Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (3 page)

My persistent questions revealed a wide range of insecurities about many basics, such as equipment, food, water, and bears. The other hikers in the class were obviously much better versed in these matters than I was, which made my ignorance stick out like a sore thumb. “The trail is about discomfort, not comfort,” Warren bore in. “Leave your emotional fat at home.” After one particularly vexing question he even looked at me and said softly, “Why don’t you just try a section this year?”

These weren’t reassuring words coming from the person who’d spent more time on the AT than any other human. My humble reply was, “I know I’m an underdog. But this might be my only chance to ever attempt a thru-hike, and I’m going to go as far as I possibly can.”

At one point or another everyone in the class probed for some comforting crutch to rely on, such as asking if Virginia is easier than North Carolina. Affecting a brusque manner Warren would shoot back, “No, it’s less difficult than North Carolina.” When he spoke of the importance of not taking days off I asked, “What if you have sharp stomach pains?” “You hike,” he shot back.

One of the members of Warren’s prior expeditions told us, “There is nothing that turns Warren on like watching somebody vomit and then get up and start hiking again.”

Listening to all this I thought:
No wonder this guy has been able to hike the damn trail thirteen times. I just want to thru-hike once and spend the rest of my life bragging about it, instead of endlessly re-enacting it.

As we prepared to depart Warren spoke movingly of the gratitude and reverence he held for the AT. “I have respect for everybody out there,” he said, “as long as they aren’t damaging the trail or another hiker in some way.” He ended the four-day seminar by saying, “If your goal is to hike the entire trail, then do it. Unfulfilled dreams are bad.”

I drove up I-81, through the Blue Ridge Mountains to my sister’s house, which was near the AT in northern Virginia. Warren had been looking directly at me when he strongly suggested we take a couple long practice hikes. I closely studied the official AT data book he had given me and found a fourteen-mile stretch from Highway 7, where my sister could drop me off, to a road crossing on West Virginia Highway 9, where she would pick me up that afternoon. I hadn’t yet bought all the necessary equipment so I loaded my backpack with twenty pounds of books, along with some sandwiches.

The topography in an area aptly called “the Roller Coaster” was quite demanding the first few miles, and I immediately began wondering if I could make the fourteen miles to Keys Gap before dark. Then it leveled off, and I began making better time. An eerie silence reigned, and I didn’t see or hear a single other living creature all day in the dormant winter forest. Combined with the blanket of late winter snow, and surrounded by mountains on all four sides as far one could see, it was a magical scene.

I arrived at Keys Gap on West Virginia Highway 9 at four in the afternoon, having hiked fourteen miles in seven hours.

I had been wondering for several years whether the whole AT idea was gigantic folly, so my adrenaline was rushing upon completion of the day’s task. Looking at the data book I saw that the next road crossing was at the historic city of Harper’s Ferry, which was also the headquarters of the Appalachian Trail Conference. I quickly called my sister on the cell phone and notified her, without allowing time for a response, that I was continuing to Harper’s Ferry.

I later learned that she had then called my mother about what I was doing and they did some simple arithmetic. I had averaged two miles per hour the first seven hours. It was four o’clock and it would be completely dark in northern Virginia by six o’clock. That meant that at the pace I had maintained so far there was time to hike at most four more miles before dark. But it is 5.7 miles from Keys Gap to Harper’s Ferry. Further, I didn’t have a flashlight, sleeping bag, or tent with me, and heavy snow was in the forecast for the evening.

Off I went, hoping the trail would be as easy as it had been the last five miles. But, it wasn’t. The gentle inclines became more pronounced. As I headed up the mountain I began doing the same arithmetic my mother and sister had done and realized I had a time problem. At that point a thought crept into my mind that would reappear on several occasions in the next six months. Regardless of how I felt, and fatigue was indeed setting in,
I had to make it
.

The terrain became much rockier, which was a problem because my boots were beginning to kill me. I stumbled over rocks and roots, and cried out as I hurried. But there was no time for a break as the sun began to fall below the hills and the temperature dropped.

The data book showed that at the four-mile mark the trail reached the top of Loudon Heights at which point there was a steep descent into Harper’s Ferry. It was too late to turn around, and it was now getting dark. My hopes rested on reaching that hilltop and then heading toward the lights of Harper’s Ferry, in case I lost the trail. I was slowed by the rugged terrain and my throbbing feet; the point of maximum concern came after traveling what seemed like a quarter mile without seeing a blaze. Was I off the trail and, if so, what would I do? It even occurred to me that if I went much farther without seeing a white blaze that I might have to abandon my backpack in order to get to Harper’s Ferry before pitch black dark. Why had I packed books, rather than a flashlight? Instead of preparing for a twenty-mile hike, I had packed for a sedate picnic.

Finally, I saw two posts ahead. Squinting hopefully, I read
Loudon Heights
on the right and
Harper’s Ferry
1.7 miles on the left. Looking below to the left I could make out lights shining way below and even hear the distant roar of the Shenandoah River. Greatly relieved, I bounded down the steep descent into Harper’s Ferry, frequently veering off the trail, whose blazes were almost invisible in the enveloping darkness. Improved morale, however, didn’t change the fact that my feet had gone from consistent pain to indescribable agony as I continued stumbling over rocks and roots and screaming in anguish.

In total darkness I finally reached the river and highway and luckily saw the path to the steps of the bridge leading over the majestic Shenandoah River. Following the AT blazes that run across the bridge, I saw a Comfort Inn and called my sister. “She’s already gone out in the car looking for you,” her eleven-year-old daughter informed me.

“That was stupid,” my sister barked out the second she found me. Then she called my mother in Georgia who gave me a much more comprehensive lecture on my stupidity.

That night I had to drag myself up my sister’s stairs. The next day my two big toenails were black and blue (I would eventually lose them), and I spent most of the day in bed, while six inches of snow fell outside. While it was encouraging that I had been able to go 19.7 miles in one day—with a backpack—it was also a glimpse into what a mess a person could get into with poor judgment. And it was sobering to think that this was what I would be doing on a daily basis, followed by spending my nights out there.

On the way home from Virginia to Georgia I stopped again at REI in Atlanta. Dutifully, per Warren Doyle’s advice, I exchanged my tent for a tarp and my boots for some mid-cut trail shoes. But I had no idea if I was actually making the right decisions.

I began the homestretch of preparation by moving into my mother’s house in Macon, Georgia. Having always been too thin for my extreme height, I was desperately trying to gain as much weight and strength as possible as quickly as possible. My mother was feeding me prodigiously and I was drinking high-calorie, enriched drinks. Finally, I was able to get my weight to 212 pounds, the highest of my life. And while I have never been an impressive physical specimen, the months of training at Gold’s Gym had me in the best condition of my life.

The real possibility of bear encounters was another concern that loomed in the recesses of my mind. To the great amusement of friends I even visited the dancing bear act when the circus came to town. I wanted to see how their bear trainer handled the two bears. Fred, the male, was much larger than Ginger, and the trainer gave him plentiful helpings of honey after the acts. But all I could think was that if I see one of these enormous mammals out in the woods alone there wouldn’t be a fence between us, and I wouldn’t have a bottle of honey handy either.

After it was over I sauntered over by the trainers to chat. “Do you have any suggestions about how to respond if I see a bear on the Appalachian Trail?” I asked.

“A wild bear, you mean?” she clarified.

“Well, yeah, out in the woods, in case I run into one,” I stammered.

“Gee, I don’t know,” she said to my disappointment. “It’s probably best to stand up on your tiptoes and wave things in the air to make yourself look more fearsome. That, and try talking to him if he starts approaching you.” I was hoping for something more reassuring than her answer. Was I really going to stand on my tiptoes and wave something at a bear, or would I just follow instinct and hightail it?

The final big item on my shopping list was a sleeping bag. REI didn’t have any seven–foot-long down sleeping bags, so I ordered one named “the Ponderosa” from Western Mountaineering in California
for $438
. At that price it had better keep me warm!

The sleeping bag arrived on March 26 which meant everything was in place to leave as planned on April 1. But there was one problem. I didn’t feel ready. I called several friends to see if anybody could be convinced to go, at least for awhile, but they all demurred. I still had never spent a single night outside, and wondered if I had what it took to head off alone into the woods for six months, take what comes. It was at this point that a lack of resolution led to my first major blunder.

Warren Doyle had a practice hike scheduled from April 1 to April 4, starting in Ceres, Virginia. It was a grueling march of seventy-four miles in four days. Those who completed it were eligible to go on his “expedition,” which was van-assisted. I called Warren and asked permission to try out. “Why are you suddenly interested in this?” he asked, dubiously.

Nonetheless, he warily assented.

What followed was a comedy of errors. First, I arrived late and missed the “Circle of Dreams.” This was a huddle in which expedition members solemnly yearn to make it all the way to Mount Katahdin in Maine. Then, I got caught red-handed violating the prohibition against eating anything but cold food for the four-day march. Finally, the weather was so diabolical on the second evening that I told Warren that I would have to sleep inside my car because of fear of hypothermia.

“Then, you’re not going on the expedition,” he fired back.