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.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
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.
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.
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.
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