CHAPTER 28 – The Road to Amicalola

  Gainesville was smaller than Atlanta but busier than Chetopa—an in?between place with rolling hills and clusters of pine trees that whispered in the wind. The air felt different here. Lighter. Cleaner. Like it had been waiting for her.

  Fleta tightened her backpack straps and stepped away from the station. A sign pointed east:

  AMICALOLA FALLS STATE PARK – 17 MILES

  Seventeen miles.

  Too far to walk today.

  Too far to walk with a full pack.

  Too far when she was already tired down to her bones.

  But she didn’t panic.

  She’d read enough hiking blogs to know the trick—many hikers “shuttled” from Gainesville to the trailhead. Some called for rides. Others hitched. Some just asked around.

  Fleta didn’t have a phone.

  Didn’t have anyone to call.

  And definitely didn’t trust hitchhiking.

  But she had something else:

  a bench, a backpack, and a look of determined exhaustion.

  She crossed the small lot to a picnic table near the tree line. The morning sun filtered through leaves, warming her back. She set her pack down and rested her hands on the cool wood.

  Just breathe.

  Voices drifted toward her—laughing, gear clinking, boots thudding. She turned.

  A group of thru?hikers in their twenties exited the station, their packs tall and worn, their clothes sun?faded. One had trekking poles, another carried a rolled sleeping pad almost as long as she was tall.

  They looked like the photos she’d stared at for years.

  They looked like the future she wanted.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  One of them—a woman with curly hair poking out from beneath a bandanna—caught her staring and offered a friendly wave.

  “You headed to Amicalola too?” the woman called.

  Fleta hesitated, then nodded.

  The woman grinned. “Trail start?”

  Fleta’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”

  “First time?”

  A tiny nod. “Yes.”

  “Us too,” the woman said. “Well—first time trying the whole thing. You need a lift?”

  Fleta blinked. “A lift?”

  “Yeah! We’ve got a van coming in a few minutes.” She pointed toward the curb. “Trail shuttle. We’ve got space.”

  Fleta’s breath caught.

  She wanted to say yes.

  Desperately.

  But something inside her tugged hard—fear, caution, instinct.

  The woman seemed to sense it. She approached slowly, hands open in a peaceful gesture. “My name’s Riley,” she said. “This is Jess, and that’s Marco. We’re all starting the AT today.”

  Jess and Marco waved.

  Riley added gently, “You don’t have to decide now. But shuttles are safer than walking the highway.”

  Fleta swallowed.

  Her instinct said they were harmless.

  Her fear said nothing was harmless.

  Her hope said this was the universe giving her a chance.

  Before she could answer, a battered white van pulled up to the curb. A man in his fifties with a graying beard leaned out.

  “Amicalola shuttle?” he called.

  “That’s us,” Riley said.

  Fleta’s pulse hammered.

  This was the moment.

  The real moment.

  Not running.

  Not buses.

  Not leaving Kansas.

  This.

  The choice to take the last ride to the trailhead and step into the life she wanted.

  Riley looked back at her. “Coming?”

  Fleta tightened her grip on her backpack.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m coming.”

  Riley beamed. “Awesome. Hop in.”

  Fleta slid into the back of the van beside Marco, who smelled faintly of laundry detergent and pine soap. She buckled her seatbelt, heart racing.

  The van pulled away.

  Buildings thinned.

  Trees thickened.

  Hills lifted around them like rising waves.

  Riley pointed out landmarks—“That ridge is where the Blue Trail runs,” “Over there’s where a lot of hikers stock up”—but Fleta barely heard her.

  Her breath caught as the road curved upward.

  Ahead, the tops of mountains pierced the sky.

  Real mountains.

  Not photos.

  Not maps.

  Real.

  Her eyes burned.

  Marco leaned in. “First time seeing them?”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  He smiled. “It’s like meeting something you’ve known your whole life.”

  She looked down at Connor’s carved wooden hiker in her hand.

  Yes.

  Exactly that.

  As the van approached the entrance sign—AMICALOLA FALLS STATE PARK—Fleta felt something inside her shift.

  Something big.

  Something unstoppable.

  The trail was here.

  Waiting

  for her

  to take

  her first

  step.