Mile 495. Lady Di’s hostel.

I walk into Lady Di’s hostel in Damascus, Virginia with my full pack on.

“Hey, I’m Phoenix,” I walk into the front door to introduce myself.   Lady Di was a through-hiker in 2019 and opened this hostel just two years ago.   She gets it.  And it shows.

“Welcome Phoenix.   Let me show you around.”   She leads me to the front porch where she instructs me to leave my pack and my shoes.   I don’t blame her, honesty.   They are disgusting.

She walks through the two-story, five-bedroom country house in less than two minutes, running down the list of rules that are mostly similar to other hostels but with her own twist.  

“Community kitchen is here with plates and glasses in this cabinet.”   She opens and shuts the cabinet and then moves down the hallway.

“Sign your name here on the graffiti wall.  Chalk is here.  Internet and passcode are here.  Extra bath is here in case the ones upstairs are full.”   She walks fast.   I’m keeping up, taking mental notes along the way.

We are now upstairs.   Each bedroom is packed with as many beds as will fit.   My room has three single beds, spaced about a yard apart.   “Here’s your bed.   Loaner clothes are in this closet.   Put your laundry in this red basket and I’ll wash them for you.  Towel is on your bed.  Extra blanket is here.   Nice little side porch is here if you want some privacy for a phone call or something.” 

I’m still keeping up - kind of.   Lone Cone is lounging on one of the remaining three beds.   She sees the panic in my eyes and gives me the I’ve-got-your-back-sister look.   “Phew.  Thank you,” my grateful eyes reply.  I can relax now.

Lady Di continues down the hall now.   “Two full bathrooms here and there.”  She points to either side of the hallway like an airline stewardess.  “Put your used sheets and loaner clothes here.   Hiker box is here - add and take as you need.  Fridge is there in case you need it.  Shampoo and hair dryer and all the stuff you need is there.   Any questions?”   

“Got it,” I reply, confidently.   In reality, I am a deer in headlights.   Even still, I have the confidence to figure it out.  And Lone Cone’s assuring eyes promise to have my back.  I’ll be fine.

In almost 500 miles, I’ve got the through-hiker routine down to a choreographed dance.   Each move is efficient.   I am a ballet of one.  

Get into town.  Go to the grocery store for fruits, veggies, and quality protein.   Register at hostel.  Select loaner clothes.    Take a quick shower.  Drop used clothes into laundry, while wearing said loaner clothes.   Stuff face with quality nutrients.   Sign into wifi.   Brush teeth, wash face, take vitamins.  Collapse into bed. With any remaining energy, check messages and social.  

If it’s before 8:00, I might have time to chit-chat with the other hikers.   If it’s after 8:00, it’s borderline rude.   Hiker midnight is a strict 8:30 or 9:00.

Collapsing into bed this evening, it hits me.   I’m doing this.   I’m really doing this.   

The image of my first practice hike one mile from my house - with my barely standing tent - to now.   Six weeks later, I’m a hiking badass.  I’ve got this.

I’m a real hiker now.