Trail Tuesdays is my attempt to memorialize my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. The A.T. is a long distance hiking trail that runs from Springer Mountain in Georgia, to Mt. Katahdin in Maine- you can read all about the trail here or here. You can read previous parts of Trail Tuesdays here.
And so I sat on the wood planks of the shelter floor, already shivering from the cold, and began to cry.
I sobbed so hard and long my stomach ached. I desperately searched for any way to change my situation, and found no solution. In a moment of weakness, I pulled a cell phone out of my pack, the cell phone that E and I had agreed we would only use in emergency situations, and turned it on with the thought that I could reach my Mom, or College Boyfriend, anyone really, but saw, not surprisingly, that there was no reception.
I was in the middle of the woods, over seven miles from the next shelter, and 30 miles from any town. I sat there crying, hopeless, for a full half hour, until it finally sunk in that ”There is nothing I can do, I have to keep walking.” Realizing this, that I had no other choice but to move forward, was oddly liberating. By having no options, I felt free. And then, as if someone else was controlling my limbs, I mindlessly searched through my pack for a dry pair of wool socks, which I put on my hands, loaded my pack on my back, grabbed my hiking sticks, and started walking.
Resigned to my fate, and with my socked hands now thawing, I was able to think about something other than my own misery. The rain still fell, and my feet and knee still ached, but a fog had lifted. I had hit rock bottom, and now I was moving on. If I was going to have to hike, and really, I had no choice, I decided I might as well try to have fun. I made up songs about the slippery rocks and tree roots that covered the trail, singing at the top of my lungs “Wet rocks and roots are not your friends. They will get you in the end.“
By the time I reached the shelter, I felt like a different person. E and Mike were waiting there for me, E clearly worried, but not saying anything. They ushered me to the campfire that Mike had managed to start in the pouring rain. E told me that she had stopped at the previous shelter, but had been so cold and miserable that she had to move on.
“Today really sucked.” she said, putting her arm around my shoulders.
“Tell me about it.”
The next morning, we woke to something we hadn’t seen in days, sunshine. It was perfect hiking weather, cool, but warm enough to strip off a few of the layers we had become accustomed to wearing. We were fortunate the conditions were so ideal, because the terrain was harder than any we had encountered, and we were attempting our longest day yet, 15.8 miles.
Around lunchtime I reached the base of a daunting mountain. I took my time to scramble and climb the boulders that comprised the steep path. When I finally made it to the top, I was rewarded by an amazing view of nothing but more mountains and valleys and trees as far as I could see. I was surprised to find Mike and E sitting on a rock outcropping, waiting for me. E later told me what I had figured, that they had been waiting there for a long time. She said that Mike had wanted to wait because he said that this was the kind of view you needed to share with someone.
We had been hiking with Mike since our second night out, coincidentally stopping at the same shelters each night, but after that day, we became a trio. Mike was kind of a goofy, lanky, twenty year old kid from Upstate New York who was taking a break from college to thru-hike the trail. E and I were pretty goofy ourselves. Plus, Mike could start a raging fire out of nothing, in any weather, which we had come to learn was an invaluable asset.
We all decided that the next morning we would hike an easy 3.5 miles to Dicks Creek Gap where the A.T. crossed Highway 76. The town of Hiawassee, Georgia lay eleven miles down that road, and with it, a chance to resupply, make phone calls, and eat a warm meal. We reached the road quickly, eager to get to civilization, and were faced with the prospect of finding someone willing to drive three dirty, smelly, hikers into town. Hitchhiking is one of the central experiences of any A.T. backpacker. Most trail towns are too far to walk to from the trail, and so often, hikers have to rely on the kindness of others in order to get to town. Luckily, people who live near the A.T. are used to the sight of weary hikers sticking out their thumbs, begging for rides, even a few are brave enough to stop. E and I had the advantage of being some of the few women who thru-hike, and probably seemed less threatening to many drivers. As time passed, we developed a routine where E and I would smile and wave and stick out our thumbs, and Mike would hide behind us until someone finally stopped.
That first day, standing on the side of Highway 76, we were fortunate to see the telltale signs of a ride, break lights, and a quickly reversing car, within minutes. The driver was a Ridge Runner, the person responsible for maintaining shelters and the path, and providing support to hikers on certain sections of the trail. As we drove towards Hiawassee, he told us that we were the first thru-hikers he’d met that season, but that they expected record numbers to start their hikes in March and April. I liked that we were ahead of the pack.
Hiawassee is a tiny place, with a population of under one thousand people, but it seemed like paradise to us. Once in town, the first thing we did was go to the post office. In most towns near the trail, post offices will hold mail and packages for hikers. After collecting a package containing a book and $20 from my dad, and a card from my mom, we practically skipped across the street to an All You Can Eat diner. As we chowed down on anything we could get our hands on, eating food that would be greasy and unimaginable any other time, but was brilliant that day, our perky teenage waitress pestered us with questions.
“So how much do y’all hike everyday?” she drawled. When we told her, she exclaimed “Goodness. I walked a mile yesterday, in order to get in shape for cheerleadin’ and I’m still pooped!”
Her wonder at what we were doing, her announcement that “Wow. I could never do what y’all are doing. That is just sooooo cool!” made me realize that she was right, despite my recent lows, this trip was a very cool thing.
We finished our meal, and after spending over an hour on three adjacent pay phones, talking to family, and in my case, College Boyfriend, we stopped by the supermarket to refresh our food supply. In order to manage the weight of our packs, E and I had planned to only carry four to five days of food at any time, arranging our mileage so that we would arrive at a road crossing when were running low. When we finished our shopping, we lingered in front of the market, drinking sodas and cracking jokes, knowing that the only thing left to do was find a hitch back to the trail.
Being in town is exciting. Leaving town… is hard. Your pack is heavy with your fresh resupply, your belly is full of greasy food, and the trail almost always climbs upward, away from town. On that day, my reluctance to return to the trail was intensified by the sores on my heels, which I discovered had only grown since I last checked them. Knowing that every step would cause pain made it hard to want to go back. I looked longingly at the rundown motel across the street from the market. I was just about to suggest to E and Mike that we get a room and a shower and a bed and a roof over our heads, when a pick up truck stopped and asked if we needed a ride.
Once back on the trail, which did, in fact, climb steeply from the road, I realized that my optismism, my feeling that this trip was a very cool thing, had vanished. I thought about the times I had felt happy over the past week, and realized they were few and far between. I started thinking that maybe thru-hiking just wasn’t for me, and that if I wasn’t happy, maybe I should just quit.
That night, I made a deal with myself. I wrote in my journal “I started wondering today if I should quit. I’m hardly ever happy while I’m hiking, and I’m in constant pain. Today is March 1st. I’ve decided that I will give it a month, and if I’m still not happy, I’ll leave the trail.”
The Thief
