Posted on 07/30/2024 12:57:08 PM PDT by Twotone
When I was 18 years old, I decided to hike all 2,193 miles of the Appalachian Trail, from Georgia to Maine.
It was a strange year to come of age, 2020. Covid had canceled my high school graduation and delayed my freshman year of college; it was hard to see how to go out into the world and grow up. But from my bedroom in the suburbs of Chicago, there was an image I couldn’t get out of my head, a memory from a childhood trip in Vermont: little carved signs pointing out a path through the woods. Turn one way, and you could walk to Georgia. Turn around, and you could walk to Maine.
The Appalachian Trail’s length is about 9 percent of the Earth’s circumference and, in terms of elevation, equivalent to hiking up and down Mount Everest sixteen times. It was stitched together in the ’20s and ’30s for local recreation, not for long-distance backpacking: To hike its entirety, to be a “thru-hiker,” was originally thought impossible.
But in 1948, a WWII veteran named Earl Shaffer saw the newly-completed trail as a chance to “walk off the war.” After four long months, he stood atop Mount Katahdin in Maine, and an American tradition was born. Every year, thousands of hikers arrive at the trail’s southern terminus, on Springer Mountain in Georgia, hoping to follow in his footsteps. Only about 20 percent make it to the end; the rest get injured, sick, or give up.
I wanted to prove to myself I could do something most people couldn’t, and could do it all on my own. I’d never camped for more than a few days at a time, and never alone, but in February of 2021, I arrived at the foot of Springer, my eyes set on Maine. The journey would take five or six months. My pack—which held everything I would need to live on trail—felt heavier than it had in my living room. After graduating high school during Covid, it was hard to see a path. That’s why I decided to hike the Appalachian Trail, writes Elias Wachtel for The Free Press. The author captures the calm after a freak snowstorm in the Grayson Highlands in Virginia.
I started slowly, my mileage light and the late-winter days still short. In my first week, freezing rain poured down; I had not yet mastered the art of setting up a tent in howling wind quickly enough to keep my sleeping bag dry, my numb fingers fumbling with stakes. One night, it dropped below freezing, and I woke up knowing I was at risk of hypothermia.
It was my first moment of real fear on trail; there was no one around to take care of me, no one else to correct my mistakes. I started doing sit-ups in my sleeping bag to generate body heat.
I learned to love the self-sufficiency of trail life. I made my own rules. I decided when to hike and when to rest. In every town, I’d look at a map and decide how much food to buy for the journey’s next leg. When I was cold at night, I’d light a fire; when I was bored, I’d sing James Taylor. As spring exploded around me, I harvested wild garlic mustard and bathed in deep streams. It was like living in a folktale.
I could feel myself getting stronger. Thru-hikers call it “getting trail legs.” Nine-mile days gave way to twelve, and twelve to sixteen; as the nights got warmer, I slowly made my way up the country—Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee.
And I wasn’t always on my own. On another miserable, stormy day, I came across an unobtrusive paper bag tucked between the roots of a tree. Inside, I found homemade apple turnovers, delicately wrapped in parchment paper, which had kept out the worst of the rain. This was my first encounter with what thru-hikers call “trail magic,” little offerings left by locals to lift our spirits. We called them “trail angels.”
Trail magic came in all shapes and sizes: coolers full of drinks, rides into town when I needed to resupply. People I’d never met before welcomed me into their homes for a night’s sleep and a much-needed shower.
Friends back home were, of course, horrified by this: “What about serial killers?!” And I was wary at first, too. After all, my generation was raised on a steady diet of stranger-danger assemblies. But when you thru-hike the AT, you are constantly bombarded by the kindness of strangers, and it becomes easier and easier to accept. After graduating high school during Covid, it was hard to see a path. That’s why I decided to hike the Appalachian Trail, writes Elias Wachtel for The Free Press. Elias took this photo on the day he turned 19, in northern Tennessee.
The spring storms seemed endless. When the rainwater flowed downhill, the trail was like a shallow river. I’d hike ankle deep against the current; I’d climb over the downed trunks of storm-toppled trees. Virginia, West Virginia, Maryland.
One day in April, a hiker came bounding up to me in Shenandoah National Park, salt-and-pepper mane blowing in the breeze. Before I had even finished introducing myself, he was offering me the dingy little earbuds he hiked with: “They’re my favorite Brazilian punk band!”
Long-distance backpacking attracts an eclectic community, hippie-dippie potheads and gruff ex-Marines alike. I met Bowdoin graduates and welders’ sons; some hikers had the Pride flag stitched onto their packs, others sported the thin blue line. We all knew each other by our trail names, a break from who we’d been in the “real world”: There was Shivers and Shiner, Skeeter and Pixie, Goldie and Dolittle. My new friend was called Midnight.
It turned out he had grown up not far from me, but he left town before I was born, so we’d never have met in Illinois. As a young man, he’d renounced his family fortune and had been traveling the country ever since, a kind of itinerant music teacher; I never asked how old he was.
Midnight was unflaggingly positive, and always claimed to feel no pain. Of course, part of his strategy was a near-constant supply of weed—he hiked without trekking poles, so his hands were always free to pack a bowl.
In the “real world,” I never would have befriended Sundance, either. We first met at a hostel in North Carolina, but I kept running into him—at a lookout point here, at a campsite two weeks later. A 67-year-old former Green Beret’s wiry strength and grit put us all to shame: He was often up before dawn, not willing to let his age decrease his mileage. We made a funny pair sitting around the fire, telling stories—he was one of the oldest hikers on trail, I was one of the youngest.
Sundance didn’t much care for Midnight’s habits—“he smokes too much hash,” he’d say—but it was never an issue. When you’re hiking together, the outward trappings of difference don’t matter all that much. Everyone is interested in the same things: Where’s the nearest water source? How bad will that next climb be? Does it look like rain? After graduating high school during Covid, it was hard to see a path. That’s why I decided to hike the Appalachian Trail, writes Elias Wachtel for The Free Press. “The northernmost states are beautiful, but this was often lost on me,” writes Elias, who took this photograph near the border between Massachusetts and Connecticut.
The storms of May gave way to 100-degree days in June, and with early summer came black bears, ticks, and rattlesnakes. Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York.
One day in Pennsylvania, I sat on a mountain overlook under clear blue skies. Looking out on the land, I realized I was learning to love America by walking it. I thought back on childhood trips to Italy and France, where people prized the local and the familiar: the cathedral across the street, the twelfth-century tavern beside it. America is different, I thought—the land of the frontier, the land of the explorer. To love America is to love something wild and ever-changing; our greatness is measured in space rather than time.
Two-thirds of the way through my trek, I was hiking twenty, twenty five, even thirty-mile days, eating five thousand calories and struggling to maintain my weight. My body was starting to break down. On the descent from New York’s Bear Mountain, all I remember is the pain. It was a June weekend, so a steady stream of Manhattanites and young families were passing me on the trail. I noticed their concerned looks before I even realized I had tears streaming down my face.
The next day, an orthopedic surgeon in New York told me my leg could break if I continued hiking—I had shin splints that were developing into a stress fracture with every step. At that point, though, I was too far in to falter. Either my leg would break, or I’d make it to Maine. After a week of rest and against doctor’s orders, I was back on the trail.
I moved slowly through Connecticut and Massachusetts, living off of Tylenol and ibuprofen. The northernmost states are beautiful, but this was often lost on me. I thought about the refrain of The Little Engine That Could, huffing and puffing up the hill: I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. . .
Just up and over the next mountain. And the next. And the next. Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine.
For days before you reach it, you can see Mount Katahdin’s imposing shadow laid out across the horizon. I knew my family had traveled to Maine, and would be waiting for me, after the final climb.
There’s a reason our folk heroes are rugged mountain men who survive by their own strength and wit: It’s true that no one can get you up the mountain but yourself. But as I reached Katahdin’s summit, I thought about my family, and my friends on trail. I thought about the trail angels who had helped us. I thought about Earl Shaffer, and the generations of Americans who cut the trails we walk.
I started college only a few weeks after standing on that summit, and found many of my classmates were afraid of independence—of living alone and taking care of themselves. Without having been on trail, I might have been the same. In high school, after all, there had always been a drumbeat to march to, whether from parents, teachers, or coaches. But on trail, I’d had no one to follow but myself.
Like my friends, I often worry about what I can achieve, whether I’ll succeed on my own. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I can still hear that most-American of refrains, the one I thought of over and over again on the trail: I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. . .
I left Springer on a Wednesday, I did about 20 miles in, got the call on Friday. My dad died on Wednesday. My dad was 89 at the time. I couldn’t go back like I thought because I had to take care of my mom.
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If I ever get there again, I’ll let you know. It’s always great getting together with Freepers!
I once walked the ENTIRE width of the AppalachianTrail.
I hiked the AT from Fontana Dam North Carolina to I- 40. That’s about 70 miles. I did that in 5 days....
I’ve done a few dozen miles on the AT. Not enough to be considered a real hiker there. I’ve done a few weeklong treks on other trails.
A couple years ago I met a man from New Hampshire. He was one of the first 100 thru hikers.
During covid, a family I know decided to complete the AT in large sections. Among them was their eight year old son.
Nice story/
The Appalachian trail is about a mile behind my house... Thankfully hikers would have to be really lost to get to my house...there’s some freaks out there.
Been on it numerous times but never wanted to do the whole thing because I had a job. Now retired I hike a lot but home for supper!!
Fantastic.
I love the pieces of the trail I have walked.
And I admire those who can thru hike.
Getting up there some and I am not in shape to reach tall peaks. But I will keep walking it where I can.
Yer a trooper.
Appalled at Amicalola— many years ago (more than 20) it was not as described. Urban street mongrels move up into the area— and live nearby? Unreal. Thanks for the info.
For that matter when in the urban jungle, the other animals require one to arm up. But in the idyll which was on the entire length of the Trail back then—never forgetting is aided in this poem from William B. Yeats “Lake Isle of Innisfree” for the memory of what is still there beyond where these demons show up:
“I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.”
Mr. Mercat took our kids camping and on canoe trips. I went some too. I think it helped them grow. My one experience with the AT was outside of Harper’s Ferry. We rode our bikes for a few miles but I was in my mid-60s and out of shape so not much further. Beautiful. And BTW, I recommend Harper’s Ferry as a side trip if you go to Gettysburg.
I live in the opposite part of the country, so the AT is something I’ve never seen.
I did ride the entire Trail of the Coeur d’Alenes with my son back in 2015. 72 miles in one day on bicycles. Saddle soreness was the enemy.
https://friendsofcdatrails.org/interactive-map/
Great story.
I am an old woman, but hiking a bit of the AT has been on my bucket list for a long time. I would be happy with just one overnight. Almost did it two years ago. The DH refuses to go, but I had talked my favorite sister into it. Bought all kinds of gear. Then she chickened out. No way would I go alone, and my other sisters won’t go either.
Thank you for your post. I don’t know if you ever saw the movie “Joe vs. the Volcano.” I love the movie. You reminded me of this quote:
“My father says that almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to. He says that only a few people are awake, and they live in a state of constant total amazement.”
Reading what you shared and, I hope, understanding the sagacious thoughts, we all were given a glimpse of amazement. We are given the gift to create and always in that journey is the question… why?
Thank you for your insight.
Your post made me quite reflective.
We live in a beautiful world God has given us. Even with the strife, hate, and evil, there is beauty, love, and good.
As we get older, by necessity, we often retreat into our minds, because no matter our physical condition or political condition, we can still be free in there. I spend much of my time in my own thoughts these days, and there will soon be more of that.
I have had a great life. Everything is gravy for me. I have seen a dark blue indigo horizon after the sun goes down. I have had dinner with many good friends at the top of the Pitons in St. Lucia, seen a marlin dance across the waves on its tail.
I’ve sailed a boat, fallen asleep in shallow, brilliant white sand in a foot of aqua water on a sand bar in the Abacos.
I have seen the ocean above the Arctic Circle from the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, the huge bow rising out of the water as a Niagara flows off of it back into the sea and close aboard, I see a frigate, its bow buried in the ocean, green and white water flowing in a river down each side of it while the spinning screw could be clearly seen as the stern came out of the water. From that same flight deck in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, at night the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon. During the day, I saw thousands of porpoises stretching nearly as far as I could see, while right below me, they took turns cavorting in and surfing our bow wave.
On that same carrier, more than once I saw planes crash right in front of my eyes, a stupendous thing that boggled my mind, it seemed so unreal.
I saw the sky, each evening before the sun went down, dark with huge bats all flying to wherever they holed up for the night.
I married the love of my life and spent the adult part of my life with her.
I once had a head of hair, played the saxophone on the beach on Cape Cod in the early spring when nobody was around but my wife.
I have flown a plane, flown a helicopter, flown in a glider, driven the highways of this country, North, South, East, and West.
I played goalie in hockey, football, baseball, and hiked portions of the Appalachian Trail. I slept in a fire tower at the top of Smarts Mountain in New Hampshire, and saw the top of low dense clouds from up there as I got up in the middle of the night to pay a call to nature.
It was a full moon, and looking down, I could see the wisps of the clouds curling around the legs of the fire tower. The clouds were illuminated a lovely white, and sticking up here and there around me, like dark, wooded islands in a Japanese archipelago sticking out of the Sea of Japan, rose the blunt tops of small New Hampshire mountains.
I have dug for clams with my own hands and eaten them, last year caught a 33 lb Striped Bass which I also cooked and ate.
Now, I am laying in my hammock, in a quarter acre house backyard, that my wife has turned into a small Garden of Eden. My refuge. I lay here and smoke my pipe, and when the sun goes down a little further, I will hope to see fireflies arise and bring me back to my six year old self as I see them.
Point of this rambling is-we experience all of these things, and much more, in this fantastic world of ours. When we die, we take it all with us. All of it. Unless we are talented enough to write it down, within a short time, nothing remains of us in this world.
One of my absolute favorite lines in a movie by a conscious robot (a Replicant who is nearly indistinguishable from a human) who has only seconds left to live as the hourglass of his short life runs out:
“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe... Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion...I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain... Time to die.”
And he dies.
And so it is for all of us. We must enjoy and appreciate what God has given us on this good Earth. I am lucky, so lucky, that I often revel in it that luck, because it feels like ingratitude and sacrilege not to.
Remember fondly what you had, it is worth remembering my FRiend...
Just WOW, thanks for sharing.
I wanted for years to walk the El Camino in Spain. Not in any shape to do that now.
There are hundreds of videos out on the YouTube from the Appalachian trail. Likely thousands. I like to explore them from time to time.
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