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.
Monday, August 6, 2012
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,
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.
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.
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 |
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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