Leanna Joyner is a 2003 A.T. thru-hiker; she blogs at SHADOW OF THE MOON.
After walking 1,600 miles, and with fewer than 500 to reach the trail’s northern terminus in Baxter State Park, in Maine, I have gained perspective on what this hike is and how it’s starting to impact me. Not everything is transformative, but the act of this long walk makes simple things grand.
For one thing, I am more humble. When I walked the trail in Georgia and Tennessee telling
people that I was hiking to Maine, I was filled with exuberance and anticipation. Now, when I tell people I walked here, to Hanover, and am almost to Maine, they are the ones filled with enthusiasm for my journey. My perspective has changed, I suppose. To me, I’m just hiking. It’s a way of life, and feels less novel than it was 1,000 miles ago.
It may feel less novel to hike, but the Trail itself is no less impressive. I still catch my breath at amazing vistas, count blessings with the breaking light of chilling sunrises, and am continually filled up by the beautiful actions of my fellow man. Actually, with our entrance into Vermont, I felt like I was walking through new forests. Ones like I hadn’t experienced yet.
For instance, as I hiked off Killington Mountain the other day the forest floor was absolutely covered in clovers. Who would have thought that I would see more clovers that I’ve seen in my entire life in Vermont? Beyond that wilderment, a mile further on the same mountain, I walked into a birch forest with tall, beautiful, pale trees spread far from one another with a carpet of ferns beneath. I pass by so many things like this each day.
Because I walk in this majesty daily, I sometimes forget to look at the beauty. Sometimes I wind up in my own thoughts. Sometimes, I’m tired and thinking only of pitching my tent. Sometimes, I just look at my feet and place one foot in front of the other. But, if I’m in the right frame of mind, each step is a blessing, each overlook miraculous, each bird, frog, fungi, flower, something unique and unseen to everyone but me. Which brings me back to a thought I had back in Virginia, that we’ve got the power of perspective in everything that we do, even in our daily lives. It’s seeking these gems out and loving them while we’ve got them – however long it lasts.
So, by now you’re probably thinking what a loony bird I’ve become on the trail. Perhaps I have.
Perhaps I have the right to be, because so much here is monumental. We play hard, hiking anywhere from 15 to 20 miles per day. We eat big, often one or two breakfasts, several snacks, lunch, and a dinner or two; town food is consumed even more feverishly. We climb mountains. We summit the highest peaks in a given state. We cross the peaks of smaller mountains, relatively speaking, honored just as reverently with words, lights, or structures. Maybe that begins to explain how I can say such things.
Then there’s the other side to this experience. The truth is that things can become very routine and even stale out here. Sometimes I think, “why on earth would I want to see another tree” or “ugh, hiking again.”
My body is an alarm clock lately. Generally, I’m awake at 6:15, unable to sleep a wink longer. By 6:30 I’ve stuffed my sleeping bag and rolled my mat, trying, quietly, to reassemble my pack. I eat breakfast – generally granola and powdered milk, or in cold weather, oatmeal.
By 7:30 or so, I’m ready to hit the trail. I saddle my pack knowing, most days, at least, where I’ll stop for water, for lunch, and for sleep. Sometimes I’ll begin my hike by looking at the maps – to get an idea of what kind of elevation gain or loss I’ll have in the day. But, generally, I prefer not to know. Either way I’ve got to take what comes at me, and foresight doesn’t exactly make me stronger.
After a couple hours of hiking I’ve covered maybe 4 or 5 miles and am ready for an early morning snack. Generally I take this by water or a nice shady spot along the way. Lunch is taken with a similar approach. By now in my day, I’ve covered the majority of miles that I intend to hike (well, at least over half) and can begin to relax about the rest of the afternoon.
I’ve discovered that I’m a thoughtful morning hiker and appreciate time spent hiking solo to ruminate in my own ideas and feelings.
In the afternoons, I really enjoy company as I walk. Talking with friends sure does make the time go faster.
Now that the sun is setting earlier, I aim to be in camp by 7 p.m. because it leaves me with enough time to get water, eat dinner, set up my tent, journal (if I’m feeling up to it), and read a bit of my book. We consider midnight to be 10:00. It’s super rare if we are ever up beyond that time.
There are times when the weather, rather than time, dictates my schedule. During a period of time in Virginia it rained each night and continued into the morning. This meant I was compelled to sleep in and wait out the rain before getting up and breaking camp. Later, as we moved north in Virginia, it would rain each afternoon between 3:30 and 4:30. This meant I had to hustle to make it to camp before the storm. Most recently, in Massachusetts, we were getting a lot of rain and it just generally slowed us down, diminishing our miles to 6 or 8 a day.
It’s been an unusually wet year for thru-hikers. Throughout most of Virginia it rained; even up here
in New England they’re reporting higher than average rainfall for recent weeks. Each year situations and
circumstances change; challenges evolve. Some years it is bothersome heat and dry water sources. Not the case for us! We’ve had gushing water sources along with muddy, slick trails, and frequent downed trees to hurdle. It’s made the journey a bit more difficult but not all together unbearable.
My most difficult time on the trail was just before entering the Shenandoah National Park. My sister and her family came to visit.
Family
We had a lovely time, stayed in a hotel, ran some errands, and even did some day hiking – all in the sunshine. The following day, on return to the trail, it started to rain again.
The idea of going out in the rain like an animal as my family drove off in their nice, warm car to their home broke my spirit. They supportively watched me stuff my pack, laden with excess food, and hike off teary-eyed. I sobbed heavily as a ascended the ridge from the Tye River. I cried so hard that I had to settle myself down so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. I didn’t make the ten miles I had planned. Instead, I hiked three.
The following day, to compensate, I hiked my first 22-mile day in a never-ending fog with drizzle and rain.
The first day out of town sucked. It’s always tough because you’re leaving creature comforts and carrying a heavier pack filled with food, but the second day makes you stronger.
Gosh, there are so many other things that I want to tell you about. I wish I could give you descriptions of some of the people I’ve met. They have made the last 700 miles more amazing than the first thousand. I guess I allowed myself to start opening up to people, too. After you’ve gone through the same experiences as these other folks, there’s common ground and an inexplicable level of trust.
Will Tell Stories for Stay
All of the sudden, you’re hearing stories that are probably so personal and dear to these individuals that they haven’t told everyone in their families or friends. And, they’re crying, fearlessly, in front of you. You get to be a kid again, laughing at silly things, like chaffing we call monkey-butt, jokes about the privy (out-house), or attempts to fly a kite from a canoe (we tried and failed…but what a wonderful vision of optimism).
There is so much to experience –swimming, karaoke, blues bands, birthday parties on mountaintops, poetry recitation sessions, strangers, hitchhiking, and kind neighbors of the trail that also never cease to amaze me.
Waiting For a Ride in Hanover
For instance, just two days ago, Morph and I stopped at VT route 12 to get water from a farmer’s spigot. He greeted us, told us to help ourselves to the outdoor shower, and if we’d like to stay the night in the barn to make ourselves at home. We were just stopping for lunch, and we explained as much. But, during lunch, Morph and I were overcome with the urge to be farmers for the day.
We pitched “the plan” for the day out the window, and proclaimed that we were his farm hands for the day. Morph helped our host install an electric fence, and I got to mow with what seemed like a sonic speed John Deer while he and Morph directed the steer in to the pin. It was definitely a unique experience. And just to hit home, that this time off the physical trail was part of the overall trail experience, while I was mowing, I drove over, thereby exposing, a Geological Survey Marker of the Appalachian Trail which we are accustomed to seeing along the way but never see outside of the mountains. This was a reminder for me, that everything I do, every encounter I have in town, at hostels, or on the trail is a part of this journey. Then our host Dan Quinn invited us for dinner, which was a totally unexpected surprise. We had made fast friends with this former stranger who offered us a morning pot of coffee before we embarked northward.
So, I’ll close with letting you know that this is just a glimpse of all the things I’ve seen and the experiences I’ve had. I look forward to telling you more and sharing more along the way.
This is her Aug. 23, 2003 entry from Hanover, New Hampshire. It has been edited for clarity.