The Finish

November 22, 2021

The Foothills Trail extends 76 miles across the northern tier of South Carolina, rising into North Carolina for one-third of its length. The end-points are Table Rock State Park in the east, due north of our place in Greer, and Oconee State Park on the western end, a half-dozen miles from the Georgia line. No towns, villages, or hamlets in either state are within ten miles of the trailheads. A few set-back houses and one retirement community lie along U.S. 11, the primary South Carolina access. Cell-phone service doesn’t exist. The midpoint of the trail is the middle of nowhere. 

I knew I had to run or hike all of it.

No, I didn’t. But the eastern terminus at Table Rock is only 35 miles from home, so I thought I would try. By August I had covered 47 miles, climbing rocky peaks, gawking at wilderness waterfalls, crossing rushing mountain streams. I scratched out sections from Table Rock to Sassafras Mountain and Chimneytop Gap to a place called Laurel Valley, off U.S. 178, for 15 miles. I then skipped ahead to cover the western 32 miles from an access point at Bad Creek, just south of North Carolina’s famous Whitewater Falls, the highest waterfall east of the Mississippi, to Oconee. These sections are reachable because they touch remote spots that allow parking along the few rural roads the trail crosses in Greenville, Pickens, and Oconee counties.

Because the trail is linear, covering it meant backtracking to wherever I parked. So every four-mile segment of trail covered meant eight miles of running/hiking. Eight miles of trail meant 16 miles. And so on. I got out of that routine in August when Sandy dumped me 20 miles from Oconee, the western terminus, then waited there for me. I showed up eight hours later and jumped in the lake. 

The middle stretch of about 30 miles, from Bad Creek to Laurel Valley, is nearly untouched mountain wilderness with no parking access. Hikers cross it by camping along the way.

For an old guy recalling a string of 31 (50 kilometer) and 50-mile trail runs ended in 2018 by a three-year medical detour, camping isn’t the thing. Neither is crossing the Bad Creek-Laurel Valley stretch alone; some vestigial sanity remains after all those doctor’s visits.

In September I contacted the South Carolina Ultramarathon Club asking for a volunteer to go along. No takers. Then Alex Papadopoulous, a longtime Virginia friend and an elite trail runner, stepped up. He’s the man for the job: among finishes in dozens of ultrarunning events, he’s completed the Hawaii Ultrarunning Team (HURT) 100-mile race 13 times. In September he finished a six-day 236-mile run in Wales. He flew down last week to haul me over the final 30 miles.

On Thursday Sandy humored us by dropping us at Bad Creek. In 6:30 AM darkness we took a photo, then headed up the short spur to the trail. Sandy climbed back in the van for a nap before heading to Laurel Valley for the pickup at some future time, which we all knew would be after dark.

The trail begins with exhilarating descents, then crosses into North Carolina. After the bridge over the thundering Thompson River we paid the fun back with a stiff half-mile climb, then zigzagged a gentle descent on fire roads and trails through swampy, jungle-like forest. The autumn foliage gave the trail a glistening edge, we kicked the ankle-deep fallen leaves.

We slogged, Alex staying with my snail pace, as we passed camps at Hilliard Falls and Bear Creek, moving north toward giant Lake Jocassee. We crossed Horsepasture River and Bear Gap, heading for the big turn to the south at Toxaway River, which like all these wild rivers, feeds the lake.

I kept track of the time, knowing the hours were slipping by faster than our progress. We rode a steep downhill to Toxaway, finally seeing the emerald-blue lake gleaming through the trees. At the north end of the lake the trail is accessible by boat. On the east side, the trail turns sharply south and upward, and upward again for an agonizing 600 feet to Heartbreak Ridge. We regained our pace on the downside, then alternately followed fire road and trail down to spectacular Laurel Falls, a faint sign of the end.

Now I was on familiar ground. I had been to the falls two months earlier, exploring the route west from Laurel Valley. We were eight miles from the finish, daylight was fading. Around 5:30 we lit our headlamps. The trail twisted through darkness, crossing a half-dozen bridges spanning Laurel Creek. We passed the four-mile point, then struggled (I struggled) up three switchbacks to a spot called Flat Rock, in all good humor. I gulped water and chewed beef jerky, scrounging for another spark of energy. I recalled the trail begins to level out past Flat Rock. I paused, sucking my breath. My mind cleared, I refocused, and tuned again to the mission. The golden leaves covering the trail gleamed in our headlamps as we kicked toward the finish.

The trail wound down through the blackness south of Flat Rock Mountain, we tapdanced over and around hidden rocks and roots, taking a recovering descent followed by another climb, passing the two-mile point. I had this last stretch memorized.  I led us down, around, down, around, sidestepping the leaf-covered stairs built on steep stretches for climbers, not runners.

We reached the bottom of the mountain with a half-mile left and climbed again, more steps, more descents, until the trail wrapped around the mountain once more. We rounded the last turn and saw the dozen-step ladder that dropped us to the trailhead parking lot. We bumped fists and looked around, then trotted down the quarter-mile gravel road, where Sandy sat, waiting and worrying. It was 9:00 PM, a finishing time of thirteen hours, 55 minutes. Alex drove. I stared out at the darkness.