Today’s total: ~1 trail mile; several frenetic town miles

I wake up when the sun hits my tent. The thunderstorm came and went quickly last night, and from my groggy, already-hot state I can tell I at least slept well for a couple of hours. I start packing up my gear, shoving my sleeping bag into its dry sack and rolling up my Thermarest. I’m excited to be in town, and I’m excited to get out of this hot greenhouse of a tent.

Outside, the morning is clear and bright. There is steam rising from the surface of Eagle Lake and the sun is throwing diamonds of light on the water. Yesterday was a bad day, but this morning is beautiful. That’s backpacking in a nutshell.

I gather my cooking kit, retrieve my bear bag, and head to a shady spot where we will have breakfast. I lay down one of my water bottles on the ground so that I can open my bag, but the ground is deeply sloped and before I can stop it, the bottle rolls swiftly down the hill and––plonk!––into the lake.

“Aghhh!” I yell.

Wiggs hears me. “What? What happened?”

“My water bottle fell in the lake!” I whine and moan some more, making a dramatic ordeal of grabbing one of Wiggs’s trekking poles––mine are still holding up my tent––and trying to head down the nearly-vertical hill to the water. Wiggs comes over, and I hand him the trekking pole, not verbally asking the question he already anticipates.

“Oh. Am I getting the bottle out of the lake?”

I grin. He’s smaller and spryer than me; I reckon he’s the less likely of the two of us to accidentally slide into the lake. I’m right. He successfully fishes it out of the water. He hands the bottle to me and I feel sheepish.

“Sorry,” I say. “And thanks.”

Breakfast is quick today; we have air conditioning on the mind. We pack up and walk around the edge of the lake, through the woods, and wind up on the campus of Morehead State University. The trail turns into sidewalk and is now marked with spray-painted white turtles to indicate our path through the town. We pass dormitories and a dining hall and several science buildings, cross a major intersection, and stroll into the small, unassuming town of Morehead. We stop for a late second breakfast, which is really early lunch, at a little café. Then we browse an outdoor clothing store, and wind up at a bookstore/coffee shop/yarn shop called CoffeeTree Books/The Fuzzy Duck/A Good Yarn. It’s a mouthful, but it’s also my absolute ideal institution. I get an iced coffee. It’s divine. We browse the yarn section with wide, greedy eyes (we are both crocheters) before moving onto the books (we are also both readers) while drinking cold caffeinated beverages (we are both currently in dire need of drinks that are not lukewarm).

Although we had originally pondered the idea of just stopping through town on our way out, we decide after yesterday’s ordeals that we deserve a night with air conditioning and showers, not to mention computers––I have to write an educational philosophy and answer a questionnaire tonight, before I lose cell service again. We reserve a room at the Best Western. The problem is, there are apparently two distinct parts to the town of Morehead––this one, where the university is, and another one, right off I-64 and three miles away.

We do our resupply at the local IGA, find a liquor store and buy a six-pack of local IPA, and then begin the process of trying to secure a ride to the hotel. We first try Lyft and Uber, but they don’t seem to service this area. I call the hotel to ask if they have a shuttle of some kind, but they don’t. We see information about a bus system, but the online schedules are very hard to read and the bus stops are not clearly marked. We don’t want to take a taxi, because that’s a lot of money. What to do.

Although it isn’t marked on Google Maps, my paper trail map says that there’s a Sheltowee Trace Association office in the town, so we follow the map and try to find it. But when we get to the road where the office should be, we see nothing. A man in a black SUV sees us looking and pulls over. I know this drill. I see Wiggs wind up into his friendliest, politest please-give-us-a-ride persona as the man asks us if we need anything.

“Well, we’re looking for the Sheltowee Trace Association office. We thought maybe they could help us find a ride to the Best Western…?” Wiggs trails off into a slight question.

The man doesn’t catch the tone. He continues chatting with us, asking about the hike. “So I’m not really sure if there’s an office up here,” he concludes. I’m sorry! Good luck!” He drives away.

“I thought that was going to work,” Wiggs says.

We walk back to the main street, making a large loop in a return to where the Trace walks through the town. It’s now close to 3:00. We meander around for a bit, trying to decide whether to try to hitchhike. This would have been the go-to plan had we been on the Appalachian Trail. But since we haven’t seen a single other person hiking the Sheltowee and no one here seems to have any idea that the Trace exists, even though it goes right through their town, we don’t want to risk it. Around a well-established long-distance trail, hitching is a necessary part of the culture. Here, it could be sketchy.

We end up going back into the Fuzzy Duck, where the barista hands Wiggs a bus stop list, though they aren’t sure whether public transit is running right now or not. We deduce that there is a 3:05 bus stop at the university library. We walk in that direction, realize it’s too late, and then go across the street to Holbrook Drugs, where it is confirmed that another bus should be coming soon. To where? We don’t know. At what time? We don’t know that either. All we know is that we’re tired of trudging all over town with a blue plastic bag of beer and freshly resupplied packs, so we’re going to wait for this supposed bus.

All of a sudden, we hear a voice from across the street. “Are you two hiking the Sheltowee Trace?” He’s an older man with a wide grin, wearing a red shirt that reads, “We can’t be doin’ that,” in homage to Governor Andy Beshear. My spirits lift immediately.

“Yes! We are!” We chat with him for a bit, explaining our situation.

“So we’re trying to get to the Best Western,” Wiggs finishes.

The man smiles slyly. “Would you like a ride?”

I could explode with relief. We pile our gear into the back of his truck––his mercifully air conditioned truck––and he drives us the three miles to the other part of town. On the way we talk about the hike and our lives. The man’s name is Cap, he’s just returned from a paddling trip in the Boundary Waters, and he is elated that we’re hiking the Trace.

When he drops us off, we thank him profusely.

“So now that you’ve given us a ride, you’re officially a Trail Angel,” Wiggs says to him by way of parting. Cap seems to like the sound of this.

“I’m glad I was able to help,” he says. “Good luck!”

Good luck indeed. The hotel is clean and I don’t know if I’ve ever been happier to be inside a building. The shower is divine, and we feast on Cracker Barrel across the street for dinner. I get my writing done, and I get an email offering me another job at a community college. A week ago I felt like nothing would ever come together, and now it’s all falling into place: the trail, the ride, the hotel, dinner, life.

It’s back to the Trace in the morning. Tomorrow I’ll remember what it’s like to be sweating and hot again. Not now, though, not yet. I have running water and air conditioning and town food to enjoy.