My dream
of hiking the Appalachian Trail started when I was sitting on the floor of a
Breckenridge camper perusing a pile of books.
I was a fifteen year old boy visiting my grandparents at their summer
campground in rural Pennsylvania, and I was searching for a way to amuse myself
in the slow countryside. I spotted one
book with the face of a large brown bear staring at me. I picked it up and examined the cover more
closely. The bear was situated in a
forest covered in clovers. His playful
posture and comical stare led me to believe this was one of those silly books
filled with poop jokes that men leave in the bathroom. I was about to put the book down when my
grandma said, “You should read that.
He’s a great writer.” And that’s
how I found A Walk in the Woods, Bill
Bryson’s hilarious account of the Appalachian Trail.
I didn’t read the book right away, but I took it home with
me and set it on my bookshelf, where it sat alphabetized, wedged in between
books by authors whose surnames ended in B.
A year passed. The next summer I
still couldn’t drive. There were a lot
of things I didn’t have back then: a
car, a job, a smartphone, a beard. But I
had hundreds of books and loads of free time.
I finally decided it was time to read that funny-looking book with the
bear on the cover. I found a cozy seat
on my back porch and opened the first page where I discovered there’s a 2,180
mile long path in the wilderness called the Appalachian Trail (AT) that
stretches from Georgia to Maine.
Eight years later, my aunt Dana is dropping me off in a
remote parking lot alongside a forty-six mile trail in Florida. I’m wearing a red bandana and an Osprey
backpack loaded with thirty-six pounds of supplies.
This is my two-day practice hike to prepare
myself for the AT, and all of this seems so sudden, even though nearly a decade
has passed since I initially concocted this wild dream. I take my first step on the Withlacoochee
State Trail and think about everything that happened since I opened that book
eight years ago...
I finished the book
and never looked at the woods the same way again. I formulated a far-off dream that one day I
would hike the entire trail. At that
point, I never actually went for a hike, but I became a diligent cross-country
runner in high school. During my first
summer, I ran 500 miles in three months.
Two years later, I ran a thousand.
Then I got a car and a job and a girlfriend. I quit every sport I ever played. I graduated high school and moved to
Pittsburgh, where I majored in creative writing at the University of
Pittsburgh.
During my junior year,
my girlfriend of three years dumped me because I was not the man I thought I
was. I bought a bike. Every weekend I
rode three miles from Oakland to Station Square where I worked as a busboy at a
chain restaurant. There I met three
dishwashers from West Africa. After I
completed my degree, I arranged a few interviews at marketing companies. I went to West Africa instead because I was
inspired by my friends’ tireless work ethics and devotion to their families
back home. I taught English and
swallowed malaria pills with water that was stored in a bag.
I returned to
Pittsburgh and saved up money by waiting tables. I backpacked in Europe and lived in a tent
for nearly two months. My grandparents
passed away. I gave a speech at their
memorial and said that even though they are gone their influence still lives on
in me. I created a path for myself so I
could become a well-rounded individual.
I may not have jumped directly into a career, but I could build my
resume in other ways. I wanted to
continue with my adventurous lifestyle.
It was time to prepare for the trail.
The lease on my house
in Pittsburgh was ending in August of 2014, and I needed a place to stay
without a landlord. Since the death of
my grandparents, my aunt Dana had been living alone in St. Petersburg, Florida. I called her and informed her of my plan to
hike the Appalachian Trail next year. In
the meanwhile, I explained, I needed to live somewhere that didn’t require me
to sign a lease.
She accepted my offer,
so I said goodbye to all my friends and booked a one-way ticket to
Orlando. My flight was delayed for six
hours for mechanical reasons. I paced
the airport wondering if I was making the right decision. I was comfortable with my life in
Pittsburgh. My twin brother Cory lives
there. I had an easy job where I made
decent money working only a few hours each week. I didn’t have to leave.
On a whim, I cancelled
my flight and retrieved my luggage, a duffel bag containing all of my
possessions. I broke down and called my mother
who also lives in Florida with my two younger brothers. I told her I wasn’t ready to uproot my
life. She understood. I was surprised she was so calm about my abrupt
decision.
“But your brother is
disappointed,” she said.
My little brother Zach
is ten years younger than me. I’ve
always tried to look out for him because his father doesn’t offer him the
support he needs, and I didn’t want to let him down. After I hung up the phone, I bought my ticket
again. With only a few minutes to spare
before the gate closed, I boarded the plane with a sense of glee. The plane lifted off the ground, and I knew I
made the right choice.
I moved into a
retirement community. My aunt and
grandma bought the house nearly ten years ago, and now Dana was letting me live
there for free. With the housing
situation secured, I needed to come up with at least $5,000 to cover my gear,
my food, and my student loan payments which would continue even as I was
trekking through the wilderness. As I
was checking my email, I saw an advertisement for a cruise line and decided to
apply for a position on a ship. I never
thought I would actually get the job, but I did. I worked five months straight in Hawaii waiting
tables. I accumulated more than enough
money, experienced a unique lifestyle, and even found myself a promising woman
along the way. I had everything I
needed.
...Eight years ago when I dreamed of hiking the Appalachian
Trail, I never imagined that my life take this course. Part of me never believed this dream would lift off the ground. I was
just a teenager with lingering acne and a naïve perception of post-grad reality. Now I have a mustache, but I still don’t have
a real job. My feet trod upon the soil
of a different state. The woman who
encouraged me to read that fateful book is no longer here to guide me. Every major decision I made and every
influential person I met has led me here to this path through the forests of
central Florida. I started walking to
see where it would take me.
I looked at the countless trees and felt the heat of the sun
on my skin. I constantly adjusted and
readjusted my sternum strap and hip belt on my pack. I tested my trekking poles and sucked water
from my three liter Platypus hydration reservoir. Mostly, however, I focused on the
future. I kept asking myself why I
wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail.
It surprised me that hardly anyone else asked me that
question. I had gotten into the nasty
habit of informing my friends of my hopeful endeavor, and most of them came up
with similar responses. The most popular
question was: Are you going by
yourself? Followed by: Aren’t you scared? And in third place: Where are you going to poop?
Many remarked that, yes, a distance of over two thousand
miles through fourteen states is quite far, but not many bothered to ask why
would any rational person willingly endure the tedium and blistering pain
of a three-month long hike.
I have many reasons why I want to hike the trail, but my
primary motivation is to simplify my life.
Think about all the stuff you have in your bedroom, your closet, your
pantry, your refrigerator, your kitchen, your bathroom, your garage, and your
car. We all accumulate heaps of
unnecessary junk. Even as I write this,
my aunt Dana is taking down Easter decorations and storing them in a bin, which
I will place on a shelf inside a cluttered shed.
Now imagine carrying all of your possessions on your
back. You couldn’t, and you wouldn’t want
to. There are so many things we have but
don’t need. What is necessary to sustain
life? If you had to leave all the big
items behind like a TV and a laptop, what would you bring with you to make life
comfortable and entertaining? These are
the questions I want to explore. I want
to experiment with depravity. Everything
that I need to survive can fit in my backpack, and that knowledge is
empowering.
I’ve got a small tent that weighs
one pound, and that will be my home for the next three and half months. I used to be ashamed to live in a double-wide
trailer when I was growing up. I watched
too many episodes of Cribs, so I wanted
to live in a mansion. As a species, we’ve
come a long way from dwelling in caves.
A shelter is supposed to protect us from the elements. I’ve got a rain cover and a thin nylon sheet
to keep the bugs out. My sleeping bag is
no king-sized Tempur-Pedic, but it keeps my body warm. I want to reinterpret my perception of what
makes a house a home.
I’ve got two long-sleeve shirts,
two pairs of shorts, and two pairs of underwear that I will change daily. Clothing is no longer about fashion. I don’t care if my outfit matches. My clothes are designed to provide comfort,
dry quickly if wet, and retain my body heat.
When I was a teenager, I used to pick on kids that would wear the same
shirt every day. There were so many
judgments I made that I didn’t even understand.
Clearly, clothing had become an advertisement for how much money our
parents made. Those thoughts won’t do me
any good in the middle of a rainstorm. I
care more about the waterproof material.
I don’t care how many jackets I have in my closet; I don’t want to get
hypothermia.
I bought over three hundred pounds
of groceries and divided them up into fifteen shipments. I will mail myself boxes full of food to
strategically chosen towns located along the trail. I’m going to cook my breakfasts and dinners
inside a tiny pot that can fit in the palm of my hand. All of my meals are easy to prepare; all I need
to do is boil water and stir. In between
meals, I’ll munch on eight snacks per day.
On average I will consume nearly 5,000 calories, yet I will probably
lose at least twenty pounds by the time I am finished. Calories are energy; food is life.
I don’t anticipate on becoming a
mountain man who lives off the land. I
am not doing this to shun a world replete with modern technology. I am doing this to appreciate all the
conveniences I have. My life at home is
so easy. If I get cold, I can crank up
the thermostat. If I’m hungry, I’ll open
the fridge. I want to challenge myself
while I’m young so I can prepare myself for my adulthood. This is my pilgrimage to manhood.
This journey is about setting an
example. I want to be someone who does
what he says he’s going to do. I will
face many obstacles on the trail such as persistent rainstorms, explosive
cooking equipment, pesky mosquitoes, blistering feet, sore muscles, wild
animals, and loneliness. The challenges
that await me on the trail will prepare me for stressful situations I will encounter
in my future. When I’m trying to keep my
marriage afloat while raising a child and working long hours to pay my
mortgage, I will know how to carry that weight and move forward.
The trail is not something to be
conquered, and the wilderness will not be tamed. Instead, I want to learn from the trail and
integrate those lessons into my everyday life.
I want to learn all the painful, disgusting, beautiful and rewarding
details of a monumental commitment. I
want to cling onto a crazy dream, and, against all odds, make it come
true. I want to hike to Maine along the
Appalachian Trail.
