked, but find that the light of it illuminates the dense fog all around. I click it off. Visibility is better without it. Now, it is time to walk.

From Fish Gap a gradual climb brings me to the top of a ridge through a constant but light rain. The chill air invigorates muscle and sinew while moving. I still wonder about my choice of poncho over rain jacket. It doesn’t cover my arms, so I wouldn’t wear a down puffer jacket under it. But would I ever be hiking in a down puffer, anyway? One thing is undeniable. The poncho has ample ventilation.

Rounding a corner, I am startled by a flurry of motion next to a downed tree by the trail. It’s an eruption of feathery chaos as a camouflaged grouse springs up and flaps away through the trees. I can only smile and thank her for shattering my daydreams. Now fully awake, I carry on.

Head down as the water falls from above, the morning proceeds one step after another. Often more drizzle than rain. Intermittent, but more on than off. I become observant of the nuanced characteristics of mist vs fog, of showers vs sprinkles, and of water drops rolling down exposed skin. All of these thoughts play along with the gentle musical percussion of precipitation on the forest all around.

From Jarvis Gap to Gregory Gap the trail contours along the side of the ridge and Gregory Knob, not over the crests as my map shows. The way is clear, though, and I am never lost.

Rhodes Mountain indicates a possible viewpoint. I don’t see it. Even if I did there would be nothing to see but the gray void of cloud. It is on the far side of this peak that I reach an intersection of trails. The Duncan Ridge Trail meets with its much longer and more famous cousin, the Benton MacKaye Trail. Heading westward, the two trails share the same path for the remainder of the Duncan Ridge Trail’s length. In truth, the Duncan Ridge Trail becomes overshadowed at this point, as the majority of any further signage only indicates the Benton MacKaye.

Licklog Mountain looms next. It is a difficult climb. A struggle. My arms, outside of the poncho, are wet. My shoes are wet. The tent in my pack is wet and heavy. Though far from being in a downpour, my mind begins seeking an escape from all of the wet. It is late morning and I need a break. But there are no shelters. There is nowhere to escape to. Nowhere to be dry.

Reaching Licklog’s peak I find a root ball of a fallen tree and the hollow beneath it. It is the only possible place to hunker down. It isn’t much, but it gives me some small bit of protection. Here I am able to boil water, make a coffee, and find a small measure of comfort in its rich taste and aroma.

Various small birds flit through the shrubbery as I walk. They are animated, but mostly silent, as if the rain has dampened their spirits as well. Still, they accompany me on the next tough climb up Wallalah Mountain. Here, another promised viewpoint delivers disappointment once again.

I check my phone. There is a weak cell signal and I get a notification of the potential for severe weather in North Georgia today. Great. The rain abates, though, and then stops as I descend the mountain towards Hwy 60. At its base I locate a good water source and stop for lunch.

Overhead a raven croaks. Probably Huginn or Muninn, a disapproving witness to my discontent over weather conditions outside of my control.

Belly filled, rested, and not rained on for a little while, my spirits begin to lift. Perhaps the worst has passed? No sooner has the thought formed then thunder claps overhead. I scramble to re-pack and throw on my poncho. And then the skies unleash.

I am a day and a half walk from my car. The warning of severe weather weighs on my mind. Thunder cracks above me again as the rain crashes down. A place of safety and security does not exist out here. I feel very small and exposed.

Maybe this experience is giving me an inkling of the life lesson of Diogenes the Cynic. All of my possessions on my back. A world of discomfort all around. I must shirk the attachment to comfort and to material things. Come what may, the only thing I can do is continue walking unbowed.

I reach the highway crossing and watch warily from the woods. Not a car or person in sight. No human sounds at all. Just the tapping of rain on pavement. I scurry across like some wet ferral creature avoiding contact with the civilized world.

The worst of the downpour is brief, but the rain remains steady thereafter. Thunder comes in waves, booming overhead then receding into the distance. Just when I believe the storm is over, the next boom explodes overhead. This weather system is loud, but it carries little wind and fury with it. This I can handle.

A big climb up Tooni Mountain comes next. Through entangled branches of bare trees I can see the valley below. Verdant fields, mottled with different shades of green growth, spread wide between the cradling hills. I yearn for an unobstructed view, but the sights are limited and veiled by trees.

Up and over Tooni, the trail rapidly drops from elevation down to the Toccoa River. A bridge spans the river, and it is a massive suspension bridge! I marvel at it, accented on its flanks by red budding trees and with the rolling waters below. At 270ft long, this is the longest swinging bridge east of the Mississippi River.

I photograph the bridge. I photograph myself on it. I want to spend hours here finding creative viewpoints of this bridge. But, I cannot. Miles of trail lay before me still, and the day is growing long. I bounce across its span and keep walking.

It is another climb from out of the river valley. I still make good time up the crest of a ridge and around Little John Dick Mountain. But now my feet begin to protest in pain. This is familiar, and expected. I learned this pain intimately on The Foothills Trail. It is the pain of walking for too long in wet shoes and wet socks. For now I stay mindful, but do not stop.

The clouds near the horizon to the west are breaking. I see a sliver of warm afternoon light silhouetting the distant mountain peaks. Far away, a low growl signals the last receding threat of the storm.

Nestled between Little and Big John Dick Mountains is Bryson Gap. There is a nice campsite here and it marks 15 miles of hiking for the day. Now I must decide. It is only 5 pm and there is still good daylight left for walking. Any extra miles I make now translate into a shorter walk on day 4, when I still have a 2 hour drive home.

The next water source is another three miles. My map doesn’t indicate a campsite there, but it’s a gap with water. There must be something. I change into dry socks, accept the risk, and determine to push for it.

New socks instantly relieve my aching feet. I power down the trail, partly fueled by the adrenaline of racing the onset of night. Mountain travel is always slow going, though. It’s 7 pm as I trudge into the gap. A sign proclaims it “No Name Gap.” I find water. And there is a small site for my tent.

I set up camp as darkness falls. A simple dinner of instant pasta is warm and deliciously satisfying. Remarkably, despite being packed away all day the inside of my tent is dry. I nestle in under my quilt. By the dim light of my headlamp I quietly scratch away in my journal as the rain outside begins to fall again.

Hmm. So that was Day 2. Kind of a grind. Didn’t get as much photography done as I’d hoped due to the rain, but still caught some points of interest. Now I wish I had stayed a bit longer at the suspension bridge to get some better photos. Oh well, what can you do?

In all, it wasn’t a bad day. Not nearly as gruelling as I remember the Foothills Trail being. Maybe my load is a bit lighter now and my training is a bit more on point. Anyway, big changes ahead on Day 3 so stay tuned! Until then, what are your impressions so far?

Continue reading Day 3 of the Georgia Loop HERE

Interested in more photography and stories of the great state of Georgia? Find them HERE

Field Notes is a value-for-value proposition. If you get value from it, please consider contributing back by sharing, subscribing, or upgrading. Also, a one time contribution tip of any amount goes a long way. We’ll call that Trail Magic. Your support goes directly towards the food, supplies, or gear necessary for the photography, writing, and adventures that I share-