Sunday, October 21, 2012

The decision

It's been about two months since I left trail.

I'm sitting comfortably in my college's library, in the midst of my senior research, thinking about loans and my job and planning to clean the house when I get home.  I'm doing adult things.  I'm finishing school.  I'm figuring out what career will make me happy long-term.  I'm wondering when I'll get back on trail.

I miss it.  I miss the calmness I feel in the woods, the people I met, the time I had to think.  Never before have I felt as confident, competent, healthy, and happy as I did while on the AT.

And yet, leaving was exactly what I needed to do.

It was August 13th.  I walked alone through the wilderness and came to a dirt road.  I had heard about the trail magic that was there over the weekend, but since it was Monday, I considered moving on.  There would probably only be leftover, crushed Ho-Hos.  It wouldn't be worth the anticipation.

I walked by a tree that had a sign advertising trail magic, and Tommy had left me a note.  "Triscuit, you'd better not miss this!"  Maybe there were some other leftovers as well.  I walked across a bridge and into a small, dirt parking lot toward a man in a bug-tent.  Immediately I felt stupid.  There was no magic; just someone about to go hiking in the wilderness.  As I was about to ask about the magic, I recognized everything.  The black car.  The goofy grin.

"Triscuit!"

Tommy stood and raised his hands in greeting.  "Want a beer?"

He had it all.  Hot dogs, cold water, and even neosporin and gauze for my ankles (which had been rubbed raw after walking in rain for four days straight.).  For the first time in a while, the sun was out.  I relaxed in a folding chair and reached in a bag for a soggy Ho-Hos and laughed with him inside the bug tent.  It was wonderful.  He told me that he had a park pass for the following day to climb Katahdin; after that he'd head back to New York.

After a few hours of rest and hot dogs, I laced up my boots and hoisted my pack on my back.  I left in good spirits, with only eight miles to the next shelter.  My hip felt good.  The sun was out.  I walked over pine needles and wove around lakes on relatively flat trail.  Four miles in, I came to a campsite on the edge of a lake and decided to walk on shore to look.  The water was still, and clear, and reflecting a few clouds on smooth blue.  I found myself holding my breath as a loon broke the silence, it's eloquent and lonely voice coming from some place I couldn't see.   

It was only a mile later that my hip flared up again.  Soon the elation of seeing Tommy again wore off, as did the Ibuprofen and the novelty of hearing a loon for the first time.  I stopped to rest every few minutes but still felt dizzying pain shooting from my hip to my torso.  With every other step my vision blurred and I had to brace against my sticks to stay standing.  I took a break by another lake to filter water, feeling discouraged.  I wanted to hike.  I wanted to make it to Katahdin.  I could push through this.  Still, I wondered if I was trapping myself in the wilderness by walking farther from the road and a potential ride home.    

As I stared at the ripples in the lake, something shiny caught my attention.  Using my sticks I dragged it towards me until it was within reach.  A coin.  I flipped it in my hands and saw it was a state quarter that read, "New York: Gateway to Freedom."

That was not the sign I wanted.

"Stupid quarter," I mumbled, as I stared at the Statue of Liberty on the back.  I decided that we create our own signs and attach our own meanings to things.  I decided that to take this as a sign that the trail was my freedom, and that I chose it over New York.  I would keep going. 

I could tell you about the next few miles to the shelter, or my resolution to keep hiking.  I could tell you about the people I passed and the first time I finally saw Katahdin.  I could tell you about the mosquitos and the bog boards and the beautiful views and my quick pace.  I could tell you how I ended up sitting by a river and campsite for hours the next day, in a good amount of pain.  But what it boils down to is that I seriously considered going home.  I was no longer treating myself well.  I wasn't eating.  I was using hiking as a way to be thinner and feel power over my body.  I was pushing through pain (maybe hurting myself permanently) to do something I no longer enjoyed.  Perhaps I felt I deserved it.  Or perhaps I felt that being strong meant doing the miles at whatever cost.  Perhaps I felt my hike would be a failure unless I hiked Katahdin.      

Yes, I could tell you a lot about the last 24 hours on trail.  I could write about my thought process while I made my decision.  But what matters is that I did make a decision.  I decided I would climb Katahdin not out of obligation, but with pride.  I would climb with a healthy body and mind.  I would climb with someone I cared about.  And I knew that in order to accomplish these things, I would have to climb in a different season. 

I hiked to the last place I had reception and called Tommy, who had just finished his climb (and eaten a Triscuit for me at the summit).  At the end of the day we were rolling in his car along dirt roads, headed home.  I was disappointed in myself, but grateful for Tommy and his willingness to get me.  I was grateful that I had been able to see at least 70 miles of gorgeous Maine.  And I was grateful that I was able to make a hard, but healthy decision to leave. 

I still have over 1400 miles to go before I finish the trail, just like I still have a long ways to go in my recovery.  But I also have to keep reminding myself that I hiked 700 miles.  I learned to communicate my fears and history with my family.  I was able to recognize what situations aggravated periods of restricting and binging.  I found a stronger sense of self.  So now, even as I'm off trail and struggling with food issues, I'm no longer afraid to move forward.  Because I know I'm 700 miles farther than where I started.  And next season I'll chip away another mile, and another, learning more each time.  So that by the time I finally climb Katahdin, I will feel confident that I deserve it. 

One step at a time, right?  

Thursday, September 6, 2012

100-mile wilderness

I want to say it is the most beautiful place I've ever been, but that wouldn't be entirely true.  The temperate rainforest of Southeast Alaska is still the most memorable landscape in my mind.  But the wilderness of central Maine comes damn close.

In fact, perhaps the reason I enjoyed the Maine woods so much was because they reminded me strongly of Alaska--deep, dark conifers and their fresh, intoxicating smell; gently sloped ground carpeted with lime green moss and ferns; undisturbed lakes, rimmed with rock and a few trees piercing the fog.  Being enveloped in a wild place.

Tommy and I drove from Western New York up to the southern end of the 100-mile wilderness, planning to hike up to the northernmost part of the trail at Mount Katahdin.  At that point, we would get a ride back to where we started; he would drive home while I would hike south.  We had a schedule.  Our minimum was 15 miles a day.

It was easy at first.  The terrain was rockier than Virginia, but the excitement of being in Maine carried me over uneven trail and a few rock scrambles with little effort.  By the end of the first day I was tired, and my right hip was a little sore, but my spirits were high.

Day two we ascended Barren Mountain.  Sometimes it was difficult to know exactly where the trail was, but it's usually safe to assume you'll be going over the awkward part of the trail, and up.  Always up.  So I continued hoisting my body and 40 pound pack over boulders, using my hands rather than my poles, and often looked back at what I had climbed over.  It gave me confidence.  With the elevation I gained an appreciation for the rock-strewn mountain, and was glad for the change from the flat south.  I kept my eye out for white blazes and continued up. 

Halfway up Barren Mountain, I saw Tommy's backpack and "Triscuit" spelled out with twigs.  I followed an arrow, left trail, and came to an overlook.  Tommy excitedly beckoned me to the side.
"Holy shit," I said. 

Apologies for the language, but imagine hiking through a quiet, rocky woods, thick and almost oppressive, for a day and a half, and all of a sudden the trees open and the world is laid out below you.  Mountains, blue and green and grey, rolling beneath the cliff you stand on, chains of smooth lakes spattered on the ground, and no sign of road or cement or chain stores to interrupt the view.  It was stunning.       

We continued on, over mountains that looked awful on our profile maps, but when taken one step at a time, weren't so bad.  It started to rain.  For three days we stepped carefully over slick roots, rocks, and bog boards.  When we ascended White Cap, the weather was nasty.  On the exposed peak the winds were high.  The sky was a solid sheet of grey.  Had it been clear we would have had our first view of Katahdin, but instead, we saw streaks of rain and small clutches of hardy lichen and rocks: bluish grey rocks; dull maroon rocks; acid green, lichen-encrusted rocks.  It was pretty in a miserable way.  And though I wouldn't have wanted to stay there for much longer, White Cap is one of my fondest memories of the wilderness.  Maybe I'm slightly masochistic, but I love awful weather.        

My hip continued to get worse every day.  I struggled to keep going, and wanted desperately to make our 15-mile-a-day goal so I could climb Katahdin with Tommy.  I was happy to push myself, but emotionally I broke down when the dull ache in my hip evolved into shooting pain.  As we filtered water one day, I tearfully said, "I feel like I'm hurting myself."  It sucked.  I was so grateful to be in the wilderness, and frustrated that I couldn't push through the pain without damaging my body.

Tommy was incredibly patient, and kind, and came up with a solution.  He would give me most of his food, jump off on the next dirt road, and find his way to Katahdin so he could get back to work on time.  That would allow me to take it easy through the last leg of the wilderness and climb Katahdin when I got there.

I hobbled up Little Boardman Mountain with Tommy behind.  Every step hurt, but we made it to a campsite and my morale improved when we got out of the rain.  This would be good.  The next day was an easy four or five miles.  We stopped at Cooper Brook Falls Lean-to, a shelter that sat on the bank of a vigorous and beautiful waterfall.  As I walked down the bank, I saw a huge fire reminiscent of the ones I had sat around in Virginia, and when I got closer I realized why.

"Shelter Stew?!"

A friend I had last seen in the south was dragging logs toward the fire.  He made huge fires at every shelter he stayed at, and I had enjoyed a few of them in Virginia.  Shelter Stew and his dog, Maya, had also flipped up to Maine after reaching Pearisburg.

It was reassuring to see a familiar face, and to get warm in the shelter, and have a place to dry out my clothes.  The water was inviting.  I soaked my hips in a calm part of the water.  This was where I'd stay, while Tommy walked on.  It was strange.  But good.  And with a plethora of food to get me through the wilderness, I began thinking about the journey ahead.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Part 2 -- Maine!

So far, I have done 629.8 miles. 
I have walked from Springer Mountain, Georgia, to Pearisburg, Virginia.
I've been on trail for 64 days.

Now, after taking a break in my hometown, it's time to start part 2 of this crazy wonderful journey.
Tomorrow I leave for Maine!

I'm excited to walk with my friend Tommy.  I had told him I was going to hike the AT for a few weeks this summer, and he convinced me to hike for a few months.  I feel honored that he'll be climbing the legendary Mt Katahdin, the northernmost point of the trail, with me in a few days. 

Now the scenery will change.  I'm wondering, will my favorite brand of toilet paper, the striped maple, still grow in the north?  Will I hear the echoey songs of the thrush that have accompanied me in the south?  Will I cross anybody that I met earlier in the season, now that we are walking towards each other?

My focus is still the same.  To live well.  To gain confidence.  To treat myself better.

I'm glad to get back in a place where my torn up feet, awkward tan, and simple wardrobe will fit in.  Helloooo to the trail again.
I've missed it.

The kind of food we dream about

Hikers often fall into the same topics of conversation.  Perhaps we'll discuss gear, or the dried up water sources, or the weird and wonderful people on trail.  On particularly difficult days though, the topic comes back to the same thing.

Food.

Okay, so food is a tricky thing for me.  Part of the reason I'm on trail is to treat myself better and to eat better.  I didn't want to come home and get into old habits of overeating or not eating at all, but I knew a plethora of tempting food was waiting for me in civilization.  So, one day as I was hiking, I decided I would take ownership of the food I'd eat on my "vacation" by creating the menu.

Here are some of the things I've made!

Grilled curry zucchini wraps,
 
Recipe via Pinterest
with goat cheese and roasted red peppers

These were photogenic, but I think I need to soak the spices in oil next time--they tasted sandy.  The taste made up for the texture though.  And I learned that putting red peppers in a paper bag after you cook them helps loosen up the skin.  It pulled right off.  


 
Moroccan chicken with apricots, chick peas, and almonds
Recipe via PeaceCorp.gov

This dish was made with a delicious combination of cinnamon, cayenne pepper, and garlic.  Also swearing.  Made with lot of swearing. 

This week I also made a roasted red pepper sauce over store-bought ravioli, a lavender and white wine salmon, and peach lemonade.  Whew. 

Okay, so I still over-ate.  While I was home I ate too much cereal and white floured things and sugar just for the sake of sugar and felt out of control while doing it.  I hate dark chocolate but felt compelled to eat a whole bag.  I was frustrated that I went from eating well in the woods to eating mindlessly and ferociously in civilization.  Did I not make any progress while I was out there? 

At the very least I was able to confront my fear of the kitchen and try a few recipes.  For one meal a day I ate in the way that I hope to eat in the future: mindfully, in small quantities, with my family.

My recovery is long from over.  But perhaps this is a start.   

Trashing the trail

How do you picture wilderness?  Do you think of pristine old growth forests, or perhaps rock formations against magnificent vistas and a clear, azure sky?  Do you picture a landscape untouched by humans?  Do you picture... trash?

I hopped on trail in May, convinced I'd be in rugged territory, and excited to be in the wilderness.  I had heard so much about the trials and perils of the trail that I was surprised (and a little disappointed) when I started walking.  Granted, the climbs can be exhausting, the terrain uneven and occasionally dangerous, and hikers sometimes get sent home by twisted ankles, infections, or even bear attacks.  I remember the man we met who dislocated his hip and had to go home on day one.  And yet, the trail in Georgia seemed more benign than I had anticipated.  The AT was a very obvious, very clear, very worn one-foot-wide path going through the woods.  The water sources were plentiful and well marked.  The shelters, placed about every 8 miles, were clean and roomy and beautiful.  I couldn't help but feel cheated.  This wasn't hard.  This was, as my hiking partner and I liked to say, kush.   

And then there was the trash.  Sometimes I would hike along and almost be able to forget about civilization, when we'd pass a campsite or trodden patch along the side of the trail.  Scattered around the site would be tin foil, empty food packets, and bottles (that could have been recycled, by the way).  It seemed odd that someone who enjoyed being in the woods would so freely dump their garbage and wads of toilet paper in plain view.  Is this what a "wilderness experience" is really like? 

The trail itself had little trash as compared to the shelters and campsites, which were littered with it.  And whenever the trail crossed a road, I could have filled bags of it.  It seemed that the places that would have been the most convenient to pack out trash were the places that had the most.

Perhaps I was getting too worked up.  Maybe my expectations of the trail caused me to see more garbage than there really was.  I suppose the AT is really quite clean as compared to a lot of roadsides.  So I decided to do an experiment.  I decided to collect every piece of trash I found for 100 miles.  (This took me from the very end of North Carolina, through Tennessee, and up into the very southern bit of Virginia.)  I decided I wouldn't pick up toilet paper, broken glass, clothing, or items larger than my plastic grocery bags.  And still I collected bags and bags of it.   


Your daily dose.




My dad joined me near the end of my experiment, and though he thought I was strange for doing it, he helped me pick up wrappers and soda cans when we saw them.  And though he saw my garbage bag dangling from my pack as he walked, he was impressed with how little trash he saw on the trail.

"You know, sometimes I'll see something on the ground that I think is a wrapper, and then it turns out to be a flower or a leaf...  I also thought when I came out here that I wouldn't be able to find a good walking stick because I expected people to gather firewood all along the trail until it was sparse looking.  And I expected the trail to be a lot wider in places, more used.  No, this is nice.  I'm pleasantly surprised."



I find myself wishing, as I pass cell towers among the trees and hear lawn mowers in the distance, that the woods could exist without human interference.  But at least the small corridor around the AT offers a sliver of woods for those who seek it.

So now, this spoiled country girl is taking a cue from her dad.  Instead of looking for trash, maybe in the next state she'll start looking for good things in this world that we still have.
...Just don't let her see you drop that beer can on the ground.    


Thursday, August 2, 2012

A day in the life

My flowery writing has caused people to believe that I have grand adventures every day, that the trail is chock full of people, and that trail magic is around every corner.
To give you a better idea of what it’s really like, here’s a day in the life.


6:15--wake up and blink at the sun that’s knocking at my hammock.  Attempt to go back to sleep.

6:45--decide to stop ignoring my bladder and get up for the day.  Wiggle out of my bag and hammock.  Grab a striped maple leaf and pee.  Lower my bear bag and bring it over to the shelter where my pack is.  Yawn.  Stretch my stiff feet.  

7:00--lay everything out in the shelter.  Start packing.  Dump out my foodbag.  Set aside snacks and lunch for the day; put those in the front pocket of my pack.  Eat an obligatory carnation instant breakfast and granola bar.  Change into my damp hiking clothes.  Gather and treat water from near the shelter.  Finish packing.  At the very last minute possible, shove my feet into wet socks.  Shake out my boots and look for any brown recluse spiders that may have set up camp.  Put my feet into wet boots.   
7:30--start walking, following the white blazes of the AT. 

7:35--walk into a spider web.  Wipe it off my face.

7:37--walk into another web.  Wipe it off.

7:38--walk into a web again.  Ignore it.  Keep walking. 

8:00--think about my intention for the day. (One day, when I was alone, starting late, and attempting a long day, my word was “steady.”  Sometimes I focus on a story idea, some aspect of my future, or my relationship with food.  Some days I decide to look at shadows and color and try to be as present as possible.  Other days I try not to think at all.)  Walk.

9:30--come to a landmark (a road, a blue-blazed trail that probably leads to a water source, or maybe a labeled gap) and look at the guide.  Calculate my miles (at least 4 by now).  Take a water and snack break.  Walk some more.

9:38--trip over a root.  Keep walking.

10:02--take a picture of a colorful flower or fungus.  Continue walking.

10:28--pass a bunch of striped maple and take it as a sign to pee.  Check my guide again.  Start thinking about lunch.  Drink some water and eat a snack.  Walk more.

11:15--daydream about lunch.  Trip on a root on my way uphill.  Realize it's getting hot and I've sweat more than usual.  Drop my pack and gulp water.  Decide to stop at the next water source.  Walk more.

11:47--come to a stream.  Mix my chlorine water treatment drops and let them sit.  Fill my water bottles.  Dump in the treatment; shake.  Eat lunch.  Calculate my mileage (2 miles per hour is a good pace).  Decide to walk another 10 miles for the day, to the next shelter.  

12:15--walk.

12:53--meet a person headed the opposite direction.  Say hello, ask where they are headed.  Tell them about the water sources that have and haven't dried up and warn them about that fun rock scramble they're about to do.

12:54--keep walking.

2:00--walk, snack, drink, pee, walk.

3:00--walk more.

4:00--walk.  Trip over more roots and rocks as I get tired. 

4:12--check the guide and time every few minutes.  The shelter should be here soon.  Feel dehydrated and fatigued.  Walk anyway. 

4:46--come across a side trail that leads to the three-sided shelter.  Silently celebrate.  Introduce myself to people in the shelter.

4:47--drop the backpack and read the shelter logbook.  Look for entries my friends have written.  Write an entry of my own.  Give my feet a welcomed reprieve. 

5:00--unpack, decide to sleep in the shelter tonight rather than the hammock.  Lay a sleeping bag out on the wooden platform.  Swat at bugs and change into a long sleeve and pants to get them off my skin.  Find a rock and attach to paracord.  Throw it over a branch, 10 ft off the ground and 4 ft from the trunk, and leave it there for now.  Grab the mini stove and pasta and start dinner.  Chat with whoever else is there.

5:45--eat.  Rinse out pan, stuff in food bag.  Tie it to paracord and hoist it into the tree.  Tie a bear-proof knot at the base of the tree.  Relax.

6:00--start to feel bored.  Maybe I could take a walk?  (Just kidding)

6:05--chat more.  Check out the water source; treat water for the morning.  Grab some striped maple leaves and check out the privy. 

7:30--slip into dry socks.  Journal.  Work on a letter or poem. 

9:00--break out the headlamp and fight sleep, despite the person right next to my elbow trying to go to bed.
9:30--give in to sleep as the mice scurry along the rafter above my head.  

10:00--dream of walking.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

500 miles

When I was 12, we took a family vacation to Maine.  We had 5 people, suitcases crammed wherever they fit, a few blankets strewn across the back, and half-eaten snacks littered across the car.  We must have been eating Triscuits at the first state border we crossed.  Before the next border, I made sure everyone in the car had a Triscuit in their hand.  "Only three more miles!" my dad said from the front.  He was the one who was the most excited to meet the borders in snacking style. 

Ten years later, at the Georgia/North Carolina border, I was questioning why I was on the trail.  I had expected it to be more difficult, and I was surprised that I was having so much fun.  Was I just wasting time in the woods?  That morning I thought about my decision to hike the trail, and I remembered my lack of confidence, my bad eating habits, and my poor self image.  I remembered that I wanted to be more connected to the people in my life, especially my family.  And as I anticipated crossing into a new state, I thought about the Triscuits stashed in my backpack.  Before I reached the border it seemed right that my name should be Triscuit-- a tribute to my quirky way of celebrating, but also a reminder that both food and family can be positive things. 

I realized that day that I wasn't on trail to prove anything; rather, I was using hiking as a medium through which to trust myself again.  Thus Triscuit was born.

Over the first few weeks I slowly became less frustrated with bear hangs, cooking on my mini stove, and hiking through the rain.  I was proud of 11 mile days.  I tried not to think beyond the week ahead.  "One day at a time" was my mantra.  I was content to think only of the woods around me.  My journal entries contained plants I saw and detailed an occasional nasty smell (usually emminating from me).  Life was good.

When I hiked solo, the trail wore me down.  There were a few 20 mile days when I pushed myself more than I should have.  I walked in heat and occasionally got dehydrated and emotional.  These were the days that I had to push through in order to really think about body image and confidence and how I treat myself.  The handwriting in my journal became smaller and more scribbled as I tried to fit thought upon thought on those tiny pages.  On tough days I continued to tell myself, "one day at a time." 

Suddenly, "one day at a time" carried me to day 60.  I'm a quarter of the way through the trail and will reach 600 miles in the next day or two.  I don't mind hiking through the rain, or setting up my hammock, or sleeping among snoring men and hungry mice.  I can usually get my food bag hung in a tree on my first throw.  I can ration out my food and eat enough to fuel my climbs.  I can hike alone and keep a steady head.  At this point, the most difficult part of the trail is finding free internet...

I have to plan to a certain extent, but it's been freeing to think in the present.  When the thoughts in my head become too overwhelming, it is comforting just to walk.  I remember this quotation:

"Allow your judgements their own silent, undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be forced or hastened.  Everything is gestation and then birthing." 

Dad and I ate Triscuits at the Tennessee/Virginia border and again at my 500th mile.  I am thankful he is with me, sharing my recovery to health and helping me relive the tradition that we started, father and daughter, on our journey to Maine.   

Monday, July 9, 2012

Rest in peace, Red and White

As I made my way out of the Smokies,  I settled in the only shelter in the park to still have chicken wire around the front.  It was getting dark.  I opened the metal door with a screech and felt like I was walking into jail.  There was no one else there. I was hoping that I wouldn't have to spend my first night alone in that particular shelter, when a father and son from Louisiana walked in.  They introduced themselves as Whitey and Red Headed Stranger.  They were headed to Damascus, Virginia by July 5th.  We made dinner and small talk and got an early start the next morning.  I was glad to see them on the trail and at shelters over the next few days. 

Hiking alone can be a wonderful thing.  But sometimes, seeing a great view is bittersweet.  There were moments that I wanted to share with someone.  As I walked along the North Carolina/Tennessee border, I was able to relish the view with new friends.  After a stunning day on Max Patch, they left me a note in the next shelter (next to a 6 inch, plastic shovel) that made me laugh out loud:

"We have died of thirst.  Triscuit, please bury our bodies behind the shelter.  You can use the poo shovel." 

I decided to walk through the rain to the next shelter to catch up with them and pretended to be angry when I saw them.  "Y'all aren't dead?  I dug for hours with that tiny shovel and then couldn't find you!"  We laughed and made dinner, and talked excitedly about the trail ahead.

After Hot Springs I fell behind, but I always read their log entries at every shelter.  At one point I was going to hike through the night to catch up to them, but a few Southbounders told me a night hike over Laurel Falls wasn't wise, so I kept a slower pace.  As I climbed over the rocky trail the next day, I looked forward to meeting my parents at the end of the day and didn't stop for a dip in the falls.

My dad joined me and we hiked on.  I looked at the log book at a shelter we passed and was glad to see a few familiar signatures, but nothing from Red and White.  It was the first time they hadn't written.  Later that day we met some folks that told us a father and son had drowned in the falls.  I paused.  "Do you know where they're from?"  And the next word fell like a rock in my gut.

"Louisiana." 

Please, please, please, if you are by Laurel Falls outside Dennis Cove, TN, don't swim there.  It is beautiful, and looks benign, but apparently there is an undertow and drownings are not uncommon. 

Red and White were strong hikers, with good heads on their shoulders.  Most of the risks associated with the trail are small, but sometimes we fall victim to chance.  I can only guess what happened, and I've tried to put their last hours out of my head.  I can only take this as a reminder to continue to be careful, and to be grateful for the people I still have in my life.  I'm glad Dad was here when I found out.  

The trail has a way of creating strong bonds with people that we don't know for very long.  My friends, my good friends, won't easily be forgotten.  I walked the last forty miles to Damascus in their honor.

Please send a prayer or positive thought in their family's direction.    
      

Friday, July 6, 2012

Trail angels

It must have been obvious that I had never hitch hiked before. 

I was walking out of the Smokies and toward Gatlinburg, a good 15 miles away.  The shuttles listed in my guide weren't running, and I didn't want to pay $40 for a taxi.  So I picked up my bag, said goodbye to my trail friends, and walked along the newly paved road.  I was told it was an easy hitch, so I stuck my thumb above my head as I walked down the highway.  A string of cars sped past me as I wobbled along the shoulder of the road.

The minutes went by.  I continued walking as car after car sped within feet of where I was walking.  As they passed, every driver looked at me, every passenger craned their neck to stare.  No?  No one?  I remembered that I used to sit in a car often as I drove past hitch hikers.  I never thought I'd need a ride.  But surely someone would see my backpack and stop.  The string of cars continued.  People stared like I was a mildly interesting animal at the zoo.  Wow, a hiker in its natural habitat.  Don't get too close, dear.

The sun was out in full force that day, and I felt the heat of the pavement through my heavy boots.  A truck going the opposite way slowly rolled by, with three of my friends in back.  "Triscuit!"  they yelled.  "Stick yer thumb out!"

"You're going the wrong way!"  I yelled.

They assured me I'd find a ride as the truck picked up speed, then one of them yelled, "Put that knife away, dude!"  Damn.  I looked down at my shorts pocket and realized it was obvious that my 8 inch knife was there.  That probably didn't help my chances.

Another person rolled by and told me I looked like I was giving everyone a thumbs up.  My arm was straight up in the air.  I felt like an idiot but quickly lowered my hand as I walked.  A police car passed me.  Is hitching illegal here?  After walking four miles along the road I stopped walking and held out my hand, defiantly looking at the new string of cars making its way toward me.  Suddenly, a truck slowed and pulled over.  I ran toward it.  For a second I thought, Shit, what if it's The Gatlinburg Creep my friends told me about?  But I was happy to meet Terry and Jennifer, who offered me a ride into town.

I hopped in the back and felt sweet wind against my sunburnt face and greasy hair as we sped down the road.  They pulled over halfway through the ride and gave me a cold V8, water, an apple, and banana.  I didn't know what to do with it all.  I sat in the back of the truck, grinning, as I held the sloshing drink in one hand and the apple in the other.  This was a feast.  In town, they dropped me off, gave me a few dollars cash, and told me to be safe.  After thanking them profusely they were gone.

I'm not sure they knew how much I appreciated the ride, but that's part of the magic.  Along the way, there have been so many people who have helped my friends and I make a few more miles or a few more meals.  They have been strangers, locals, fellow hikers, or people just passing by.  They might not know how much we appreciate them.  But we remember.

We remember people like Lynn, who gave Owen and me a twenty dollar bill in a restaurant.  We remember people like Will, Mazie, and Liam, who kept me company and shared their stories, jokes, and food.  I remember Apple, who gave out water and cold soda at a dry intersection of the trail.  Charles, who gave me water and sandwiches while he was doing trail work.  Grasshopper, who talked about what to expect on the trail ahead and helped me finish my first 19 mile day.  Anne and Whit, who gave me sunscreen before I was about to go over a series of balds.  And Bob, the caretaker of Kincora hostel, who kept me company when I was lonely, with his wide wrinkles and wild stories.  

Trail magic somehow seems to happen when you need it most.  A stranger crosses your path when you're thirsty, exhausted, or lonely.  And a small kindness becomes the best part of your day.

On Wednesday I walked 9 miles to a beach where I'd be meeting my parents.  I was looking forward to it, as I had been dreaming about water all week, though I didn't know how hot it would be and I was worried I wouldn't have anyone to watch my bag while I swam.  As I walked onto the sand, I smiled at a family and they said hi.  They started a conversation, asking me questions about my bag, how far I had walked, and they said, "are you hungry?" 

I'm always hungry. 

They invited me to sit down while the food finished cooking on the grill, and I enjoyed talking with them.  Berta, Alfredo, and their extended family sat on the beach enjoying the weather as they told me stories and chopped up vegetables for pico de gallo.  At times they spoke Spanish and laughed with one another, and I still felt included and welcomed.  They served me first, telling me to take more, and when I was done I felt safe leaving all of my possessions with them while I dipped into the gloriously cool lake.  What a wonderful end to the day. 

We're encouraged not to trust strangers.  I think a lot of people would have been hesitant to trust Berta and Alfredo's family because of their ethnicity.  Apparently they had been getting dirty looks on the beach that day.  But the people I may have been told not to trust along the way have been my trail angels. 

After an afternoon of food, laughter, and sun, I thanked them, got a photo, and went on my way.  They probably won't see this.  We won't be friends on facebook.  My only connection left to these folks are the words and time shared between us.  It forces me to be more present on the trail.  Grateful.  So that maybe in the future, when I have my own pickup truck, I'll pull over when I see an exhuasted hiker, and I'll ask if they want a drink.   

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Poop and water should not mix

"How do you poop in the woods?"

This is one of the most common questions I get asked.  And the answer?  You just do it.  Some people have to have toilet paper with them, other people use leaves or rocks or whatever they find.  My favorite brand of tp is the striped maple leaf.  The leaves are big, soft, and common.  I feel better about leaving them behind, anyway.

What frustrates me most about this process is seeing other people's sodden paper draped over tree roots and sticking out of the dirt.  Leave No Trace ethics suggest going 200 feet from water sources and trails, digging a hole at least 6 inches deep, then packing out or burying your toilet paper.  It's a matter of keeping the trails looking nice, but more importantly it's keeping the water safe to drink.  As much as I loved the Smokies, there were times when I was extra careful about my water because of the piles of horse poop that I'd find near the shelters' water sources.

Yesterday I was frustrated with trash and paper I saw near a campsite, and started singing about Leave No Trace ethics.  After a few miles I ended up with a song, "Don't be an ass, just dig a hole."  It's pretty dumb, but it kept me entertained.  One of the lines was, "please don't go near the water, I must drink from there too.  Acquiring Giardia would stink worse than your poo."  

If you do it right, pooping in the woods can be a really great thing.  Pick a spot behind a nice tree, maybe find something to sit on if you'd like, and enjoy the view.  Cover it all up with dirt and leaves when you're done, mark it with a stick, and walk away.  It'll decompose and everyone's happy.  It's a great thigh strengthener and actually an ideal position for your body to get rid of that burger you enjoyed in town.

In the woods, everything balances out.  My hair is greasy but stays untangled, my skin sweats but doesn't smell among the trees and open air.  My food ends up going back to the ground where it came from.  In town, suddenly I'm aware of all of these things, and aware that  it's not socially acceptable to smell and look like I do.  So when I stayed at a hostel last night, I showered and changed into clean clothes, and made my way to the toilet.

It was strange.  I sat there and momentarily panicked when I felt water splash back up onto my skin.  I'M POOPING IN MY WATER SOURCE!  Of course, as soon as the thought entered my mind, I knew it wasn't true.  Yet, as the water droplets dribbled down my butt, I was horrified at the realization that every day we flush gallons and gallons of drinkable, beautiful water down with our poop.  I'll be thinking of that the next time I run out of water. 

I understand that waste disposal is a human health concern, and modern plumbing is a godsend.  Not everyone can hang out in the woods, and the ground couldn't handle it if they did.  But can't we find a more efficient way to get rid of our waste?

Maybe I'm just a nasty, smelly hiker.  But I have to go, and the library is about to close.  

I'm off to the woods.             

Friday, June 15, 2012

Wildlife

Mountain Laurel

Having Owen around is great for plant identification.  We both have some plant knowledge and have been able to identify over 70 plants.  They include blood root, partridge pea, poison ivy, striped maple (great for toilet paper), and a bunch of oaks.  There are still a ton of plants that we have no idea how to identify. 

We see a lot of mice and chipmunks around the shelters, songbirds, turkey, deer, and a good amount of small snakes.  One day we almost stepped on a three and a half foot, beige snake that we're pretty sure was venomous.  A lot of folks we run into have seen rattlesnakes, especially at some of the lower elevations (3 or 4 thousand feet).  So far we've seen one bear cub.  

My interests are in the smaller organisms.  I love seeing brightly colored fungi pop out of the dirt, or yellow slime molds that cling to rotting logs.  Some of the lichen out here is incredible-- large and leafy, textured and undisturbed.     

Owen's favorite:


Getting lost

When I had to carry all of my possessions up mountains, I quickly learned what was and wasn't worth the weight.  I thought about buying a different hammock -- one that is less bulky, lighter, and easier to set up.  I tried out Owen's hammock with my rain fly, planning to send my Hennessy hammock home at the next town.  I climbed in, glad to be away from the spiders (was that a brown recluse?) and the wooden floors of the shelter.

I woke when I felt water on my face.  Rain pelted the tarp that was whipping in the wind.  Raindrops attacked my sleeping bag from all directions.  I pinched the edge of the hammock to the fly, then realized I had no way to keep them together against the force of the wind.  This wouldn't have happened with my Hennessy.  I drew the hammock more tightly around myself and attempted sleep despite the spattering of droplets partying on my face.  My outside of my bag was wet.  I decided to run for the shelter.

I shoved my sleeping bag inside my shirt, crouched under my tarp, and adjusted my headlamp.  I ran.  Immediately I was soaked.  The rain violently contacted the earth, pelting my neck and roaring in my ears.  I could only see a few feet in front of me through the solid sheets of water.  I didn't see the shelter.  I ran in a different direction and still didn't see it.  Is my bag going to stay dry?  I continued running, occasionally seeing a tree trunk.  They all looked the same.  My light caught the reflective strips on Dan and Jess's trekking poles.  I was going the wrong way.  If worse comes to worse, I thought, I could crouch under their tarp.  Maybe I could ask for help.  Later I would laugh at the thought of knocking on their hammock.  "Hey, umm could you give me directions?"  I decided against it and continued running.

My hair was plastered to my face and I was sure my bag had soaked through.  I tripped over something -- Ian's hammock.  Damn.  Wrong again.  I ran and thought of being out here all night in the cold, lost in an unfamiliar woods.  Could I get hypothermia?  What would happen if my headlamp went out?  When I felt myself panic I stopped.  I was still in the campsite.  That was good.  I walked to where I thought Dan and Jess's hammock was.  I found it.  I faced the direction the shelter should have been in and counted my steps.  One.  Two.  Three.  Before I reached twenty my light caught the wooden beams three feet in front of me.  Thank God.

My feet crunched on the gravel floor and I birthed my sleeping bag onto the wooden platform.  I grabbed my pack from the wall and found the spare outfit I had been ready to send home.  I flung my sodden clothes on the ground as headlamps went on and I shakily got into dry clothes.  When I turned around I found that the boys had unfolded my (dry!) bag out onto a sleeping pad.  That small gesture would have made me emotional had I not had just one thought in my mind: getting in that bag.  I climbed in and pulled on some socks.  Sweet, sweet, glorious dirty smelly warm woolen socks.  I was dry.  No longer lost.  Among friends.
I curled up on my side and put my wet hair outside of my bag.  My shoulder and hip dug into the wooden floor and my full bladder squirmed as I lay there in blissful comfort.  My heart beat furiously against my ribs.  The rain continued, so loudly at points that it masked the sound of thunder that shook the shelter floor.  If I hadn't woken everyone up, this would have.  I was grateful to be there, even among the spiders, mouse turds, and snoring men. 

Maybe my pack was worth its weight after all.   


       

 

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

70 miles in 7 days

I made it past week one.  My clothes smell pretty rank but it's a small price to pay for all these beautiful mountains.   

Owen and I hiked with Mad Patter for three days, and we already miss him.  It's amazing to me how fast you can bond with someone who is struggling through and loving the same things you are.  He's trying to get to Maine, so he's pulled ahead of us, but I suspect I'll hike with him again before I'm done.  Right now we're moving at the same pace as a family of 6, dubbed the Care Bear family.  They did a whopping 18 miles just in one day.  I keep reading about other hikers in the shelter logs who are a day or two ahead of us.  Part of me wants to have the trail to myself, and part of me wants to meet whoever I can.  Now that memorial day is over the weekend hikers have thinned out and we've got a bit more peace in the woods.   

I don't have a trail name yet, though Owen and Mad Patter have been trying.  For some reason they wanted to call me Girly Q, or Lavendar Farts, or even Sock Sniffer (I have a fascination with how horrible my socks smell... somehow they make it up to my nose at the end of the day.  It's always bad.)  Thankfully none of their names for me have stuck.

Owen and I have been coming up with a rap for y'all.  It's not ready yet, but I discovered a video setting on my camera, so I suspect you'll be seeing it.  We also have stupid sayings we come up with while we're walking, like "serious miles, serious smiles," or "underwear free since day three."  He's a good hiking partner.  We like singing the blues and some soul.  I often find myself laughing as I struggle up an incline.  Keeps the bears away. 

We're definitely getting into a good routine.  Already I get tired when its dark and wake up after the sun's up for a bit, usually 7:30.  It's great that I don't need an alarm and my body knows exactly what to do.  In general, its a lot easier to take care of myself out here.

I had a few pictures I was going to share, but the computer's giving me trouble.  My internet time is about to run out anyway, and the girl next to me is giving me dirty looks.  I must smell worse than I think.

I'm off to resupply my food and send a few postcards.  I'm looking forward to buying some greek yogurt, raspberries, and a head of lettuce for lunch.  Once we're done in town we'll do another 4 miles on the trail today.  Then tomorrow we'll make it to our first state border!

Thanks for all your comments.  It was awesome hearing from you guys. 

I'll be in town again in about 5 days.

   

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Blisters and rain and bear hangs

We drove up a winding, one-lane Forest Service road for half hour to an hour, curving along a mountain and trying not to look over the edge.  The road was dirt and gravel, and at times it seemed the car didn't want to climb as much as we were making it.  Tami said, "this proves how much we love you," and immediately the tires spun and the engine slowed.  Dad tried to move again up the steep incline but the tires just spun, the car rolled back a little, and the oil and battery lights went on.  The car started to smell.  He tried again.  We sat in panicked silence. 

I was grateful to see a bold black plus painted on the front of an army truck that came bumbling down the road toward us.  They checked the engine of our car, but really we just needed to get into a different position so all four of our tires could grip the road.  We continued to the top of the mountain and finally found our first white blaze of the AT.

The first day went well.  I've been so overstimulated in the past few months that it was hard to register what I was doing.  The trail was beautiful and I was overly excited and sometimes thinking, wait, what am I doing?  We purified water we got from a stream by a shelter and decided to keep moving.  Our initial goal was to take it easy and do about 8 miles a day, but we decided to move farther before making camp.

In order for bears to not "lick your toes while you're sleeping," as fellow hiker Catfish says, hikers set up a bear hang.  All of our food was hoisted up onto a branch with a rope that we then tied to the base of the tree.  That was the most frustrating part of the day for me.  I had expected that setting a line for a bear hang would come easy, as it's similar to setting a climbing line for arborist work, which I did at school.  Then I remember that I never was good at setting lines.  Rain spattered on us just as I finished tying the knot around the tree, and Owen and I ran toward our hammocks.  "See you tomorrow!" he yelled.

I dove in my hammock and squirmed around until I was in a semi-comfortable position and listened to the rain beat on my rain fly.  I looked at my watch.  It was only 6:30.  Suddenly I felt uneasy.  What was I going to do for the next three hours?  I had paper and pen, but somehow three hours seemed like an enormous amount of time.  I had no obligations, no deadlines, no papers to write.  I had the basics: I was full, hydrated, well rested, and dry.  Now what?  Suddenly I felt anxious and lonely, sitting in my hammock with nothing to do but think and wait as the rain continued.

Day two we woke up after getting a solid ten hours of sleep, made oatmeal, and continued on.  We got our first view overlooking the mountains.  We met up with Mad Patter and hiked with him for most of the day.  We were all looking forward to our next water source, which my trail guide said was about four miles ahead.  Our bottles were getting low and for the first time I was worried about having enough water.  We turned a corner and where the trail crossed a Forest Service road was a 400-gallon army tank that said POTABLE WATER.  This was the second time in two days I was happy to see camo.  We yelled, but no one was around, so we filled our bottles and happily continued hiking.  (Apparently the army trains near one of the shelters we had passed.  It explains the helicopters we heard the first night.)

We stopped at the creek.  I had a fabulous lunch of tuna and cheese on bagels topped with raisins.  Everything tastes good.  Again we decided to push on past our mileage and shelter goal so we could get into town early the next day.  With a few miles to go, it started raining.  I pulled on my jacket and trusted that the plastic bags in my pack would keep everything dry, but when it poured and continued pouring, I had my doubts.  Owen went on ahead of me, Mad Patter fell back.  Occasionally I'd see a swatch of red or blue in the trees, and then I didn't see either of them for at least a half hour.  Rivulets of water raced down the trail and puddles formed in flat spots.  Soon the entire trail was filled with rushing water.  My shorts and boots soaked through.  I didn't care that I was wet; it was warm enough that I wasn't cold.  But if my extra pair of clothes and sleeping bag were soaked, I was in for a very cold night.  At least I had my rain fly I could use as a tarp.  I decided there was nothing I could do and splashed through puddles and enjoyed the feel of the water on my dirty skin.  After an hour of telling my feet to move, the rain slowed.  I looked in my bag and found my stuff was dry.  Eventually we met up at the gap and danced in the street when we realized we had a ride to a hotel in town.

Oh, the luxury of a cheap hotel.  We dove in the pool after checking in.  We had towels!  We ate at a Mexican restaurant and I got a chicken and bacon quesadilla with bell peppers and chipotle ranch and lettuce.  I said to Owen, "this is the best thing I've ever eaten."  Haahaha.  We've only been hiking for two days.

So far I've only got a few blisters and my calves are less sore after sleep.  Today we're going to hit the trail and climb the highest peak in the state and then take a fairly easy day after that.  We'll probably be in town again on Tuesday or Wednesday.  After that I think we'll go into town about once a week to resupply our food. 

I'm anxious to get back.  It's beautiful out there.              

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

Leaving today

Yesterday I spent the day with my family at my brother's house near the trail.  Owen and I will be walking in about two hours! 

Look for a post from me in about a week.
 

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Things I will miss

As I pack my bag with Ramen, peanut butter, and instant mashed potatoes, I'm appreciating the food I'll probably crave in a week or two:

Gladfelter's chicken ceasar pitas.  Biscuits and Warren Wilson sausage with gravy.  Orzo and feta.     

Bell peppers, cucumbers and green beans. 
Grapefruit, strawberries, and raspberries.

Meals that look like this:



We went to Pisgah Inn yesterday for my sister's birthday and had fantastic food as we looked through huge glass windows at the Blue Ridge.  I ordered the roasted beet salad, which came with apples, strawberries, pecans, goat cheese, fennel, and balsamic dressing.  Love, love, loved it.

I think I'll also miss my routine (before I find a new one), my bed, and my people.  Mostly the people.

On the other hand, I'm looking forward to getting away from cars, cement, Hulu, deadlines, and alarm clocks.  I'm very happy to leave those behind. 

Two days!
     





Friday, May 18, 2012

Anticipation

During the past six weeks I've been preparing.

I've prepared logistically, pulling together supplies, rides, and food lists.

I've prepared physically, increasing my cardio, core, and strength workouts.  I've been hiking.  I've strengthened my knees and traded a few pounds of fat for muscle.

I've prepared mentally, thinking through best and worst case scenarios, reading books, talking to hikers, and thinking about my own goals and reasons for doing the trail.  I've been telling myself it's okay if I need to stop hiking before getting to my goal state.  I've been trying to imagine loneliness and being okay with that.  I have a tendancy to get lonely easily and I know that even when I'm hiking with people, my relationships with folks at home will have to take on a new form.  I'll only be able to contact them when I'm in town, which will be about once a week.  That makes me more nervous than bears or snakes or strangers ever have. 

Maybe I could have done more.  Sometimes I think I won't be ready.  But I don't have any more prep to do, just waiting.  Preparing feels better than waiting.  In three days, I'll be done anticipating, preparing, waiting.  Maybe then it will sink in that I'm doing it.  Or maybe it will take a few weeks in the mountains to realize I'm actually hiking the Appalachian Trail. 

At this point there's nothing left but to do it.


 

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

I'm doing it!

I'm finally doing it.

In less than a week I'll be hiking the AT.

The trail stretches from Georgia to Maine, is over 2000 miles long and takes an average of six months to complete.  My goal is to do at least 2 months, at most 4.  I'd like to hit 1000 miles.  I'll be starting in the south and hiking until my body, bugs, or snow send me home.  Until then I'll post here for any of y'all who want to read about my adventures. 

Send me your address if you'd like a letter or postcard!