Monthly Archives: December 2012

Last week I took my mom to buy a new stove. The stove she had cooked on since, in her words, “before your daddy died,” had served her well. It had offered up many a Thanksgiving dinner over the years, so it almost seemed appropriate that the oven would cease working on turkey day. In all likelihood, it will be the last stove that she will ever need. Still, like buying an appliance or a baseball glove, we never know when we are doing something for the last time, that is unless we’re old or facing death.

When my son was only three or four years old, we began playing catch in the backyard. Many an afternoon, through his days of T-ball and later Little League, we would toss a baseball back and forth until dusk. He went through a phase where he wanted me to throw high flies and then another where he preferred grounders that he could scoop up and fire to a first baseman dad. I don’t know when we last played catch, but we did. It probably was toward the end of his last season of organized ball, but I don’t know exactly on what day.

My daughter loved to swing on an old metal play set, also in our backyard. We have photographs and videos, as well, of me standing behind, pushing her into the air. The pigtails of a six year old fluttered in the breeze on a chilly winter day. Even in the cold, she still enjoyed this time to spend with her dad. These carefree, innocent days of childhood were fleeting even as they transpired. I don’t know when I last swung her, but I did. On one of those days of winter, or perhaps in springtime, we walked back into our home after an hour of happiness that would never be shared the same again.

In March of 2013, I hope to stand at the base of the plaque on Springer Mountain, which designates the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. A little over five months later, in late August, I hope to be posing for a final photograph at the marker that sits atop Katahdin. Both events, if they do come to pass, also in all likelihood, will be for one final time. Throughout the spring and summer, as my mother cooks on her last stove, her son will be travelling north, working hard to complete a thru hike of the Appalachian Trail, both for the first and last time.

As I walk from Georgia to Maine, I expect to meet many other travelers. Some of those may become friends with whom I’ll later exchange a Christmas card or perhaps call to wish a happy birthday. Others I’ll see for a last time somewhere along the way. We won’t know it at the moment. We may not even remember where it occurred. All we will realize, and come to appreciate even more keenly over the years, is that we walked together, fellow pilgrims toward a destination and a dream. As Ulysses says in Tennyson’s poem, “I am a part of all that I have met.” Each of us will become a part of the other, when we initially exchange greetings, and also when we say our goodbyes, for what very well may be a last time. Life has so much to offer, and so does a journey along the Appalachian Trail.

Last week I received an email from a former thru hiker who has been reading my journal. Bob was the same age when he completed his hike that I will be when I hopefully finish mine. I’m definitely listening to some of the advice he has graciously offered. To begin with, he told me that he started hiking regularly with a full pack about a year before he left from Springer. With fewer than four months remaining before my departure, I decided that it was time to go for a hike.

I retrieved the old Kelty Tornado from a storage room off my garage and loaded it with 32 pounds of hard cover books. At least that’s the weight that the bathroom scale indicated. After adding a bottle of Gatorade and another of water, I shouldered the pack and headed for a nearby park. With the temperature in the upper 40’s and a bright sun overhead, the day looked like the perfect one for that first “practice hike” in preparation for March.

The hike began in a fortuitous manner as I spotted a shiny nickel before travelling the first one hundred yards. I bent down and picked it up, remembering days of youth when finding a coin brought so much excitement to a boy of ten. Those were the days when a found quarter would purchase a coke, a candy bar, and a comic book as well. So I pocketed the five cent piece, partly for good luck, but mainly just for reasons of nostalgia. If I had been on the AT, I might have left it where it lay, not wanting to add extra weight.

As I walked toward the park through neighborhood streets, the pack felt odd at first. By the time I reached my destination, a little less than a mile from home, I was again getting accustomed to the added weight on my back. So for almost exactly three hours I walked on wooded trails. They were fairly flat, with only minor undulations along the way; however, my 8.6 mile walk proved to be a good workout. Twice I stopped for short breaks of about five minutes each, and I paused three times to speak with acquaintances who were also out for a stroll on a beautiful afternoon.

Walking along a lake at various times while in the park, I asked a couple of fishermen if they were catching anything. One replied that he had just arrived but motioned to another who he said had a “bucket of fish.” I didn’t stop to look, but I know that I would have, if I had been hiking on the AT. I look forward to chatting with locals along the trail, especially those who are sitting by a pond, lazily passing an afternoon.

When I arrived back home and evaluated this first hike with a full pack, I was pleased to find that other than a little stiffness in my right hip, everything seemed to feel fine. Still, it was only 8.6 miles of rather flat terrain. But I was carrying over 30 pounds which is no small order. After I decide on a new pack and other significant gear, I’ll hopefully get the pack weight down considerably before arriving on Springer. The day was a gorgeous day for a hike in the park, as I’m sure many days will be when I start my walk on the Appalachian Trail.

When I coached high school cross-country, I almost always provided the young ladies and young men on my teams with pre-planned daily workouts which I expected them to execute. On rare occasions, however, we would do what I called spirit runs. I use the pronoun “we” because in my 30’s and early 40’s, I did all the workouts with the team. So it was both the members of my teams as well as I who looked forward to these special days. We all embraced the idea of leaving campus for a run on the roads, or trails, or simply through the woods around the school, wherever the spirit led us. A leader would be selected to navigate for a while until another leader emerged from the pack. There were really no specific rules for these runs. We just ran.

These days I usually begin my runs from home, weaving through neighborhood streets to a picturesque park with roads and trails and, yes, even woods through which to roam. Like with my cross-country teams, I know which route I plan to take and how far I’m going to run, before the workout begins. Today was different. As I ran toward the park, I decided that when I arrived there, I would resurrect the days of yore and embark on a spirit run. For about an hour, I ran in parts of the park that I had not traversed in years. I strode down rutted gravelly roads, over dirt embankments, and through unmarked trails, all the time hearing the crackling leaves beneath my feet. And I felt moved by the spirit within me.

At one point as I headed up a short incline, I noticed a solitary lady enjoying her lunch at a cement picnic table under a pavilion. I wondered what items might have been stored in the red, canvas container. Had I been hiking the Appalachian Trail, rather than running through a public park, I might have stopped, engaged her in conversation, and perhaps been offered a morsel from her bag or a cold drink. But on this day the spirit moved me to run, and I complied.

Toward the back of the park a prison crew took a break for lunch. One tall, lanky, very young looking inmate stood by the lake, tossing bread crumbs toward a gaggle of geese that flapped their wings in appreciation. I wondered if he might have been thinking of another time when perhaps he had fed geese or ducks as a child. Perhaps he had stood at this same lake with the innocence of a five year old, smiling as the ducks quacked in his direction. Yet now he stood amidst the beauty of nature, clad in attire which let all around him know that, as his clothing stated, he was a state prisoner.

Around the next bend in the trail, two silver haired ladies approached. They had both tied knit sweaters around their waists, baring their arms on the unseasonably warm early December afternoon. Just before we met, one warned, “Watch out for that root there.” I looked down at the gnarly growth protruding from the base of the oak. There are roots aplenty on the Appalachian Trail. Just as I stepped to my left to avoid this one on today’s run, I’ll need to hike the AT with a watchful eye, always anticipating a potential fall up around the next bend.

When I begin my attempt of a thru hike next March, there may be times that I just want to let the spirit move me. I realize that the white blazes are there to guide me along my way. But I may take a detour now and then. Sure, I plan to pass all the blazes as I walk, but an opportunity may also present itself to meander down to a rushing stream or to a cascading waterfall, hidden away in the woods.

In a section of “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,” Byron states, “There is pleasure in the pathless wood.” Despite having directions to follow in life, or blazes to follow on the trail, at times I believe we all want to just set out on our own. We so often move in a rhythm that has been pre-determined for us. We stay in line; we obey the rules; we follow the blazes. At other junctures of our lives, however, we may just want to let the spirit move us. As I ran today the spirit moved me. Most days when I finish a run, I know exactly how many miles I’ve covered. Today I merely estimated. Does it really matter? When we walk or run or hike, isn’t it really the beauty of nature that should take precedence over all other incidentals?

When I leave from Springer I will constantly be in search of the next white blaze. Collectively these vertical, rectangular marks will lead me to Maine. Still, I hope if I’m so inclined, that I’ll take a few minutes now and then to amble into the pathless woods where the spirit leads me. I realize that it can be dangerous to wander too far from the marked trail; therefore, I’ll eventually pause and let the spirit lead me back. After all, what could be nicer than a spirit filled day along the Appalachian Trail.

In Oscar Wilde’s 19th century comedy The Importance of Being Earnest, Lady Bracknell asks John Worthing whether he knows everything or nothing. She poses this question when she is interviewing him regarding his marriage proposal to her daughter, Gwendolyn. Mr. Worthing’s reply is, “I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.” When it comes to an Appalachian Trail thru hike, I might cite the same answer. As I prepare for my AT venture, I sometimes feel as if I know nothing. Sure, I’ve hiked over 1000 miles of the trail in sections; however, section hiking is only a mere microcosm of a thru hike.

From the first day of a section hike, the backpacker, whether seasoned or a rookie, knows that his hike is going to end in a few days or at the most two or three weeks. Knowing this, he may already be in the “countdown to completion” frame of mind from the outset. No matter what circumstances he faces, there are at all times only a few days remaining. Plus with a section hike, there is also the opportunity to “cut it short” if conditions aren’t favorable. Section hikers often take several years to complete the trail.

The thru hiker, on the other hand, knows from the beginning that if his hike is going to be successful, he will be on the trail for five or six months. Even the faster hikers face over four months of continuous hiking. Sure, days become weeks, and weeks eventually become months, but it takes a lot of days of hiking to reach a point where an end is in sight. The monotony of the trail at times can be overwhelming, especially when four or more consecutive nights are spent in the woods. This is why I feel like a stay at a hostel or a motel is mandatory at least every four or five days. With some creative maneuvering, this is possible.

So as I continue to prepare for my attempt at a 2013 thru hike, I’ll keep remembering that, like John Worthing, I definitely come closer to knowing nothing than I do to knowing everything. In reality, I do of course know some things. What I do know I hope will help me in overcoming what I don’t. I also hope that my ignorance of certain aspects of a thru hike may be beneficial as I seek to discover and learn from my shortcomings. Therefore, in the next few weeks, I will continue to research gear in order to make practical and intelligent choices for a thru hike. I’ll also read all that I can from former thru hikers in an effort to learn and benefit from what knowledge they have to share.

When I set out from Springer next spring, I may still not know everything, but as the days and weeks go by, I know that I’ll learn from those who accompany me on our journey north. I’ll try to keep an open mind and a willingness to accept suggestions and benefit from occasional criticism. After all, it is more probable that the hiker who knows nothing, but is willing to learn as he hikes, will have a greater chance of success than the hiker who departs from Springer thinking he knows everything there is to know about a thru hike. If you see me on the trail and have a suggestion, please let me hear it. I fully expect to rely on my fellow pilgrims to make it all the way to Katahdin and the end of the Appalachian Trail.