What to do after the Appalachian Trail? “Strike Iron!”

It’s no secret that after completing a long distance hike on the Appalachian Trail depression can set in.  There’s no shame it that, either!  “Coming down” from any extreme endeavor is to be expected, and you need to give yourself time to do it.

But what to do, and how long to take a break, and what then?

My own backpacking summer on the AT ended at Pinkham Notch at the foot of Mount Washington in New Hampshire’s White Mountains.

I had been backpacking alone from late August until mid-September, and for the most part the thru-hiking crew had fled for home.  In an effort to extend my journey I flip-flopped to Katahdin and headed south.  Even the few I was hiking with at the time gradually faded away.  Some were bored or homesick.  Others had obligations take them off-trail.  Me?  I had nothing to prevent me from sojourning into the autumn, so I continued alone.

Not surprisingly, by mid-September the days were feeling way too short, and human company rare.  I was feeling out-of-place, alone.  To add to that bleak turn of events word came of an impending late summer hurricane bearing down upon New England with a bead on the White Mountains.  So, though the lure and spell of the White Mountains had called to me, a bout of norovirus put the nail in the plans I had made.

I called a friend and found myself quickly swept down to Boston, hopping a plane just in time to avoid the hurricane and land in North Carolina.  Being “home” did not feel like home at all.  I felt like I had landed on a distant moon!  Another friend gave me room and board for a month, for which I was thankful.  But all too soon moodiness set in, then things got dicey as I became irritable and argumentative.

One afternoon my friend sat me down and commenced to preach to me the “here’s what to do next with the rest of your life” sermon.  It did not sit well.

Before I realized it, I fell into a vortex of action combined with a series of what almost felt like knee-jerk responses.  I told my friend farewell on short notice, packed my few possessions into my old Dodge, and ditched North Carolina completely.

I drove north, landing at the hiker hostel in Pearisburg, Virginia.  I needed time to think, to consider options.  I also needed a “touch” of the hiker community.

Turns out the hostel had a few day hikers drop by, along with a guy who wasn’t sure just what he was going to do next.  We commiserated and traded ideas.  I wasn’t sure just what the “right” decision was, but one thing I did know.  For the first time in my young life I knew I needed to “strike iron.”  I needed, in other words, to act.  To make a move.  Not recklessly, mind you, but with enough consideration of what my heart was telling me to keep me heading toward something as joyously risky and bold as hiking the trail itself had been.

For me, that was moving to Boston, Massachusetts.  To find a job.  To settle down.

Years before, while in the Navy, I had spent a year in the shipyards in Charlestown while our ship was being refitted.  We were docked right next to the USS Constitution, which itself was undergoing dry dock overhaul.  I fell in love with Boston; a city which combined culture and great people, wonderful attractions and places to dine, along with a weave of natural wonder.  Boston was a city of walkers, studded with parks and trees.  It felt like a combination of some place wild with civilization, but without the concrete sterility that one might find in Manhattan.  I knew that if I were ever to consider living and working in any major metropolitan city it would be Boston.  So when it came time to “strike iron” I knew I had to go there.

Transitioning there was more challenging than hiking the AT.  Finding work, looking for living space — all that and more challenged me in ways that required I cope differently than I had when on the trail.  But, after about a year of turmoil and toil I found my feet.

I think “striking iron” was a way for me to convert the self-reliance, bold action, and personal power into fulfilling what once seemed like an unlikely dream.

Looking back, had I not acted; had I fallen into uncertainty and discouragement, or succumbed to depression, I might have never made the move to Boston.  I would have “settled for,” though I’m not sure what that might have been.  I do know that I would have been miserable, unhappy and unfulfilled.

So, while I do not recommend reckless action; I do suggest giving yourself space and time to consider further bold options and perhaps dive into one.  It beats stagnation.  It’s healthier than getting depressed.  And it may be the wild seed of a fresh, vibrant dream which will transform the next stage of your life.

For the Appalachian Trail hiker: a great choice!

In my never-ending quest to find the best gear for any situation, I thought it would be fun to try the Leatherman Squirt PS4 and see if such a small multi-tool would be adequate for EDC. By small, I don’t mean compact. This Leatherman is seriously tiny. It’s only 2.25 inches long when closed but […]

via Leatherman Squirt PS4 —

What Backpacking the Appalachian Trail Taught Me About Thanksgiving

Let’s get one thing straight; I was thankful before I set out the backpack the Appalachian Trail. But I was even more thankful after I finished the trip. Here are some way my perspective and appreciation changed as a result of the trip.

Going to the tap for a drink of water. We get the refreshment with a clean glass and simple twist of the tap. On the AT I once had to walk two miles to get water from a spring, and then freight two gallon water bags — one in each hand — back to camp. Uphill. In August heat!

I seldom fall walking up and down hills in the neighborhood. On the trail I fell many times, sometimes more than once or twice a day. Footway could be slick with ice or rain, plus falling with a heavy backpack hurts much more than when unencumbered. Once a fall on a rain-slicked log in Maine found my forehead slamming down face-first into it.

A spritz from an insect repellent or taking shelter indoors dispels the worry of mosquitoes. On the Appalachian Trail misery often dogged my steps and disrupted my sleep as hordes of the winged insect invaders sucked my blood and nearly maddened me with their incessant buzzing.

Air-conditioning gives blessed relief in mid-summer swelter. On the trail it’s often necessary to stoically press on beneath a blazing sun under a heavy pack while wilting in oppressive heat.

I could go on, but you get the idea. The trail is filled with fun and adventure. But it’s also filled with hard times and weary days. The upside, especially on reflection, is in knowing just how blessed I was to have the time and privilege to hike the trail, and to more deeply appreciate the common graces and conveniences of our day-to-day “real world.”

I think back on those times and feel deeply thankful. That has carried over into my life ever since, and I spend time especially at this season of the year counting the blessings I have received — and still enjoy. So, whether your Thanksgiving finds you alone, at a sumptuous feast among friends, or on a lonesome trail, remember: there is always reason to give thanks — and what you appreciate appreciates in value.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Creating A Backpacker’s Journal — Because You’ll Surely Forget!

Photo courtesy Ray Dumas @ Flickr

In the fall of 1985, after a summer backpacking the Appalachian Trail, I spent extensive time at a donut shop north of Boston. I know, there’s no worse way to sabotage a svelte hiker waistline than keeping company with chocolate croissants and dark roast coffee.  But I wasn’t there for an insatiable sugar binge.  I was there to write (OK, I did have some coffee).

I was there to copy what I had journaled that summer from one notebook into another.  I knew the fuzzing of memory over time would dim the the events of those rare days.  The photos I’d taken could never express my feelings, and some entries were so sparse they barely described what happened.  To prevent the potential fraying of my recall over time from robbing me of a record of that hiking season, it was vital I transcribe and clarify my brief journal.

First I reviewed the original material and jotted notes on entries which required expansion.  I corrected misremembered points. I expounded on moments which had deep meaning. I used a fresh corps of words to conjure a picture which featured adventure and exhaustion, frustration and elation, sadness and loneliness.  I penciled in what I felt and thought, all my regrets, misgivings, and moments when endorphins had me feeling I might take wing from the glorious summits I scaled.

I recorded it all: the pain and pleasure, the wrong turns and risks taken.  I apprised the me I had then and since become, capturing in a net of ink and paper a person who, though different today, still lives.  My journal became a lesson book that still reflects the vibrant risk taker I had become.  Each time I read it, I feel I’ve come home.  No video, photo, or electronic blog post can take me back to the intimacy, power and precious story of those days like my handwritten journal.

Thus I would admonish you, my friendly reader; though you blog and video and snap the shutter, nothing will make your hiking memory become a valued legacy like taking pen to paper to document the details.  Do it soon.  Because — over time — you’ll surely forget!

An Appalachian Trail Backpacker’s Code

Photo courtesy Jim Dollar @ Flickr

Daniel Wood left journals from hikes he had taken. Among those pages I discovered this document. I testify it was written by him. He requested whoever discovered it would post it online for all Appalachian Trail hikers and backpackers.

A Backpacker’s Code

I realize that choosing to hike this trail is a fulfilling, but serious endeavor. In setting foot here, I choose to be responsible not just for myself, but for those I meet on the trail. While I may never find myself in such a situation, I owe it to myself and others to hike responsibly and stand ready to help another backpacker should the situation arise.

I realize that I am to be responsible to myself first, and self-reliant to the extent of my backpacking and camping skills. If I do not have the basic skills of the art I will seek out seminars and workshops where I can learn how to hike and backpack properly. I will not simply stuff and shoulder a pack and lumber into the unknown.

I realize that the trail is a much-loved but much used space, and that I am a steward of it when I hike it, as well as before and afterward. I will not litter. I will not leave trash in fire pits. I will sweep clean all shelters I use, before and after. I will leave things better than I found them. I will respect trees and not engage in cutting or harvesting living trees for firewood.

Though celebration of the journey with others hikers is a wonderful part of the hiking experience, I realize the AT is not “party central.” Reckless behavior, selfishness, drunkenness, and drug use are not part of the trail. I will be mindful of how I would feel if I came across a hiker in distress on the trail and wasn’t ready or able to help them out because of my own incapacity. It is irresponsible and foolish. A clear head on the trail at all times shows good judgement and shows me to be a mature, experienced backpacker who is able to care for others along the way. As a result I will find greater enjoyment and respect on the trail.

As a long distance hiker I know where I am going. I don’t simply show up at a trailhead expecting to wander like an aimless nomad. I know the trial, how long it is, what rules and regulations (federal, state, and local) are to be followed. I study maps and guides. I know the terrain I will encounter and the weather concerns. I am ready to deal with snow, ice, blistering heat. I know what risks are genuine as well as the dangers (e.g., it is not bears and snakes). I understand the meaning of the word hypothermia and recognize if I were about to fall victim to this killer.

Photo courtesy Nicholas A. Tonelli @ Flickr

I know that the trail is more overcrowded than ever. My trip will factor in this knowledge and, if needed, I will choose an alternate route for my hike, or a different season. I will avoid hiking with a large group, which takes a toll on the trail and results in packed campsites and shelters. I will not camp on land or in areas where laws forbid. I will especially avoid stealth camping in ecologically sensitive areas.

I will practice rigorous hygiene as much as possible, realizing that outbreaks of gastrointestinal diseases or norovirus spoil the journey for everyone. I will wash my hands often and keep my cooking gear clean and dry. I will carry and use hand sanitizer. I will use proper sanitation methods for my private toilet.

Before I leave home I will make sure I have the proper gear and know how to use it. I will know how to use a map and compass and will not rely on a cell phone or GPS while on the trail. I will not cavalierly place myself in dangerous circumstances which might require my rescue and put first responders at risk.

Photo courtesy Ben Townsend @ Flickr

I realize that when I take on the choice to hike the trail I immediately become an ambassador and trail steward. Other backpackers, hiker, day-hikers, and the general public I meed will judge not just myself but the entire hiking community by my example.

I realize, lastly, that in passing along the trail I leave a legacy of behavior and reputation. Townsfolk and hostel owners will remember most the hiker and backpackers who were best behaved. I know that my stay at a hotel, motel, campsite or hostel will determine whether or not hikers behind me are welcomed or sent packing. I will be on my best behavior at all times.

Trail Call

Snowfall turn snowmelt

Turn undulating earth abounding green.

Waking land escapes the winter sleep

And the voice of earth unfolds

And calls souls who hear it.

Hands reach for boots, tie laces.

Inventories and gear and maps

Result in pack shouldered and courses set.

The trailhead is an embrace,

A unique comfort,

Welcoming the footfalls that are put there.

Moving into the green,

Folded into forest,

Sanctified by mountains.

Home at last!

The Greatest Hiking Risk: Hypothermia

I once did a random, unscientific survey. I asked day hikers, backpackers, and visitors along the Appalachian Trail what they considered the greatest hiking risk. Instantaneous responses were rapid and predictable: bears, snakes, and strangers topped the list of what most thought were the greatest hiking risk. This was true even among some experienced trekkers. Yet the greatest hiking risk for people recreating in the outdoors is hypothermia – an answer that surprises many. Some are not even aware of the condition, which can arise without warning and quickly turn an outing into an ordeal.

My experience with hypothermia came during a long distance hike on the Appalachian Trail in the mountains of Maine in the magnificent, rugged Barren-Chairback Range.

Photo courtesy Pictoscribe @ Flickr

I had been hiking nearly a week and it had rained every day. The trail became a river and it was impossible to keep my gear rain free. My pack was soaked through. Some food had become soggy and much of my clothing was damp despite having an adequate laying system and wearing a Gore-tex parka and wool sweater.

Camping proved a unique challenge. Placing my tent down quickly, I tossed the rain fly on top, then wrestled to set it up without getting water inside. During the few days I was fortunate enough to use traditional lean-to shelters, I found that wind would force the rain in sideways and sometimes the shelter roof would leak. My synthetic fill sleeping bag was not drenched but it made for a damp and clammy night of rest.

During an afternoon hiking the ridgeline, after a grueling climb, I found myself exhausted and soaked to the skin beneath my rain parka. Even with my wool sweater beneath I experienced mild shivering. The wind picked up and temperatures began dropping. A hiker’s “perfect storm” was forming.

I first realized something was wrong when my thoughts became foggy and unclear. I began to undergo what I will call “disturbed time” – the sense of losing awareness of what time of day it was or how long I had been walking.

Next, my speech became slurred and I noticed I was having a great deal of difficulty putting my gloves on after wringing water from them. It was at that moment I realized the danger. I knew less about hypothermia then than I do now, but I knew enough to recognize I needed immediate shelter from the elements. Though I wanted to stop, sit down and rest right on the trail, I knew such a choice would be unwise.

I knew from studying my map that morning that there was a trail to a shelter nearby where I could find a safer haven. As I began walking I felt fear and clung to it, using the fear to help me battle against what I now know were classic hypothermia symptoms.

After a time the turnoff appeared and the trail descended into a more protected footway leading to the shelter. The lean-to was a poor structure and wind was getting in, but the nails on the walls allowed me to I affixed a tarp to block the elements.

Photo courtesy IamNotUnique @ Flickr

Immediately, I lit my MSR Firefly cooking stove then tossed some Ramen noodles on to boil. I dug my space blanket from my pack, shed most of my clothing, and mummified myself inside it. After drinking hot soup, eating two energy bars, and spending an hour out of the wind, my thoughts began to clear. I was relieved. I had avoided a potentially fatal situation and I was sobered at how easily it nearly overtook me.

Hypothermia begins when exhausted hikers are exposed to wet and windy conditions outdoors, combined with temperatures 50 degrees or lower. Under such conditions body heat is lost and internal temperature drops. Hypothermia symptoms appear and unless these are treated the victim becomes comatose then collapses. Death soon follows.

As with most life-threatening circumstances, prevention is the best safeguard. It is important to remain as dry as possible when being active outdoors and to beware of windy and wet conditions and situations where the temperature drops to a range of 50 down to 30 degrees. Gear that is rainproof and windproof is essential to wear, preferably before weather conditions deteriorate. Once they do, it becomes vital to take shelter in a tent or other structure.

Next, it is vital to begin to restore body heat, which can be done by preparing hot beverages and eating high-energy foods. Take note of classic symptoms, which may indicate the presence of hypothermia such as uncontrolled shivering, slurred speech, loss of memory, drowsiness, and exhaustion.

A victim of hypothermia must have all clothing removed and they should put in a warm sleeping bag. Another person should also strip and get into the bag with the victim to provide skin-to-skin contact to help restore lost body heat.

No one ventures outdoors without a measure of risk and there are many valid concerns, such as suffering a fall, lightning strikes, and other potential dangers. Yet hypothermia is by far the greatest hiking risk. With awareness and knowledge, you can be prepared and greatly reduce the chances you will become a victim.

Sources:

Appalachian Mountain Club. White Mountain Guide, 27th Edition, Appalachian Mountain Club, Copyright 2003., pg. xiii-xiv.

Watson, Tom. How to Think Like a Survivor: A Guide for Wilderness, Creative Publishing International, 2005, pg. 16.

Setting Out

I’m still setting out. Just like I did that mid-April afternoon from Springer Mountain in 1985. I still feel the earth beneath my boots, see the leaves fringe the trees, notice the delicate bluets at my feet. The air smells different, like adventure. Expectation hangs in the air. A thread of anxiety born from that excitement fills me with an alertness unlike anything I’ve known. So many hikers have already passed toward Katahdin, and rather than feeling like I’ve missed the herd, I feel like the trail is somehow left to me more than it might have otherwise been. The gloss of so many years has not diminished the memory; it’s just sharpened it. It has magnified it, not distorted it. I’m still there, filling out the trail register and moving ahead into the span of spring, summer and autum days which will draw me to Maine. I just have to close my eyes to get there. And, most of all, it feels like the trail has never ended, because so many blessing have come from that turn in the road of my life. What would have my life been had I not decided to hike to Maine? As I look back today, I can see the unrolled skein of memory and decision which flowed from that first step to what my life has become now. And all is well.

Note To Self: When You Think About Quitting Your Thru-hike

No doubt about it: you will have days during your thru-hike when nothing will be as tempting as the notion of bailing out. I first met hikers who quit the trail well before the NC/GA border. Some discontinued their hike because of injury, others were homesick. One hiker said, “It just wasn’t what I thought it would be.” He caught a bus home the next day.

Within the first ten days of my trip I “enjoyed” nearly overpowering Georgia heat and humidity (and I’m from North Carolina!), discovering springs filled with brackish, un-potable water. Fifty-cent-sized blisters plagued both heels. The stinging nettles went on for miles, and drove some hikers nearly mad. One hiker made the habit of screaming aloud at the top of his voice as he plunged through them. Muscles and joints screamed for relief; moving gingerly first thing in the morning took persistent effort and ibuprofen became known as the “hiker vitamin.”

So, how can an aspiring long-distance Appalachian Trail backpacker up the odds of finishing atop Katahdin in autumn? There are as many answers to this questions as there are summits along the trail. But I recall in an old 1989 edition of the “Philosopher’s Guide,” some genuine advice. It suggested that if one feels like cashing in the trip they get off the trail and hold up in a motel for two or three days. If they find they aren’t missing what’s happening on the trail within that span of time, perhaps the hike is not for them and it’s time to set sights on a new goal.

I would add a simple suggestion; a “note to yourself.” Before you set out from Springer Mountain, jot down on a slip of paper the “why” which brought you to hike the Appalachian Trail. Make your reason as honest as possible, and retrieve it from your pocket to read during “those moments” — because you will have them, and that note to self may be the anchor and powerful motivation which keeps you hiking along the trail.

Hiking in the year of discontent

Photo courtesy alex_ford @ Flickr

I was discontent. Employed in a vocation I loved (radio broadcasting) at 30 years of age, with friends and a place to live, in a town I grew up in and loved – yet I was discontent. I wasn’t sure why. My colleagues even threw me a super birthday party at work; I felt surprised, humbled, and happy. Something else was stirring. It felt like someone had come into the interior of my life and was rearranging the furniture while I followed them around shouting “No! No!! Don’t move that! Don’t throw that out!” Good luck with that. The rearranging kept happening.

Until the following year, when I read a book.

Driving to Charlotte, NC, to a backpacking outfitter, I wandered the store. I was just looking. Plenty of new gear; packs, boots, stoves – all the wonder-toys hikers and backpackers drool over. I wasn’t looking to buy, just looking to dream.

On the way out the door I stopped in the book section. I saw guidebooks, how-to manuals, and a few personal experience backpacking memoirs (compared to today!).

I picked up “Appalachian Hiker II,” by Ed Garvey. I took it home and devoured it, looking for an empathic experience of what it would be like to backpack a long-distance trail. Until that time I had only engaged in long weekends in the Carolina Blue Ridge, Linville Gorge, and Shining Rock Wilderness. I was testing myself. Often I backpacked alone, since no other friends I knew either enjoyed hiking or had the same flexible schedule I had. I digress.

Garvey’s book put the hook in me. By the time I closed the cover I realized that his reality could be mine. Almost without thinking, I began to work toward taking the same journey from Georgia to Maine. I bought all the A.T. Guidebooks. I began assembling gear and saving money.

In the spring of 1985 I told my employer “I’m going to take a hike.” I meant it. I left for Springer Mountain in Georgia in mid-April and began walking to Maine.

Photo courtesy Alex Banakas @ Flickr

Over the years I have thought about the real “why?” of hiking the trail that propelled me to go. After all, I left employment, a home, family, friends all to do…what?

My reasons for hiking the Appalachian Trail go like this:

• I felt I had “hit a wall” in my profession. The job I was in seemed to offer little room for advancement and openings elsewhere were sparse. Digging deeper I found…
• I wanted “a change.” I yearned to understand what my discontent was, and felt the trail would give an answer. Then there was, even deeper…
• Adventure! After all, what I had read in Ed Garvey’s book was enticing. There were colorful characters on the trail, wild scenery, unexpected surprises around every bend. But, the real, rock-bottom reason I hiked the trail, these many years later, is…
• I wanted to go someplace wild and have the force of nature strip away everything in me – to give me a baptism which would hollow out my emotional and psychological insides, refine my physical outside, and prepare me to be filled with whatever was to come next in my life.

Those months on the A.T. and the visits back in these intervening years, have accomplished this. They have made me someone I would never otherwise have been had I chosen to stay the course I was on, and the discomforts and hard growth which have resulted from that choice I would not trade for anything.