A colleague of mine aspires to be a through hiker on the AT as it is known. My idea of a hike is an hour spent ambling along the crest of the mountain, watching my elderly yellow Labrador get her day's fun from unfamiliar woods and smells.
We stopped by at dawn, fifteen minutes from the urban chaos of Roanoke, Virginia, and we watched the sun come up in a blaze of 50 degree glory.
Hikers routinely leave their cars here in the huge graveled lot. I felt rather a fraud stopping off to simply let Cheyenne pee and sniff.
There are the usual information boards and...
The famous AT is nothing more than a rather long and frequently strenuous walk in the woods. It's not a yellow brick road nor a path to Shangri-La. It's just a trail, marked rather idiotically by excessively frequent white paint blazes as though it could possibly be something other than what it is.
Cheyenne was in no hurry.
And as it turned out, neither was I.
I never thought I would find myself on top of a place called Catawba Mountain but here I was quite enjoying the cold Spring morning.
If I have to be honest it is rather more impressive a place than your average, common-or-garden mangrove swamp.
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