Imagine embarking on a hike through a notoriously swampy trail, only to find it bone-dry—a hiker’s dream come true! But here’s where it gets controversial: Is this sheer luck, or is there something more mystical at play? Let’s dive in.
This morning, I awoke at Mantis Camp to a light drizzle, feeling surprisingly refreshed after days of battling illness. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt like myself again—almost normal! Yet, the rain wasn’t exactly a welcome sight, especially after last night’s setup. I’d joked with Slide that this campsite could turn sketchy in heavy rain, given how easily the area floods. Thankfully, the night remained dry, and the morning drizzle was barely enough to warrant my rain jacket. I’ve learned that overheating in rain gear is worse than a little dampness unless it’s pouring.
As we packed up, the sun began peeking through the pine and palm forest, casting a misty glow. We took our time, savoring our morning routine—packing efficiently but not rushing into the hike. Instead, we sat on a nearby bench, chatting and easing into the day. This ritual has become one of my favorite parts of our journey. When we finally set off, the trail was perfect. A light rain brushed against us, but the real challenge was the wet undergrowth, which soaked us more than the rain ever could. We meandered through a vast pine forest, waist-high palms flanking the trail, creating a stunning, almost ethereal scene.
And this is the part most people miss: Bradwell Bay, infamous for its knee-deep swamps and hidden hazards, was completely dry. In 2023, I’d waded through murky water, sinking into holes and navigating a forest floor riddled with roots and downed trees. Today, our feet stayed dry, and I couldn’t help but feel grateful—or lucky. By 8 AM, we reached a landmark that confirmed our fortune: a small boat, usually tethered for hikers to cross a deep pond, sat idle on the shore. The contrast between this trip and my last was striking, and I couldn’t help but wonder: Is it luck, or is there something watching over us? An indigenous man in Wyoming once told me he felt a protective presence around me, and this year has certainly felt guided.
The trail remained pristine, allowing us to make great time. I sipped my morning coffee from my trusty plastic bear bottle, enjoying the ease of the hike. We even stopped for a short break, marveling at how quickly the morning passed. Hiking 38 miles a day is no small feat, but today felt effortless—a welcome change after days of discomfort. The trail followed a picturesque river, with roots weaving across the path and occasional elevation changes. It was the kind of terrain where you could lose yourself in music or a podcast, and thankfully, my phone service held strong, letting me connect with friends.
Here’s a thought-provoking question: How much of our success on this trail is due to preparation, and how much is sheer luck or divine intervention? Let me know in the comments!
After Bradwell Bay, the trail became a dream—fast and easy. I’ve been in touch with my friend Sparkle, who’s preparing for her own monumental journey: a border-to-border calendar year triple crown in 2026, aiming for 10,000 miles. It’s surreal to be nearing the end of my journey as she’s just beginning hers. We’ve shared fears, hopes, and advice, and I’m excited to see her surpass my record. It’s a wild contrast, but one that feels full circle.
The rest of the day was smooth sailing—no swamps, just a wide path of sand and pine through a breathtaking forest. The sun shone brightly, and I felt invigorated, especially after being sick. We maintained a steady pace, stopping for breaks but not lingering too long. Later, we crossed endless boardwalks, slick with leaves and pine needles. I’ve been hyper-cautious since straining my hip in the White Mountains, and today was no exception.
But here’s where it gets interesting: We stumbled upon a gas station just before 3 PM, and I finally had an appetite after days of barely eating. A few snacks, Hunt Brothers pizza, and a Red Bull later, we were ready to tackle the rest of the day. We even devised a plan to add extra miles by creating our own loop route, avoiding a trail closure. It was the perfect way to end the day—mindless walking, side-by-side conversations, and a stunning sunset through the pines.
We arrived at a hotel I’d stayed at in 2023, this time checking in without issue. After showers and pizza delivery, I relished the comfort of a bed—a rare treat. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and while we can’t take the day off, waking up in a bed feels like a small victory. We’ll grab breakfast at the gas station before hitting the road toward St. Marks.
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