It’s April 1, and Church Mouse and I have been on trail for 32 days. Currently, I’m sprawled out on my hotel bed watching the lightning strike outside. We hiked under a tornado warning into Erwin, Tennessee, yesterday. Our weekly zero is today: We hiked in stinking, sore, out of food, and very ready for a day of rest. Last night, Stealth and Blues Clues crowded into our room, and we ordered four Dominos pizzas that we spread out on the ground and devoured.
It’s weird to say it out loud: I’ve been hiking for one month.
One month I’ve been wandering through the woods, following a single file dirt path across the mountainside. One month with everything I need on my back. One month away from friends and family, spending every night in a new place, pushing the limits of what I can do and what is normal.
Since February 28, we:
- Hiked 344 miles across three states: Georgia, North Carolina, and Tennessee
- Got trail names: Sparks and Church Mouse
- Hiked the tallest mountain on the trail, Clingsman Dome, on rivers of ice
- Experienced trail magic
- Survived thunderstorms, ice storms, rain storms, and more
- Made some pretty amazing friends
I’ve learned a couple lessons this first month.
Hiking is not always glorious thoughts thunk in beautiful places.
As a writer, I romanticized thru-hiking a bit. I would get into nature and find my ability to write again. I would feel creative again. Words would come bubbling to the surface, I would scoop them up, arrange them with ease. I would structure beautiful sentences like Scott Russell Sanders, I would influence like John Muir, I would describe nature like Mary Oliver.
One month in, and it does feel like my creativity is slowly coming back. After overstretching myself in college, my body and brain needed this time to disengage and reset.
But walking in the woods does not guarantee Henry David Thoreau-esque words to come tumbling from my fingers.
Sometimes they are stupid thoughts thunk in ugly places. Sometimes there are no thoughts, just a brain quiet and shut off as miles slowly tick by under your feet. Sometimes they are painful thoughts, intrusive thoughts, anxious thoughts. Sometimes there is no space for thoughts because you are counting out a rhythm for your feet and breath to follow. Sometimes it is repeating over and over and over, I will not stop I will not stop I will not stop I will not stop, also to a rhythm because the shelter is still three miles away and the feet must keep moving.
Mountain legs come on their own time.
The first month is always a period of waiting for those mountain legs to come. Unless you’ve actively been hiking mountains day in and day out, it’s hard to find the endurance and strength to hike long days back to back. Inclines feel impossible and leave you sore and gasping for air. Others behind you pass you by and you sprawl out on the ground thinking: When do I get to be strong too?
These mountain legs don’t come when you want them to. They come only after you’ve put in the hard work day after day, climbing mountain after mountain. They come in different ways and times for each person, but in each case, they are a product of you not giving up.
Don’t be sarcastic when you’re out of breath.
Saying anything when you’re out of breath is sketchy. Short words and phrases gasped out between breaths just sounds angry, not sarcastic or as a joke. People will take it the wrong way. Trust me.
I miss my people exactly as much as I thought I would.
When asked before my trip what I’d miss most, I replied with “my people.” It’s not really what people were expecting me to say. They meant more of, a hot shower, fresh food, clean clothes, or something like that. (Off of that list, I’d choose fresh food; currently I’d hike a 20 if it meant I’d get a plate full of fresh veggies and a pot of Mac and Cheese at the end.)
Text messages and phone calls at the sporadic times when I have service and battery to spare just really isn’t enough. I miss seeing my friends’ faces, hearing my sisters laughing, joking with my coworkers.
I miss the people I do life with.
Embrace your weird.
Seriously. It’s quite fun. After all, who doesn’t want to run across lodge sidewalks, holding up their rain fly like a cape, and shrieking, “superhero!” as they try to dry it out after a rain? Life is short, the trail is shorter. Laugh a lot, be weird, and find people who unashamedly cheer your weirdness on and laugh with you (lookin’ at you, Blues Clues).
You can only experience the trail for yourself.
Hiking together with someone, this is one of the hardest things there is to learn. Church Mouse and I are pretty opposite. I love rock scrambles, early mornings, and ice mushrooms. Church Mouse likes sleeping in, flowers, and switchbacks. I scream at the top of mountains, she quietly drinks in the view. I get “antsy feet” that are always anxious to move, she is steady through the entire day.
Days that are great for me are not always great for her. Our experiences of the day is not always going to be the same. My favorite spots and places are not always going to be loved by her. Her favorite places sometimes are places I’ve cruised right through. But we both get to camp at night, each having experienced our own type of day, and we both get to sit in each other’s company and encourage each other the best we can.
Love people fully.
You never know when you’ll see them again or if you ever will. Don’t hold back in the moment. Find a way to unashamedly love them, support then, and encourage them as fully as you can in the moments that you have.
It may be telling someone, “you can do it, I believe in you!” because they need to hear it on an incline. It may be chatting with them around a campfire. It may be getting water for them or hanging their bear bag on the cables.
Whatever it may be, be intentional. Be sincere. Look for ways to love people deeply and fully, knowing you may never get the chance to do so again.
It’s not about your weight or your gear, it’s about your attitude and your determination.
The Appalachian Trail does not play easy. In the first month especially, she quickly weeds out who actually wants to be there and who doesn’t.
For good reason, hikers put a lot of emphasis on their gear and how much weight they’re carrying. However, some times they put a little too much emphasis on it. Because I have this Hyperlite backpack, I will finish the trail, they think.
I’m sorry to say, the backpack does not do the hiking for you. I’ve already seen a couple people with ultralight gear walk off, completely done with the trail.
It’s not about your gear. It’s not about how much you’re carrying. It’s about you.
Find small ways to be lazy.
Eating oatmeal out of the package. Getting squeeze peanut butter. Drinking hot chocolate straight from the pot.
The trail is hard. Daily life is hard. But finding little ways to make your day easier goes a long way and gives you more time and energy to focus on the things you actually want to do for the day.
Set little goals.
This past week was a beast of a week. We hiked more miles than we’ve ever hiked before: 18, 14, 20, 17, 15, 17. Starting off the day thinking, I have 20 miles to go before I can stop is overwhelming. Thinking I have five miles until I can take a short break by a cute stream is not.
No pain, no rain, no Maine.
“If it’s easy, something is wrong,” Stealth told me. We were ahead of Church Mouse and Blues Clues making the final descent into Erwin, hoping we were getting to the hostel in time to get a spot for the four of us. (We were not.)
He was saying it about the trail, but also about life. Things are not supposed to be easy, not if you want to improve. Not if you want to see what you are capable of, not if you want to be the best version of yourself.
You cannot expect to achieve hard things without sacrifice. You cannot expect accomplishment without putting in the work. You cannot hike to Katahdin without walking through the rain.
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