AWOL on the Appalachian Trail (35 page)

Awol at the end of his thru-hike, September 17, 2003.

Upon my return from the trail, friends, coworkers, and even an occasional stranger would stop to talk. "That was quite an accomplishment. Not many people do that--you must be proud." was often uncomfortable, at a loss for how to respond. This was nice to hear, and it is considerate of people to congratulate me. But pride is not at the forefront of my feelings about my hike. I do not think of it as an accomplishment. I feel fortunate for what I have experienced.

My daughters, especially my youngest, missed me. Being away from home for long stretches cannot be a way of life. Still, it is important for parents to continue to live their own lives. We can't sit by and say we've already made our decisions, done our striving, and dish out opinions on the doings of our children. Words alone lack authority, and we risk making them surrogates for the life we'd like to lead. We can better relate to the budding aspirations of our children if we follow dreams of our own.

I missed the trail increasingly over the first few months I was back home, and then the feeling matured to a combination of fondness, loss, nostalgia, and longing. Some moments on the trail were awe-inspiring. Many days were full of picturesque moments: the path lined with blue wildflowers, areas overrun by blooming pink rhododendron and white mountain laurel, the beckoning trail weaving through trees and boulders, the smell of the firs, exposed summits showing limitless horizon of mountains, rolling fields of hay and corn with an old barn in the backdrop. My mind is saturated with these memories. They return to my consciousness un-summoned, while I'm driving or sitting at my desk.

In 2004 I returned to the AT to hike from Erwin to Damascus during the week of Trail Days. The trail was still very familiar; I could tell when it was about to bend, go up, or go down. I would spot a rock where I had sat to take a break--one rock out of millions spread over 2,172 miles. At the same time I felt removed, like my hike that ended less than a year earlier was in the distant past. I felt a tinge of loneliness, unlike anything I felt during my thru-hike. I stayed at Overmountain Shelter. It was empty when I arrived. I could nearly hear the voices, ghosts of the previous year, buzzing with excitement over what we had learned, how far we had come, and what lay ahead. I thought of what I would have been doing during my thru-hike--writing my journal, reviewing photos, reading the guidebook so I'd know what to look for in the next few days. And I was sad that I no longer had to do those things. The whole timeline of my adventure came back to me: initially being intrigued with the idea, reading about it, taking practice hikes, trepidation of the start, excitement of being under way, even fondness for the drudgery of the middle ground, anticipation of heading into heralded locations, and contentment of travel when I knew the end was at hand. I had done it, written about it, and now it is history.

Of course pining for the past is part of life, not uniquely an AT experience. But the strength of that emotion--evoked when I moved away from my childhood home and again upon finishing college--I had not felt for years. Those were transitional events during emotionally sensitive adolescence. Now I am grown up, hardened, and yet still affected. There is redemption in sadness. It tells me that for nearly five months in 2003, I lived life with the open, raw, refreshing outlook of the young.

The payoff, though difficult to quantify, is much greater than I expected. I have no regrets about having gone; it was the right thing to do. I think about it every day. Sometimes I can hardly believe it happened. I just quit, and I was on a monumental trip. I didn't suffer financial ruin, my wife didn't leave me, the world didn't stop spinning. I do think of how regrettable it would have been had I ignored the pull that I felt to hike the trail. A wealth of mries could have been lost before they had even occurred if I had dismissed, as a whim, my inkling to hike. It is disturbing how tenuous our potential is due to our fervent defense of the comfortable norm.

As a result of my hike, I am much more inclined to
do
things. I will have fewer "should have dones," even if it means incurring some "wish I hadn'ts." I have changed in smaller ways, too. I am friendlier and more patient. I worry less about money. I can get by with less. It is as pleasing to get rid of old stuff as it is to get new stuff. Excess is a burden, even when you are not carrying it on your back.

And in a way, I do feel proud. I feel proud of the positive influence I've had on my circle of friends. One friend took a month's leave from her job to sail as a crew member on a replica of Columbus's ship
Nina
.

She told me, "It [your hike] made me feel like it was okay, like I was getting permission to go. I had the impression that things like this are irresponsible. But then, when I saw someone like you who is responsible do it, I felt okay. It is not unreasonable or selfish; it is healthy."

When she asked her boss for a leave, he said he had read about a guy who had to quit his job to hike the AT. Her boss thought it would be a great adventure for her and that she wouldn't have to quit her job to go.

Another woman took up long morning walks and got more fit than she had been in years. Yet another friend ran a half marathon. He said I inspired him to pursue an extraordinary personal quest.

Now I am more comfortable talking with people about my experience. When they say, "I would love to do something like that," I know how to respond.

"You can."

Since writing
AWOL on the Appalachian Trail
, I've received a number of messages from readers who tell me that they've been inspired to hike the AT. Clearly these readers have not paid attention to what I've written. The book is replete with tales of misery: a sprained ankle, lost toenails, blisters, and a longer list of minor inconveniences. Often I've thought that if I could change anything about the book, it would be to present a more upbeat perspective on the hike. With this updated edition of
AWOL on the Appalachian Trail
, I had the opportunity to change it, but I have not. Instead, I've chosen to believe that readers, far from being inattentive, do perceive the underrepresented truth that hiking the AT was an overwhelmingly positive experience.

For readers who are not to be deterred, here are the questions that I've most often been asked:

What gear did you use?

A complete list of my gear is on the Web site
www.AwolOnTheTrail.com
. The list should be considered notional because new and better choices are now available, although I still hike some every year and take essentially the same gear. At the time of my thru-hike, having a cell phone on the trail was anathema. I carried one at the start of my hike, hardly got any use from it, and sent it home after a few weeks. Cell phones are becoming standard gear because reception is increasing and pay phones are dwindling. Smart phones have become multipurpose tools that can also serve as a GPS, compass, and journal. Learn to use your gear before leaving, because you won't want to carry manuals. Or make more use of your smart phone by loading it with manuals.

Electronic devices, such as your camera, phone, and watch, are worthy of special attention. If your watch or phone has an alarm, be sure it is off before settling into a shelter or other common sleeping area. Take the best camera that you can afford and are willing to carry. Learn how to shoot the types of pictures that you will take on the trail: close-ups of flowers; wildlife in dense, low-light woods where a flash will have a spotlight effect; hikers sitting around a campfire. Know how to use the camera's timer or remote to take a photo of yourself alone at a scenic overlook. Take a minitripod and learn techniques for propping and stabilizing your camera.

What does it cost?

In 2003, five thousand dollars would be a good baseline. Most hikers will spend more on the gear and town stops to make the trip comfortable, and some frugal hikers will get by on less.

Opportunity cost--the income that you won't earn while hiking--is the largest expense of thru-hiking. Hiking is as cheap as any vacation that you can take. Virtually every night's stay can be free, and there's enough food left in hiker boxes to eat for free. No one does this, though, as the pull of a hot shower, soft bed, and "real" food is strong. A reasonable plan might be to factor in the cost of a hotel or hostel stay and a few restaurant meals every week. A thru-hike will last fifteen to thirty weeks.

The big three gear items--pack, tent, and sleeping bag--can all be had for less than two hundred dollars each. All the gear that I started with added up to about a thousand dollars. However, I purchased an equal amount of gear that I tested and chose not to take, and I bought more gear along the way.

What's the hardest part of the trail?

I have little doubt that with similar weather conditions and hiker fitness, slowest progress would be made through the White Mountains and southern Maine. Here the trail has its steepest ascents and descents, along with rugged, rocky terrain.

But conditions are not always the same, so the hardest part of a thru-hike is not easily predictable. The struggle to get in trail shape can outweigh initial enthusiasm. Dealing with bad weather, sickness, or injury can make any part of the trail a challenge. Emotional challenges are no less real. For some, the novelty of walking through the woods, mostly alone, without modern conveniences, is a novelty that wears off. The hardest part of thru-hiking can be dealing with loneliness, missing life as it was back home, or the temptation to jump into new endeavors.

For me, trudging through central Virginia was difficult. Reaching Virginia was a nice landmark, but then it seemed like work to register further progress. There was a rainy spell, and I had to take time off to nurse an infected blister. A too-brief visit from my family gave me a taste of what I was missing.

What's your favorite part of the trail?