I flip through the pages of the notebook that I used to plan things for my thru-hike. Lists of clothing to take. Gear to buy. Gear to consider buying. Equations adding up costs.
I have spreadsheets, maps, apps, plan As, and a dozen plan Bs.
Sitting and writing this from my home in Columbia was not what I expected to be doing today. But nothing could have emotionally prepared me for how it would feel to start my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail.
On Sunday, I said goodbye to my home, my dog (Willow), and my partner of 8 years (Matthew) to walk into the woods. As I walked away from the car where Matthew stood and made my way across the train tracks and up Peters Mountain, following the white blazes toward whatever my stopping point would be that night, I sobbed. A small clearing in the trees showed the parking lot to my right, and I saw Matthew waving from the car. I waved back, crying. It felt like my heart was being pulled out of my chest. I walked on, up the switchbacks and across lichen-covered rocks. It was 93 degrees and humid, more typical of mid-July in Pennsylvania than early June. Sweat rolled endlessly down my back and trembled on the tip of my chin. I stumbled on, still crying, alone in the sweltering heat on this first day of the adventure of a lifetime.
Saying goodbye was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
That night, I set up camp, exhausted and not hungry. The anxiety and heartache I had managed to barely keep ahead of while walking hit me again now as I stopped like a ton of bricks. I had spent the past few hours going through emotional ups and downs, with a sense of heartache pervading. The woods had still been beautiful, sparkling green in the pale sunlight. Now, it was dusk. My aloneness was all too plain to me. I listened to the whir of the cicadas building. It is a sound that takes up space in a strange way, sounding near and far away at the same time.
I set up my tent. It trapped the scent of sweat and everything else that we normally can wash away daily inside. The air was heavy with moisture all through the night. Still, I slept soundly.
Maybe you can already see where this is going, or maybe you can't. If the answer is some of both, you will be feeling what I felt those first several days on trail. I saw beautiful things. A toad tucking itself almost invisibly into a bed of leaves and moss. A doe watching, unmoving and serene. A rattlesnake coiled conspicuously on the trail, eyeing the large creature walking an arc around her. The flick and bounce of a white tail swallowed by trees.
I woke up the next day to birds singing, remembering where I was with a mix of wonder and a pang of grief. I walked a few miles that morning, toward nothing in particular, heading north like I knew I should. Within a few hours, though, I was straining to hear a friend's voice through my phone, pulling the cord that was charging it almost out of the wall to get service. I had trekked extra miles down Peters Mountain toward a camp where I grew up and worked years back. Now, mumbling can-you-still-hear-mes in the basement of one of the buildings there, I had to wonder what in the hell I was doing. I had taken the trail down to camp in an almost automatic way, following my gut more than the logic telling me to go north, idiot.
On the phone, my friend listened patiently and offered kind advice. She had thru-hiked years ago. "Call some hostels. See if there are people nearby you can intersect with. I am here to talk whenever you need. Take the day to rest and think. Do what is best for you." I followed her advice and found out there would be a group of three staying at a nearby shelter on the Trail that night. I walked to the camp's lake and dangled my feet off the dock into the cool water.
Hours later, I miraculously got a response to an email I'd sent that same morning from Zach Davis--a big figure in the backpacking community who offers counsel to thru-hikers before, during, and after their journeys--saying he could video call to help me further sort through my next steps (literally and figuratively). By 5:30, I was digitally face-to-face with him and struggling not to cry as I explained the situation.
He was kind and listened well. I apologized for the tears that inevitably steaked my face. It was the third or fourth 90-something degree day in a row. Zach asked the tough questions and let our time run over by 15 minutes. Per his recommendation, I decided to give it another day but not feel ashamed to get off trail to think about it more for a few days if needed. I'd hike up to the shelter where there were supposed to be people staying that night, sleep on it, and reevaluate later.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of someone zippering up their tent. I peeled my 10-degree sleeping bag, which was going to be great in March in the mountains down south where I expected to begin this trip, off my sweaty legs. The stove and water filter inside my pack (aka pillow) pressed into my neck. I turned on my side and stared out of a hole in my tent.
A hole in my tent.
A hole in my tent?
Shit.
I texted Matthew. "If you can get work to let you, can you pick me up at peters mountain road? I'll meet you. Otherwise I'll uber."
Minutes later, he texted me that he was on his way.
I spent that afternoon home alone in the strangeness of air conditioning, traffic sounds outside, and pizza in the fridge. I took out my notebook that had gear lists, gear to buy/consider buying, and equations adding up the totals filling the first few pages. I flipped to a new page. I started writing.
How I feel:
a bit bummed about how I started
a bit bummed not to be on trail
homesick when I think about leaving home again
thankful for time to think things over
OK w/ the fact that I didn't know what to expect from the first days
calmer than yesterday
grateful for friends who care
conflicted about leaving Matthew + Willow again
stuck between a rock and a hard place
uncertain + frustrated
A few lists later ("Things that are normal," "Things I know to be true," "Ideas/options," "Pros of going back," "Cons of going back"), I write a few more notes that feel especially important:
I will have to make sacrifices either way (sacrifices is underlined twice)
not all or nothing - I can do sections
is there more pride wrapped up in this than true desire?
has my value always been wrapped up in what I can achieve?
is there a deeper reason I felt I had to stop hiking?
am I being called to reflect before trying the AT again?
was I afraid of/debilitated by what I was discovering? that this is a way of proving my value to myself?
have I defined myself by this goal too much? by what I can do?
is there ever a right or wrong time/way to hike?
At the end, after hours of writing and thinking, came a new list:
"What have I already learned/how have I already grown from this experience:"
I might not be thru-hiker material (by choice)
maybe my best self lies elsewhere
I really enjoyed the process of storytelling + raising awareness, but not as much picking up and leaving for months on end
I really like having the option to hike w/ people
I get more out of things when I do them w/ people (work, fun, etc.)
I had a really hard time taking the hike one step/day at a time (I had an all or nothing mindset)
it is amazing that I tried this at all
I have decided not to continue my thru-hike, and instead to complete the Appalachian Trail in a series of section hikes. I don't know how long or short these hikes will be, when they will take place, or where. But I know that my passion for the AT and all its beauty hasn't changed at all. If anything, now, as I think about the hikes that I'll get to take on shorter stints, my love for the AT has returned to what it always was. Somewhat inexplicable. Visceral. Essential. Overwhelming.
I am immensely proud of myself for giving this a shot and facing my capital-F Fears, especially during those first few hours after saying goodbye. While I am proud of myself, I'm also thankful for the community of people I have around me that supports me in ways I didn't expect. I am so thankful for and humbled by the kindness of the people in my life.
Know that, in case it is not already obvious (and if it's not, I need to work on my writing and storytelling skills), this was an incredibly difficult decision to make. It was not clear for what felt like a painfully long time what the best decision for me was. I had to do a lot of thinking, talking with not only the people mentioned above but also with Matthew, my family, and other friends before knowing what was right. A passion shouldn't be crammed into a space it doesn't want to fill. No one should feel obligated to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail; it's too difficult, too spiritual, and too amazing a journey to be anything but a choice.
Again, I am thankful for the support of all of you who decided to follow along no matter what I would discover or do. I feel that I have learned as much about myself in the past few days as I have in past years. If you still want to hear my stories as I section hike and support a cause that I still think is crucial to helping more people get outdoors and experience transformations and learning like I just did, keep following along. Keep donating to Outdoor Afro. Keep learning with me and joining me for the journey. I will hike every single mile of the Appalachian Trail, dammit, and I can't wait for the next time I get to take one step closer to that new goal.
Until then, happy trails to you, and be well.
Love,
Anna
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