A Routine Shuttle, More or Less

I was five miles shy of Table Rock State Park on Highway 11 when my shuttle van’s check engine light started flashing. Two hikers were expecting me in fifteen minutes at the Table Rock Visitors Center. I was shuttling them to the Whitewater Foothills Trail access lot. Before my check engine light began its insistent warning, I congratulated myself on managing my shuttling so efficiently. “I’ll have ten minutes to spare – maybe I should stop for gas station biscuits and gravy.” 

The check engine light thwarted all hope of biscuits and gravy. 

I pushed down the rising panic and assessed the situation. The car was suddenly running rough, with about half the power it should have. But the engine was not overheating. The gauges were all reading normal except for that annoying flashing check engine light. Instead of pulling over, I decided to head for the house, which was between my current location and Table Rock. If I could encourage the car long enough to make it home, I would be able to switch cars and still make it to the Visitors Center. If I did not make it all the way home, I could stop alongside the highway and my husband Joe could bring me another car. 

“Come on, little white van–we can make it!” Everyone knows inanimate objects respond positively to motivational speaking. “Go go go!” 

I rolled into the driveway only six minutes before I was due at the Visitors Center. I jumped out of the van, ran into the house, grabbed the Honda Pilot’s key off the hook inside the front door and ran back out. When I opened the door of the Pilot, I groaned. The car was full of trash and smelled like grease. My husband used the Pilot as a backup car for trips to Home Depot. My son used it as a backup car when diesel fuel prices were too high to drive his F-150 to tech school. Neither of them bothered cleaning it. Ever.  

I pivoted away from the car and raced to the garage for a trash bag. For forty-five seconds, I feverishly threw away empty coffee cups, Zaxby’s styrofoam to-go boxes, random dirty socks and workout gear. With only enough time to remove what was in sight, I comforted myself with the thought that hikers are not picky and might not even notice the sticky substance on the center console.

My two hikers, a middle-aged couple, were walking up the path towards me when I pulled into the parking lot at the Visitors Center. They had been there just long enough to obtain their parking pass. I was relieved they hadn’t been waiting for me.

I got out of the car. “Hi! I’m Jen–are you Debbie and Mark?”

“Yes,” Debbie reached out to shake hands. We shook all around with “nice to meet yous”. 

“If y’all want to follow me, I’ll lead you over to the park and we can leave your car there. Then you can hop in with me. The drive to Whitewater is about forty minutes from here.”

Inside the park, Debbie and Mark loaded their gear into the back of the Pilot, then Debbie climbed into the front passenger seat and Mark got into the middle, sitting directly behind the driver’s seat. After apologizing for the state of the car I was driving, I explained that this was our “beater” car and my van had broken down. Neither Debbie nor Mark seemed too put off by the state of the Pilot.

Debbie and I hit it off immediately. I asked “What other trails have you hiked?” and we were off and running down a conversational thread that wound from trails to kids to the cost of shuttle rides. 

I braced myself when Debbie eventually asked, “Can I give you some feedback on your pricing?” My hostel and shuttling partner, Karen, and I priced our services based on local shuttle prices, mileage, time, and what we felt it was worth to us. I hoped this feedback wouldn’t lead us to a complete pricing restructure. 

“Sure.” But I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear her thoughts at all.

“I’ve taken shuttles all over western North Carolina and north Georgia to various trailheads, and I think for this particular route, you’ve underpriced yourself.” Whew. Okay, that’s feedback I can take gracefully.

Mark seemed preoccupied behind me. Debbie tried to draw him into the conversation a few times but he barely responded to her. Each time I glanced his way in the rearview mirror, he was looking down, turning occasionally to look at their gear in the back. I assumed he was focusing on their trail route on his phone and then double checking they’d made sure to bring everything they needed. 

We turned off of the highway onto Whitewater Falls Road behind a slow-moving semi-truck we’d followed for several miles already. 

“I was hoping he wouldn’t turn here.” Debbie was impatient to reach the trailhead. The semi was slowing us down.

“Me either. I’ll try to pass him further up the road.” The road was being re-paved, so we were delayed even more when stopped by a flagman.

At the first opportunity after we were moving again, I passed the truck with encouragement from Debbie. “You’ve got it! Go!”

“We’re not in a passing zone, so please don’t put this in my review!” I joked. 

Debbie laughed. “I won’t,” she promised.

Debbie and I were having a great time. Mark remained oblivious behind me. Whatever was on his phone was consuming his attention. I wondered if he was nervous about the hike.

A few minutes later, we pulled into the Whitewater parking area. I got out and opened the back of the car so Debbie and Mark could unload their packs. 

While they put their packs on, adjusted hats and glasses, I thought about the day ahead–figuring out what was wrong with the van, contacting Karen to let her know my van was out of the shuttle fleet for at least a few days, and determining whether the Pilot would be a viable substitute in the meantime. 

Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out money to pay me for the shuttle ride. I put the money in my pocket.

“Thanks, Mark, it was a pleasure meeting y’all. Hope you have a great hike.”

“We appreciate you, Jennifer.” He reached out to shake my hand and held it briefly to make sure he had my full attention. Speaking softly, he leaned in. 

“I just want to let you know that there’s a mouse in your car.” 

“A WHAT? A MOUSE? DID YOU SAY A MOUSE?”

“Yes, it ran out from under the driver’s seat, then back under the middle seat. I kept checking the back to make sure it wasn’t getting into our packs.”

Debbie, who had only heard my shriek and not her husband’s steady calm voice, whipped out her trekking pole to full length.

“Where is it? Did you see a mouse? Is it in the car?” She held her pole out, ready to attack.

“Mark said it ran out from under the driver’s seat and went under the middle seat.” 

Debbie started sweeping underneath the seats with her trekking pole, trying to scare the mouse out of hiding. I watched all of the trash I hadn’t disposed of during my forty-five second clean scatter around the floorboard of the car. Mark watched his wife for a few minutes and finally put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“We need to get going, Debbie.”

“We can’t leave her to drive home with a mouse in her car.”

I pretended to be brave. “Of course you can, I’ll be fine.” I knew I would most definitely not be fine if a mouse ran up my leg while I was driving. I would be dead. But this nice couple who weren’t even asking for their money back did not need to be responsible for me and my mouse.

I waved them off. “Y’all hit the trail – I’ll get home and let Joe worry about the mouse.” 

Walking away, Debbie waved her trekking pole and called out, “Don’t worry, I won’t put this on the review!”

This story is cross-posted from frolickingflamingo.com

Hikers Helping Hikers: Share Your Trail Story

There’s something special about the Foothills Trail—and if you’ve hiked it, you know exactly what we mean.

It’s more than miles and elevation gain. It’s early morning starts, unexpected conversations, creek crossings that feel like small victories, and the kind of quiet that stays with you long after you’ve gone home. Every hiker who steps onto the trail carries a different story… and we’d love to help you share yours.

We’re launching a new space here on our website—a Hikers Helping Hikers community blog—and we’re inviting YOU to be part of it.

Whether you’ve completed the entire Foothills Trail, section-hiked your way through it, or explored other trails near and far, your experience could be exactly what another hiker needs.

What can you share?

• Trail stories (the funny, the hard, the unforgettable)

• Photos from your hike

• Tips you wish you’d known before starting

• Packing insights or gear lessons learned

• Trail guides or itineraries you created

• Experiences from other trails you’ve loved

Your story doesn’t have to be polished or perfect—it just needs to be real.

This space is about building a community where hikers support hikers. Where someone planning their first trip can learn from someone who’s already been there. Where stories remind us why we keep coming back to the trail.

If you’ve ever thought, “I wish someone had told me this before I started…”—this is your chance to be that someone.

Want to contribute?
Reach out to us through our contact page or message us directly. We’ll help you get your story posted so it can encourage and guide other hikers.

Let’s build something together—a place where the trail doesn’t end at the trailhead, but continues through shared stories, shared wisdom, and a shared love for the journey.

We can’t wait to hear yours.