Editor’s note: Daily staff writer Amy Peet took part in the Outdoor Recreational Center’s trip through the Appalachian Mountains during Thanksgiving break. Here is her account of her experience.

It’s been said that the hardest part of hiking is getting out the door, and a three-night backpacking excursion through Great Smoky Mountains National Park for a first-time backpacker is no exception.

My mind ran a mile a minute on Nov. 18, as I loaded and rearranged the 3-foot high backpack I’d been lent by the Outdoor Recreation Center, which organized the trip.

I’d hiked a lot in the Colorado Rockies, but I’d never stayed out overnight or carried 40 pounds on my back for 10 miles. Most of my eight group members, in stark contrast, showed up to the pre-trip meeting with their own packs and gear in tow.

I left that meeting with doubts about my ability to keep up and pull my weight among what seemed to be seasoned backpackers.

We hit the trail — a short tributary to the famous Appalachian Trail — late Saturday afternoon. It was the moment of truth for my legs and lungs, but I was thrilled to feel the leaf-coated path fall so effortlessly under my feet, a feat certainly aided by the gentle, steady pace set by the leaders.

The air was cloudy and cool, but so damp that sweat from the slightest exertion stayed on the skin and my forehead was dripping in minutes.

We reached the Appalachian Trail itself in about an hour and took a well-earned break. The Smokies lived up to their name as we sipped our final tastes of non-iodine-treated water and munched on the eclectic snack mixture hikers call gorp while thick blue fog rolled in just after 5 p.m.

With the help of an occasional drizzle, everything was wet by the time I crawled into the tent that night around 10:30. No problem, I thought, I’ll just prop my boots and socks right here inside the tent flap and they’ll be good as new in the morning.

But the cool damp air didn’t absorb any more water from a hiking boot than it did from a sweaty brow, and I was disappointed to find my boots damper than they had been the night before.

But there was good news Sunday morning: sunshine! The dense fog had lifted to a hazy white sky with intermittent spots of sun streaming through.

The weather was clear enough to get excited at our first big overlook: A sweeping view of bluish hills fading under the shadow of low, puffy clouds on the horizon.

We hiked into the dark again that evening, pushing almost 13 miles to reach our scheduled shelter. The agony of the feet during the last downhill stretch almost outweighed the wonder at the flakes of white quartz speckling the trail, glowing like reflectors in the dying light.

On Monday, we had a 5.3-mile jaunt to the next shelter, where we arrived at 2:30 p.m. The empty hours before dinner finally allowed for some writing, drawing and reflecting on this cold, wet, drab-but-beautiful land that had been our entire world for three days.

We started early Tuesday in a steady drizzle for the 10-mile hike out to Newfound Gap in the center of the national park, where we stopped for lunch in the last shelter on our route.

It was nice to be warm again, to not have my feet scream as they slapped down the trail, to wash my hands with soap and water, to not alternate dripping sweaty climbs with breezy ridge top chills. But I’d go back in a heartbeat.

There was something in that gray, damp dreary silence that is sorely missed in the hustle and bustle of campus and modern life.