Appalachian trial.
The world is a very simple place for thru-hikers of the Appalachian Trail. Each day there is just one task: walk north. (Or south, for those of that persuasion.) There are few supporting tasks necessary — eating, obtaining water, finding a patch of dirt to sleep on each night — and they’re pretty trivial. The physical geography of the world narrows to a single dimension, a line with neither width nor height, stretching 2,170 miles from Georgia to Maine.
Entering the world of the AT seems a bit like entering Harry Potter’s non-muggle world. There are a few Platform 9 3/4s where access is possible, including Springer Mountain, Mt. Katahdin, and perhaps spots like Harper’s Ferry or Damascus. It’s easy to forget that the trail weaves along the entirety of the eastern seaboard, dodging towns, paralleling highways, existing within close proximity to thousands of homes, businesses, and people. Trail maps only show roads if they’re crossed by the AT. Guidebooks only mention towns if they’re close to the trail and sell a few groceries.
Living on the east coast, I occasionally have the experience of encountering the trail from my car. I’ll be hurtling down a highway at 65mph and then — wham — I’m smacked in the brain with the realization that I’ve been here, only traveling perpendicular and at something closer to 3mph. And then it’s gone, my three-second glimpse of Hogwarts reduced to a memory.
It was in this regard that spending the past weekend at Trail Days was a little mind-blowing. Wearing regular clothes, bearing no frame pack, I got in my car and drove 4.5 hours south on 81, got off on 91 south, and emerged at the post office in downtown Damascus. I had driven to the Appalachian Trail—I’d discovered a portal. Not just a portal to the physical trail, but to the culture. I spent three days with old and new friends, 2006 thru-hikers and my ‘96 brethren. We talked about gear, reminisced about miles gone by and plotted how we’d escape “the real world” to reconnect to the magic of the trail.
Hiking at the age of 17 meant that my first experience on my own in life was hiking the AT. Cooking for myself meant lighting a fire and putting on a pot. Owning possessions meant having to carry them, so acquiring something new meant jettisoning something old. Work meant writing a blog entry for each day’s hike. I had to become entirely self-sufficient.
After breaking my feet (eight times), I shut off the AT from my life. I put away most of my books. My trail journals and photographs were packed up. I haven’t been able to bear doing anything with my trail journals. I unsubscribed from the Appalachian Trail Mailing List. I didn’t go to Trail Days, ALDHA Gatherings, or the Pine Grove Ruck. In retrospect, I think I did so because I had to. With permanently broken feet, backpacking isn’t possible for me. And yet I learned that formative six-month less that backpacking is what my life is, or ought to be. So rather than tantalize myself, I’ve denied myself access to that part of my life.
I’m not sure I can do it anymore. Trail Days reminded me how much I am a backpacker. I don’t love backpacking any more than, say, Catholics love Catholicism; I am backpacking. It’s not genetic — it’s learned, as I learned it ten years ago.
So I’m going to get my feet fixed. I’m going to clean up my gear. I’m going to finish that 76 mile section from Port Clinton to Delaware Water Gap. There is no inner peace in my asceticism. It’s time to stop pretending otherwise.
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