When I think back to June 30th, the day my parents drove me seven and a half hours to Maine to drop me off at Katahdin, it feels like years ago and a world away. As soon as their car disappeared from sight, I was unable to hold back tears. I sat alone at my lean-to, scared to death and feeling completely alone. I struggled to fill the seemingly endless remaining hours of daylight until I could go to bed and stop thinking about what felt like an insurmountable journey that lay before me.
Almost six months later, I look back at that girl trying to be strong and again I hold back tears, but this time because I am so proud of her. I am that same person, but the hundreds of miles and many experiences I’ve been through since then have changed me in ways I am only just beginning to realize.
I was scared to openly admit it before the trail, but before I began hiking the AT, I essentially had no backpacking experience. I’d only camped overnight once in the past ten or so years, and that one time was as ‘practice’ for the AT. Before that overnight, my previous backpacking trip was in middle school with a camp group. Clearly, I was not the most prepared to begin a five month journey in the woods. Up until a few days before I climbed Katahdin, I’d never cooked with a camp stove. On my practice overnight in the Whites of New Hampshire, I barely slept because I was terrified a bear would attack me in my tent. And so my complete lack of experience makes me all the more proud of hiking the AT. It’s easy to dismiss the sentiment ‘you can accomplish whatever you put your mind to’ as idealistic, foolish, and ultimately hollow words. But my hike proved to me that anyone, not just me—I am in no way unique in this fact—truly can do what he or she sets out to do. So much of my journey—and many journeys in life—was accomplished through patience, hard work, and determination.
But my experience on the Appalachian Trail wasn’t as self-centered as I’m making it out to be. So much of my journey was shaped by the landscapes and the people around me.
I want to summarize these experiences on the trail—accurately describe everything I saw and felt and thought and how it led to affect and change me in profound ways and make you experience those changes, too. But part of the allure of the trail, and what makes it such a special, almost magical, place, is that it’s nearly impossible to adequately describe life on the trail. Perhaps it is this indescribable, intangible element of the AT that creates an immediate and unspoken bond among those who have hiked the trail. Regardless, I will attempt to articulate my experiences along the trail as best I can.
I began the trail with the expectation that I would have these ethereal experiences in the woods, coming to better understand the world due to my immersion in nature. I would experience solitude and being away from society for so long that I would automatically have profound experiences and become a better person, much like what one imagines when they hear the names Thoreau or Emerson. While I did experience immersion and nature and grow as a person, my most lasting impressions of the trail weren’t nature-related. Rather, what really stuck with me, what I will remember for the rest of my life, are the people. My fellow hikers, trail angels along the way, people that gave me rides, opened up their homes to me—all of these strangers make the trail what it is and completely changed the way I view the world and interact with others.
Let me begin with my fellow hikers. People who choose to walk over 2000 miles for five months straight in all kinds of weather and across all sorts of terrain are obviously all slightly crazy. We have chosen to do something most people would never attempt and put ourselves through unnecessary pain and mental anguish for essentially no reason. Because of this borderline insanity, there is an immediate understanding and bond between thru hikers. There are so many characters I met along the way—the guy who carried two wiffleball bats the entire way, the guy using rebar poles as trekking poles, the guy who took an oath of silence for his entire hike, people that had just graduated high school, just quit their job, just retired, families hiking together, even a five year old. There were so many different types of people, yet together we were one big family—we all shared a common goal and were united in that fact. Hiking southbound, I was surrounded by far fewer people than I would’ve been had I chosen to go northbound. Yet the people I did meet and hike with are like family to me now. I spent more time with these people than I have with some of my closest friends or even my own family. I saw these people every day for months straight. I shared experiences with my fellow hikers that no one else will fully understand no matter how hard I try to explain: quiet sunrises from mountaintops, hiking for miles in relentless downpours, frustration at mosquitoes and stifling heat, conquering tough uphills and rejoicing in a couple miles of relief found in the rare flat section. We encountered boredom and joy together, frustration and awe. Without technology and the many distractions of society to amuse us, we were forced, like it or not, to spend time together and entertain ourselves. Coming back to ‘real life’ after I finished, I found a slight something missing in reconnecting with old friends and family. I had experienced so much that had somehow changed me and no one could really understand except my trail family. And because of that, we will be forever connected.
In addition to the lasting memories I had with my fellow hikers, what resonates with me is the consistent kindness and selflessness I found in strangers along the trail from Maine to Georgia. Maybe it’s just a New England or Boston thing, but I am used to not expecting much from strangers. Walking down the street, I don’t expect any smiles or ‘hellos’ from strangers. I find it kind when someone lets me pull out in front of them when I’m driving. Yet along the trail, I often had to depend on the kindness of others to get what I needed—a ride into town, perhaps a place to stay, directions somewhere, etc. And I was not let down. The kindness I encountered ranged from rides from the trail to town and offers to stay at people’s homes. I was given food, money, and most of all encouragement and wishes of good luck. These people expected nothing in return. Often, their only request was that I attempt to ‘pay it forward’ and be as generous as possible to others in my own life. Everyone who helped me was different—there were retired people, artists, doctors, families, people in their twenties, waitresses. In daily life we often, without even intending to, lump people into categories and hierarchies. The trail erases these boundaries. Rather than a society based on money and material objects, the central form of currency among people along the trail was kindness and respect.
And so, my outlook has changed. I try to be more giving and I now see strangers as kind people I’ve yet to befriend rather than hostile, unconnected individuals. I will forever remember the kindness I received, not just those big acts like giving me a warm place to stay, but even the people that did small things, like a genuine wish of good luck and congratulations.
I had so many crazy and weird and great and amazing experiences along the trail. The quiet sunrises and sunsets, the infamous cow ‘attack’ incident, meeting some crazy characters, summiting majestic mountains with only trees and more mountains as far as I could see.
The trail changed me. I now have a deep-seated, quiet confidence that developed slowly and will stay with me forever. I clearly remember in the 100 Mile Wilderness in Maine, there was a day when my blisters had gotten really bad. Each step resulted in searing pain and the sweat on my feet only aggravated my open wounds. I couldn’t keep up with the rest of the group I was hiking with. I felt like they were miles in front of me and I wouldn’t be able to make it to the shelter by nightfall. I felt so alone and helpless and it was only day three or four. Getting to Georgia was an insurmountable, laughable goal that I now saw I would absolutely never ever be able to achieve. I was such a fool for even thinking I could do this! As these thoughts raced through my mind and the pain of each step got to me, I had to stop. The pain was so intense and I was so tired and hot and sweaty and alone. I will never forget that moment. I stopped and just started crying. This was not what I imagined. This was not fun or some serene, transformative experience in nature. This absolutely sucked. How could I possibly do this everyday for the next five months? I wanted to quit. I wanted to be home and shower and not wear these painful shoes. Even writing about it now, I am transported back to the moment and my breathing becomes shallow and my eyes begin to fill with tears. I felt so hopeless and defeated. Writing this now, it’s clear I didn’t give in to those feelings. But in the moment it was not so easy. With all the willpower I had left, I composed myself with a few deep breaths and forced myself to keep walking. One of my friends had recently sent me an email saying she thought I was “strong, independent, and brave”. HA. I felt the complete opposite of these words. But I wanted to exemplify them. So, I chanted those words in my head over and over, so that each step I took was in beat with one of those words I wanted to be. Brave—STEP—strong—STEP—independent—STEP. With each step, the words became a mantra giving me momentum and determination. My feet still hurt and I still felt weak and foolish, but I wasn’t going to give up in this moment. And so that’s how the rest of that day went.
It is easy sitting comfortably inside writing this now to look back on my difficult days and act strong and proud about pushing myself. But I know I wasn’t strong or brave in those moments. There were so many times I felt so helpless and miserable and it was sheer willpower that got me through those moments. Hiking the trail hasn’t made me magically confident and able to cruise through tough situations. But it has made me sure that I can push through it if I refuse to give up. Without these terrible days and moments on the trail, reaching that plaque on Springer Mountain wouldn’t have been nearly as exciting or rewarding. And so I will be sure to remind myself of that when I undoubtedly encounter difficult experiences in my life ahead. It is those tough times and how I react to them that matters. Just like the difficult and seemingly never-ending uphills on the trail, difficult times in life can seem overwhelming and never-ending. But the trail taught me that I can’t let myself be defeated. We are capable of so much more than we often give ourselves credit for. Those difficult days in Maine, I wasn’t thinking about the tough times I’d encounter down in Georgia. I could only focus on each step, one at a time, and by doing that step after step for 2185 miles, I somehow did what I thought was impossible that day in the 100 Miles alone in Maine.
It’s been just over a month since my last steps on the trail. I think about it and miss it every day. Sure, part of me knows I am remembering much of the good and blocking out many of the tough times. But those days filled with pain, boredom, frustration, and cold, made the good days that much better in comparison. I miss the simplicity of my life on the trail where the only necessary concerns were what to eat, where to get water, and where to sleep. Having experienced such a simple existence, so much of my life back in society feels superfluous. On the trail, I came to understand what really mattered in my life. Back in my old life, I already see myself getting distracted by what society tells us is necessary to care about. Yet when I find myself getting stressed over jobs or money or friends, I only need to think back to life on the trail to know what really matters. I imagine walking the trail in the early morning; the only sound the leaves crunching under my feet. Immediately, I am transported back to that simple lifestyle and mindset. I smile as I imagine the sun warming my face and the wind brushing my skin and, for a moment, I remember.