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The typical thru-hike takes six months with an average of twelve miles walked per day.
Many of the most gratifying experiences in life are those that are the most demanding.
As I tell my story, I will speak of other inspirations for my hike. In doing so I am not contradicting myself. My job dissatisfaction was just one factor in my decision to hike the AT. Most thru-hikers, when asked, will offer up a single motivation. In part it is the reason currently dominating his thoughts, in part it is the type of answer that is expected, and in part it is the type of answer that is easiest to give. It is not that simple. The reasons for a thru-hike are less tangible than many other big decisions in life. And the reasons evolve. Toward the end, possibly the most sustaining
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A “quick” thru-hike is four months or less. The typical AT thru-hike takes over five months.
counting thru-hikers. I’m northbound thru-hiker number 927. He tells me that the dropout rate for thru-hikers has consistently been 50 percent before finishing the Smokies. Ninety percent of the trail is still ahead.
I was completely uncertain of her reaction, so I said with a tone of jest, “Maybe I should go by myself. Maybe I should go now.” Her reply was immediate: “Maybe you should.”
When the path is clear to pursue a fledgling goal, the path is also clear for deeper insight into your desires.
Gumption is the most important thing for a thru-hiker to maintain. Compare rounds of golf, one played while keeping score and one in which you hit a mulligan every time you are unhappy with a shot. In the latter case, being on the golf course loses significance. Rounds that are memorable are the ones that you make count.
When you attempt to capture the highlights without burdening yourself with the tedium, the highlights lose the foundation that elevates them to the status of “highlight.”
17 I would finish the trail in 146 days. I hiked on 128 days, averaging about seventeen miles per day, and took eighteen zero days.
Erwin, Tennessee, has the unusual distinction of being the only town in America to have hung an elephant. That was in 1916, and the elephant had it coming.
Alone, cruising serenely through the woods, is a situation that nurtures emotional liberation. In the bustle of everyday life there is no time for frivolous thoughts.
Experience is enriched by reliving it, contemplating it, and trying to describe it to another person.
No way was I going to allow myself to settle into an ordinary life because it was the easy thing to do. I didn’t want to be pigeonholed, defined by my career, growing soft and specialized behind a desk. I would continue to resist specialization and stretch myself by undertaking new endeavors.
Now I see an unexpected benefit of thru-hiking. It is an escape from me. It is a forced simplification of my life;
it is powerful to realize that goals are reached primarily by establishing the proper state of mind. But if allowed the perspective that our endeavors are propped upon nothing but a notion, we falter.
McAfee Knob is one of the most photographed locations on the Appalachian Trail. Near the peak of the mountain, there is a shelf of rock cantilevered above an unbounded, view of the mountains and valley below.
the “triple crown” of backpacking, which also includes the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT: 2,658 miles) and the Continental Divide Trail (CDT: 2,764 miles). Both trails are less traveled than the Appalachian Trail.
I tire of hiking in pain. Over the course of my hike, I’ve dealt with knee pain, a strained Achilles tendon, shoulder and hip bruises from pack straps, and an infected blister on my heel. But my feet are far and away my greatest physical liability. Foot pain is constant and exasperating. I expected to endure aches and pains during the first few weeks, but then toughen up and hike with relative ease. It hasn’t happened. I am getting more worn down by the miles.
I have heard more disparaging remarks from thru-hikers about the trail through the Shenandoahs than about any other section.
People living normal lives are ruffled by folks like Doc and Llama. Nonconformity is an affront to those in the mainstream. Our impulse is to dismiss this lifestyle, create reasons why it can’t work, why it doesn’t even warrant consideration. Why not? Living outdoors is cheap and can be afforded by a half year of marginal employment. They can’t buy things that most of us have, but what they lose in possessions, they gain in freedom.
The approval, the comforts, the commitments wound themselves around me like invisible threads.
Hiking the AT before joining the workforce was an opportunity not taken. Doing it in retirement would be sensible; doing it at this time in my life is abnormal, and therein lay the appeal. I want to make my life less ordinary.
We are outraged when we are constrained by others, but willfully, unwittingly put limits on ourselves.
chose not to bring a radio or MP3 player, preferring to give all my attention to the woods around me. As many as half of the solo hikers wear headphones, and I’m sure I would find them addictive. However, I never feel bored on my long days of travel, as one might feel traveling by car.
I check the time frequently—at least every quarter hour—and I also take peeks at my guidebook for landmarks passed. I’ll do a rough calculation in my head of how far I have walked and how long it has taken, and I’ll estimate how much farther I will walk and when I will get there. Most of the time I’m fairly certain of where I will stop for the night. At any given moment I’m aware of my location, usually within a mile. I’m not proud of this. I’d like to shake the habit of obsessing over where I am on the trail.
The last couple miles of the trail follow a disused roadbed, making for an easy walk for the rest of the day. Along this path, at an unmarked point just two-tenths of a mile before the park, I complete exactly one-half of the AT with no fanfare. At the park, I will celebrate by participating in the infamous half-gallon challenge. Tradition demands that thru-hikers celebrate their half-trail experience by consuming half a gallon of ice cream.
Before hiking, I was a modest, healthy eater. I had eliminated sodas and french fries from my diet. The only candy bars I ever ate were those I would pilfer from my kids’ Halloween spoils. I’d read about the superhuman appetite of thru-hikers and their eating feats: ten candy bars a day, a dozen doughnuts in one sitting, meals on top of meals. I was going to be different. Sure, I’d need to eat more, but I’d try to eat good stuff: protein bars instead of candy bars, fruit and vegetables whenever I could get them. Healthy eating quickly fell by the wayside. A cold soda is my favorite treat. I
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This highlight has been truncated due to consecutive passage length restrictions.
half way eating ritual
“If we were paid to do this, we would have quit by now,” he says. Obviously his joke rests on the fundamental enigma of the trail: why do we voluntarily, happily (mostly), submit ourselves to tribulation? Aside from the spectacular moments, aside from the gratification of working to accomplish a goal, there is ownership. This endeavor is much more endurable because we “own” it. We are here by choice, and we are going about it in the way of our own choosing. My inevitable return to work has crept into my mind, and I mingle my thoughts. In The Snow Leopard, Peter Matthiessen notices that sherpas
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I think of what I am doing on the trail. What have I accomplished? My time on the trail has been fantastic, but there has been no epiphany. I’ve nearly used up my quota of time being Awol. I have to go back to the real world, earn a living, and support a family. I have no insight into how I can return and avoid the doldrums that brought me here.
When I had told one friend, a married woman, about my plans for a four- to five-month. AT thru-hike she said, “Good thing you’re not married to me.”
Backpacking is hard—that’s just the way it is. Obviously conditioning is advantageous, but the perception of disadvantage can be more debilitating than actual disadvantage.
After Goose Eye Mountain, the trail descends to Mahoosuc Notch, a mile-long ravine reputed to be the hardest mile on the Appalachian Trail.
The speckled gray granite contrasts wonderfully with the deep green of the forest. It is a scene exemplary of Maine, the most beautiful state on the trail.
I get a ride into the town of Andover. I stop to eat at the diner. Ken and Marcia have arrived, and we eat dinner together. A wall of the diner is adorned with pictures of hikers who have completed the pancake challenge. If you can eat three pancakes, you get them for free. It doesn’t sound like much of a challenge unless you see the photographs. Each pancake is as big as the plate, and about an inch thick.
All trail towns tempt me to describe them as “quaint,” but Andover seems most deserving of the adjective. The town is centered on the intersection of Main Street and the road on which I arrive. On each side of Main Street there are only a handful of buildings. The largest, a pretty three-story building with white siding, is Andover Guest House.
My hike has made me a believer in trekking poles. They have saved me from a number of falls.
We all perceive that the other guy has it easier than we do; we all assume that others know our inner doubts.
After setting up my tarp, I drag a stone to the area just in front and use it as a seat while I prepare and eat my dinner. I am pleased with having such an ideal solo campsite. I leave the stove running after my meal is prepared and use it to ignite a few pieces of paper trash. Then I supplement the burning paper with twigs and leaves until I have a modest campfire. The sky is darkening and the temperature drops. I feel a chill on my back, but my face, my hands, and my knees are warmed by the fire.
I can see the second summit of this same mountain, which is called Avery Peak. The saddle between the peaks is dense with evergreens. Below, to the west, Flagstaff Lake is expansive and brilliant blue.
Kiwi,
Kiwi is a nimble sixty-one-year-old thru-hiker from New Zealand. He and his hiking partner, Dreamwalker, say their farewells. Kiwi needs to conclude his hike before his six-month visa expires,
Hiker etiquette necessitates vagueness in how you divulge your plans. If you find the new acquaintance disagreeable, you can deviate from your actual plan without effrontery. If you change plans for other reasons, you won’t unintentionally offend hikers you really aren’t trying to avoid.
Hiking in the 100-Mile Wilderness is easier than the hiking in southern Maine, but it is no cakewalk.
I should not treat this journey simply as an agent for change. It is an experience in and of itself.
The amount of elevation gain and loss on the AT is equivalent to climbing up and down Mount Everest sixteen times.
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.
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.
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.
For readers who are not to be deterred, here are the questions that I’ve most often been asked:
section on questions commonly asked
