Begin at the beginning. At 4:20 p.m. on the afternoon of May 2, 1983 -- a very warm day for early May -- I was at the Visitor's Center in Amicalola Falls State Park in north-central Georgia. I strapped on my heavy backpack and started wheezing my way up the first rugged mile of the Amicalola Falls feeder trail. An early stretch climbed steeply up this dirt fire road with some nice views.

From the Prologue of my story.

Just before noon on May 3, 1983. Summit of Springer Mountain, Georgia. Wearing a pair of new hiking boots and carrying a bunch of extra pounds, neither of which made it past central Virginia. Chapter 1, of course.

On May 4 I only hiked nine miles and shot no photos. The terrain was heavily wooded with no real views, although there were some steep climbs. In Georgia, I hadn't yet started writing the long journal entries that formed the basis for my book and I didn't shoot a lot of pictures. I wish now I did more of both then. May 5, 1983 was an exception as far as pics.

There was a pretty nice view along the way from Ramrock Mountain's ridge crest.

Along the ridge of Big Cedar Mountain. There was plenty of green in the valley below, but trees were just beginning to bud up here.

Still May 5, 1983.

I took in the best views thus far along the Appalachian Trail in Georgia and started the descent.

It was a comparatively gentle climb for the most part, but I had a long way to go before my body was truly ready for this adventure. The day was sunny and hot, and I ran out of water about halfway through the climb.

At 4,458 feet in elevation, Blood Mountain is the highest peak on the Appalachian Trail in Georgia, making it of course the highest peak thus far of my hike.

May 6, 1983 was another exceptional picture-taking day for me in Georgia.

The ridge crest and summits of Corbin Horse Stamp and Wolf Laurel Top were rather wooded, but the lack of foliage at the higher elevations and some nearby cliffs brought my camera out.

Still May 5, 1983. Still Chapter 1.

After Cowrock, the day went downhill. My friend Dave and I, who had been more or less hiking together since my second night on the AT, had been told there was water ahead at Whitley Gap Shelter. When Dave and I reached Tesnatee Gap after hiking those first six miles, I double-checked the guidebook and discovered that both water and shelter were on a side trail involving a three-mile round trip off the AT.

On the night of May 6, 1983, my fourth night on the Appalachian Trail, I attempted to hang my fifty-pound backpack from a nail in a shelter to keep it and my food away from some ravaging mice: "The nail spun around just as I let go of my pack, sending the whole thing crashing down several feet onto the little toe of my shoeless right foot. Blood instantly began gushing out and I knew right away I was screwed. It was very dark, and I was very tired, so I merely wrapped the toe up with gauze, hung my pack on another nail, and left the wound to be attended to in the morning. ...In the morning, I cleaned the toe with an alcohol prep pad, treated the wound with antibacterial ointment, and wrapped it in a Band-Aid and adhesive tape. About a square half-inch of flesh was missing from the toe, cut almost down to the bone. Every step I took today in those leather hiking boots was another adventure in pain."

Backpacking miles every day in 80s era hard leather hiking boots kept the wound open and throbbing. The pic on the right was from approximately two weeks later. By this time, I had also lost the nail from that toe. As you can probably tell from their color, I was incidentally on the way to eventually losing the other four toenails from this foot (and most of the nails on my left foot.)

I was reconciled to living with this open wound for the entire five months, but by June 3: "Another hard callus has formed directly over that scab on my little toe, and the wound that could never possibly heal while I was hiking is somehow beginning to heal beneath it. I no longer need to swathe it in Band-Aids and adhesive tape." - excerpt from Chapter 6.

Although it was a beautiful day, and Tray Mountain had fine views, the night brought change.

Awakening in my tent just after midnight, I instantly felt a vague sense of uneasiness rippling through the dark forest. Outside, the air seemed leaden and dead. The evening breeze had died, and the gorgeous starry canopy beneath which I had gone to bed had faded to dark grays and black. Standing in the murky stillness on Tray Mountain, I turned to the west and watched as the distant sky was briefly lit by a flash of lightning many, many miles away, beyond that horizon. Dead silence. A somewhat eerie beauty, with ominous undercurrents. It appeared that I had picked a bad night to pitch a tent.

My two Tray Mountain pics from May 7 were my last in Georgia. I awoke to a deluge of biblical proportions in the morning on May 8, 1983. There is nothing like trying to pack up everything you own in a downpour. My sleeping bag was soaked, my tent was hopeless; everything was drenched. Adding insult to injury, the rain came to a dead stop about five minutes after I had finished, although it returned a few times as the day went on.

I managed to drag my wet gear and mangled toe another thirteen miles and pitched my tent in the woods just past Dicks Creek Gap, less than nine miles from the North Carolina border. May 8 would be my last night in Georgia on this hike.

A large meadow ran down the side of the ridge from the crest at Bly Gap, with an excellent view of the valley far below.  I just lay in the sunshine and enjoyed it for a while. My shoes, socks, tent, sleeping bag, and towel were all spread out on the grass next to me, finally beginning to dry out from all of that rain. Soon enough, Dave and I would go to find the water that the guidebook told us is located here, and tank up for the afternoon portion of the day's adventure.

On leaving Bly Gap, we were compelled to make the steep, one mile climb up Courthouse Bald beneath a blazing sun with absolutely no water on a muggy, subtropical afternoon.

I felt unbelievably run-down and sore when I awoke May 10. One of the large blisters between my toes now had a smaller blister growing directly out of it, and that smaller blister had an even smaller blister growing up out of it. The deep wound on my little toe was becoming severely infected. I was one sorry specimen. I could not imagine how I could go on even one more day. Five minutes after beginning my hike, it was obvious that this was finally going to be my breakthrough hike.

Deep blue sky above, thick carpet of bluets below. Bluets are an early Spring flower. In places where they were blooming like this, the trees were still waking up from winter. This far south and this far along into May, lots of bluets indicated higher elevations.

May 10, 1983. Chapter 1.

The trail was a piece of cake, well laid out and excellently graded. The forests were varied and attractive. The trail up to the top of Standing Indian was so well graded that I was able to cover the entire two-mile climb in less than an hour, without stopping for breaks.

Still May 10, 1983. Chapter 1.

The summit was partially open, with a 360-degree view -- the best yet on the trail. Standing Indian was known as the "Grandstand of the Southern Appalachians" because of its central location in that intricate maze of mountain ranges.

Towering heights carved by green valleys stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Still May 10, 1983, still Chapter 1.

On a long hike like this one, you don't always get the perfect day for a great mountain. On May 10, 1983, I did.

At times, the trail was a tunnel, completely encircled by rhododendron, their thickly interwoven branches forming walls and a roof. These rhododendron jungles were also quite common in the Nantahala Range ahead.

In Carter Gap, the Appalachian Trail left the Blue Ridge, which it had been following from the beginning of the hike, and swung around the bases of a couple of mountains to the beginning of the Nantahalas, an east-west cross range which it would follow westward towards the Great Smoky Mountains.