AWOL on the Appalachian Trail Read online

  I walk in a T-shirt and shorts. The mountaintops are brown with leafless trees, but the valleys are green, and green is spreading uphill. Wildflowers decorate the trail. Just beyond a road crossing, I see a khaki-clad couple fingering plants at the side of the trail: just what I was looking for. “Do you know these wildflowers?”

  First night on the trail.

  “A little.” They’re up for the challenge.

  “What is this?” I say, pointing to a plant draped with rust-colored flowers.

  “Columbine,” they answer in unison.

  “Back a ways I saw a waxy yellow flower with five petals.”

  “Buttercup.” They’re good at this.

  I point to a violet flower at my feet and state, “These are everywhere,” implying another question.

  “Those are violets,” they say with a bit of condescension.

  “What is that umbrella-shaped…”

  “Mayapple,” they answer before I’ve asked.

  Now I’m trying to trip them up. “There is a light blue flower with yellow on the tips of three petals.”

  “Crested dwarf iris” is the answer, with a tone that taunts. “Is that all you got?”

  I tried learning my wildflowers from books. The pictures are sterile and out of context. What I see on the trail is a small percentage of all that exists. Now that I see them, learning is easy and permanent.

  On the way up Blood Mountain, there are many people strolling along without packs. A parking lot is thirty minutes away. Teens in Skechers and jeans give me curious looks. I’m sure when I get out of earshot they ask each other, “Why is that dumbass carrying a backpack?” An old Civilian Conservation Corps stone building on the summit still serves as a shelter. Many people are scattered around the rocky summit, none of them encumbered by a backpack. The smell of marijuana and sounds of a foreign language emanate from the shelter. The building is occupied by a handful of young Europeans in goth attire with more piercings than I can count.

  Blood Mountain Shelter.

  A number of trails radiate from the hut. This is common near landmarks. Most of the trails only go as far as needed to relieve oneself in relative privacy; others lead to views. I guess that the trail going most steeply downward is the AT headed north. More teens are coming up the trail. Seeking confirmation and chancing ridicule, I ask, “Is this the AT?”

  “I dunno,” one replies. “What’s the AT?”

  These interactions have me feeling awkward. The steep, rocky descent makes matters worse. I feel a jolt of pain down the outside of my right knee. I struggle where carefree day hikers buzz up and down this trail that they can’t even identify. One of the drug-addled Europeans passes me, jogging in Doc Martens.

  I desperately want to be off this mountain. I can see the road below, and I’m scanning for the store I know to be there. As I do this, I step on a root and feel my foot turn nearly ninety degrees. I can feel my weight supported by the outside of my foot before I make a stumbling burst forward to right myself. No damage done. I chide myself for what may have happened in that moment of carelessness, but I also take confidence from the incident, noting that my ankle could stand up to the abuse.

  Neels Gap is the first milestone of my thru-hike. The trail passes a store selling gear, food, bunk spaces, and showers. Hikers resupply, rest, or, many times, go home. About one thousand thru-hikers have come through, a low number this late in the year. I share the bunkroom with four other aspiring thru-hikers. Jean had all her food taken by a bear on her first night out. Orone came from Israel to hike the AT. All of them have been here a day or more nursing wounds. All acknowledge that they are unlikely to reach Maine and are rescoping their plans. It dawns on me that I’ve not seen Peter.

  Gear is the topic of conversation. Oohs and aahs are elicited by a sleeping bag that is six ounces lighter than anyone else’s. The outfitter has helped the hiker “Smiling Joe” reduce his pack weight from fifty to thirty-five pounds by selling him twelve hundred dollars worth of new equipment. They covet my thirty-three-pound backpack. I think it weighs too much. I’ve sacrificed to keep the weight down. I carry two cook pots that also serve as bowl and cup. A spoon is my only utensil. Mitch sifts through his pack. He tells us he came to the trail with little advanced planning, and it shows. He has a full spool of parachute cord, a family-size bottle of ibuprofen, and a full-sized tube of toothpaste. Two extra pairs of underwear! I’ve saved myself the hassle of changing out of dirty underwear by not bringing any. I have a child-sized toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste that is only half full. Anyone who has done any amount of preparation knows to shave those ounces.

  At one end of the bunkroom there are two overflowing cardboard boxes containing all sorts of stuff like what we see Mitch tossing from his pack: clothes, packets of oatmeal, fuel bottles, forks, socks, matches, books, Boy Scout kitchenware sets. These are called “hiker boxes,” receptacles of unwanted gear, free for the taking. They are at every hostel along the trail. A hiker could come here with an empty pack and leave completely equipped.

  Mitch keeps a bulky set of syringes, explaining that he is allergic to bee stings, and instructs us on how to inject him if we find him convulsing on the side of the trail. I say, “You better hope we don’t find you napping.”

  Knee pain is commonplace. Mitch, fresh out of college, is laid up due to his knees. This makes me feel less old. Orone describes pain in both knees similar to what I’ve been experiencing.4 It’s agreed that we all dread downhill more than uphill. Orone shares with us the knee preservation pointers he has heard, one of which is to walk backwards when going downhill. The day hikers are going to love seeing me do that.

  I head out alone in the morning. On Cowrock Mountain, the trail breaks from the trees, exposing a grand overlook. I sit for more than an hour writing notes, relishing the experience. I am intrigued by the unknown—not only what lies ahead on the trail, but life beyond and how the journey might make it different.

  Twelve miles into my day I reach Low Gap Shelter but don’t plan on stopping. A hiker is here sleeping, with no sleeping bag, still with his shoes on. As I go about my business of getting water and a snack, I hear him stir.

  “Got any Advil?” are his first groggy words.

  “How many do you need?”

  “Four.”

  I hand him four, and he takes them all with a swig of water. He looks like a seasoned hiker with long hair and a shabby beard, and he introduces himself as Ziggy. “Ziggy” is a trail name, an alias used by the majority of thru-hikers. It fits with the sense of escapism we have out here. While many hikers give themselves a name, some risk being named by other people. There are hikers on the trail named “Mud-butt,” “Slow Poke,” and “Fat Man,” so I’ve preemptively named myself “Awol,” a reference to my job situation.

  Initially I was uncomfortable using a trail name, but I’ve coached myself into this thru-hiker persona. I’m here; I’m going to act like a thru-hiker until I become one. I tell him, “I’m Awol.”

  “Your knees bothering you?” I ask.

  “No, I thru-ed in 2000 and never had any problem with my knees. But I wrecked my ankles. I’m only going as far as Damascus this year.”

  As I hike away from the shelter, the phrase “wrecked my ankles” keeps running through my head. It worries me to see this hiker with an ailment years after his thru-hike. I thought that once my knee toughened up, I’d be waltzing down this trail. Permanent damage was not part of the deal. On cue, my right knee starts acting up again. The trail has turned rocky, and I get a jolt of pain with every uneven step. Over the course of a few miles, my gait slows from an occasional limp down to a crawl, like a car running out of oil. I have to make my leading downhill step with my ailing right leg. Then I can drag my left leg forward no further than my right. It is slow going, and dark concern over the future of my thru-hike creeps back into my thoughts.

  Tents are set up around Blue Mountain Shelter when I arrive after 7:00 p.m. Shelters are spaced non-uniformly
five to fifteen miles apart. Minimally, they have three walls, a roof, and a wood floor that serves as a sleeping platform. Shelters hold six to twelve hikers and at least as many mice.

  To my surprise, Ziggy shows up shortly after I do. Advil worked. In a display of yet another thru-hiker mannerism, Ziggy goes straight for the spiral-bound notebook that serves as a shelter register. He reads an entry in which a hiker warns that mice got into his food bag. Scanning the ridgepole of the shelter, I see a handful of short strings dangling with a short stick tied to the end. These are for hanging food bags. Empty tuna fish cans are tied to the ropes. A hole is poked in the center of the can, and it is suspended between the ceiling and the stick. Ostensibly, the can poses an obstacle to a mouse trying to climb down the rope. Mice don’t give up so easily. They will make running leaps from the rafters and try to latch on. They know a food bag when they see one. The hiker who wrote in the register speculates that the mice of this shelter escaped from a lab where they were used to test performance supplements.

  I’ve built a mental list of hikers ahead of me by reading the registers. Hikers who use prominent signatures or tidbits of artwork to identify themselves stand out the most. “The Cardinal” ends every missive with a sketch of the bird; “Green Turtle” uses a stamp with green ink to imprint a comical turtle; “Wolverine” scratches his signature with multiple strokes, in all caps. The name, and the way it is signed, summons an image of a rugged, macho character, like his namesake in the X-Men movies. From his entry I learn that he stayed here last night.

  The ambition of my early hiking is evident by my catching up to names I’ve read in the registers. I plan to reach Hiawassee tomorrow on my fourth day since finishing the approach trail. It is more typical of hikers to take over a week. It’s unwise of me to be putting in these miles with a sore knee, but I can’t deny taking pride in gaining a day on Wolverine. Hugh Jackman is on the trail, and I’m running him down!

  Another hiker enters the shelter. “Just Art, no trail name.”

  “How far are you going, Art?”

  “As far as I can go,” he says, adding, “It’s been rough,” to explain his tentative answer.

  We share tales of woe, eventually putting Art at ease. We joke about the conversational dance that takes place at this early stage. We’ve been humbled by the trail, and it sounds too bold to say our intent is to thru-hike. We hedge by saying we have our sights set on the next town, or that we are simply “headed north.” We know to give each other wiggle room by asking “Where are you headed?” rather than putting them on the spot with “Are you thru-hiking?”

  Ziggy is cowboy camping (sleeping under the stars) and the others are tenting, leaving me alone in the shelter to fend off the mice. The lead mouse is out before I’m asleep. We make a deal. I show him where my food is hanging and say, “If you can get to it, then have at it. Otherwise, don’t chew through anything that doesn’t have food in it, stay off my face, and don’t shit on my gear.”

  I hope they don’t get my meager rations. Obsessing over pack weight, I’ve carried just enough food for breakfast and a midday snack. I go to sleep hungry and cold. Hiawassee is eighteen miles away.

  I’m talking to my wife on the phone. We’re making plans to meet for lunch, as we might do during our workdays. I suggest we make it somewhere where we can get pizza. Then I wake up. The realization that this plan won’t happen is depressing. It won’t happen today; it won’t even be next week. When I tell Juli of this dream, I’ll take care to attribute a greater share of my disappointment to not seeing her than not eating pizza.

  It takes me an hour and twenty minutes to get on the trail. I have to take a long walk to get water, cook breakfast, and pack. Everything takes a long time. There are six straps to adjust and two buckles to snap every time I put on my pack. My backpack has a single large compartment that loads from the top, so when I want something I have to unload until I find what I’m after.

  Fog burns away by the time I reach the peak of Tray Mountain. On this clear day I look north toward the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I know the Smokies will be a challenge. The highest point on the trail is Clingmans Dome in the middle of the park. Then, it’s downhill to Virginia, and people have told me Virginia is a cakewalk. I’ll learn soon enough that “easy” trail beyond the Smoky Mountains is as much a fantasy as my dream lunch with pizza…uh, I mean Juli, but for now I’ve convinced myself all will be well once I get through the Smokies.

  I leave Tray Mountain Shelter at 1:00 with ten miles to go. I’ve eaten the remainder of my food. I’ve been hiking roughly two miles per hour. Downhill is slower due to my sore knee. I need to get to Hiawassee by 6:00 p.m., the check-in deadline at Blueberry Patch Hostel, where my mail drop is waiting.5 I have little margin, so I decide to push for a while. I down a couple of Advil and “open it up” for the first time this trip. In the next hour I cover 3.5 miles. Another 1.5 miles and I am out of water, since I skipped all the side trails leading to streams. Five miles to go, and I’m running out of steam. Half the strands of muscle in my legs have taken the rest of the day off, leaving the other half to do all the work. My throat is dry. Less than a mile to go, a widening stream parallels the trail. It is nearing 6:00, but I can handle the thirst no longer. There is a five-foot drop down an embankment to the stream. Hurriedly I drop my pack and camera case, which I have clipped over the belt of my pack. The camera starts rolling down the embankment, headed for the stream. I lunge for it and miss. It stops on its own in the nook of a tree root.

  I have to be more careful. I’m already paranoid about losing or breaking gear. Every time I resume hiking after a rest, I stop a few steps down the trail and look back for anything I may have left behind. There’s nothing in my pack that I don’t need.

  Finally, I’m at the road leading to Hiawassee, with ten minutes to spare. Only a few cars pass before I have a ride. My first hitch: no problem. As it turns out, the Blueberry Patch is closed for the night anyway. The owners are sick. Fortunately my ride waited and took me eight more miles to the center of Hiawassee. I stay at Holiday Inn Express, a huge contrast to the rest of my day.

  I shower and walk across the street to Dan’s All-You-Can-Eat Buffet. AYCE: the thru-hiker’s favorite acronym. I anticipate meeting other thru-hikers. A young man and woman making their first pass at the food bar look like they might be hikers. The man is no bigger than the woman, and his hiking boots look too big for his spindly legs. I stop by their table on one of my many trips to the buffet. “Are you on the trail?” I ask.

  “I’m Wolverine, and this is…” Her name fails to register because I’m thinking to myself, “You’re Wolverine? The macho man I’ve been (unilaterally) competing against is just a kid?” Then I notice the hat. It’s blue with a maize M, the hat of the Michigan Wolverines.

  I had written my journal entries and e-mailed them home before dinner; now I call home knowing Juli will have read them. Juli edits my daily journal entries before posting them on the Internet.6 On the phone, we speak about my entries, her reaction to them, and parts she would like to clarify. After we review the entries, Juli asks, “How’s your knee?”

  “Okay, I guess,” I answer, trying to find the right words to describe my outlook. “It’s not worse. It only hurts part of the time.”

  “Gary called, and he has already seen your first two journal entries. He saw what you wrote about your knee. He wants to make sure you are okay; he has to turn in your notice on Monday.” Gary, my immediate supervisor, has gone out on a limb for me, allowing me to use the week of vacation time that I had remaining during the start of my hike. That gave me an opportunity to return to work within the first week if I changed my mind or got injured. I could go back, and it would be as if I just took a few days off. My vacation days have run out. Come Monday, Gary will have to turn in my letter of resignation to our human resources department.

  “Should I tell Gary you are not coming back?”

  “Yes.”

  2

  H
iawassee to Fontana Dam

  I wake up with a sore left thigh, probably because my left leg has been compensating for my sore right knee. In no hurry to get going, I lounge around the room picking through my gear and mail drop. I’ve concluded I don’t need maps, and my seven-ounce guidebook weighs too damn much. I cut the pages from the binding, divide them into four sections, and mail three of the sections home to be mailed back as I need them.

  Hiawassee is a compact and attractive town. It’s an easy walk to the library and post office. I hitch a ride from Paul, a college student at Young Harris, who turns his car back toward town after dropping me off. He drove ten miles out here just to help me. I don’t get on the trail until 12:20 p.m. Because of my ailments, I will take an extra day to reach my next planned stop, the Nantahala Outdoor Center, but an extra day of food is heavy and takes up all of my pack space. It’s a catch-22; going slower means struggling with more weight.

  The trail climbs from the road, as it always does, and rises steadily to the Georgia/North Carolina border. A twisted, sprawling tree has a simple wood sign reading “GA/NC.” One state behind me, thirteen to go. Normally, this would be a cause for celebration, but it is starting to rain. I continue, hardly breaking stride.

  I wonder how they will write my obituary as I walk in the lightning and rain on this ridge. How will they find me? With my shoes blown off in the woods? These are some of the less wonderful thoughts I’ve had walking the AT. I thought I was near the top at the border, but the trail kept going up. The trail and my hopes play tricks on me. I want to believe that I see the top just ahead. The trail leads up the highest mound in sight. When I get there, the trail makes a turn, ever so slight, and reveals more uphill path, even steeper than before. I slip on slimy, muddy rocks. I lean forward and grab rocks, tree branches, tree roots, anything to maintain my uphill progress. The trail levels out, even dips downward, but then goes back up. I’m angered by the brief reprieve. It’s not worth the gumption lost on false hope. I want it to just go up until I get “there.” I don’t even know where “there” is. “There” is a nameless peak somewhere on this trail that I will reach and then head reliably downhill for as long as I’ve spent climbing up. Never mind that I’ll just start the process over again. Hey, what if the trail was just level for a while? There’s a novel idea. This has been the most difficult, disheartening climb so far.