Trail Tuesdays- Part IV

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Trail Tuesdays is my attempt to memorialize my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. The A.T. is a long distance hiking trail that runs from Springer Mountain in Georgia, to Mt. Katahdin in Maine- you can read all about the trail here or here. You can read previous parts of Trail Tuesdays here.

That night I wrote “Its been an amazing day. I’m tired, but I’m really happy.”

And then, the next morning, the rains came.

I woke up feeling stiff and sore and cold. The temperature had dropped dramatically, and the ground was frozen solid. No one talked as we packed our belongings, sleeping bag first, then clothes, then food and cooking gear at the top. The optimism and camaraderie from the night before was gone, erased by the dense gray fog that covered everything in sight. As we left the shelter, a light drizzle began to fall, and I pulled out the waterproof cover that would protect my pack, and my belongings, from the rain as I hiked.

E and I started out the morning walking together in silence, and soon, she pulled away, and I was left to shuffle along by myself. Having backpacked together before, E and I had agreed beforehand that we would each hike at our own pace, even if that meant we would be walking alone most days. As the slower hiker, I knew it would be equally frustrating for me to always feel like I was holding her up, and for her to feel like she had to hold herself back. But, despite what I knew, as the distance between us grew, I couldn’t help berating myself “You should be in better shape. You are not going to be able to do this. You can’t make it out here. She’s going to be waiting for you the whole trip.“

The cold rain fell steadily, making the rocks and roots that covered the trail slick. I pulled the drawstrings tight on the hood of my rain jacket and tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. My mood grew darker as the day wore on. I was soaked with sweat and rain, and though I was exhausted from the climbs, steeper and more frequent than the days before, stopping to rest was not an option. As soon as I quit moving, my body heat dissipated, and within minutes, I was shivering uncontrollably. By the time I made it to the shelter that night, I was spent, emotionally and physically. Many of the same hikers we had met the night before were at the shelter when I arrived, and several straggled in soon after I did. We ended the day as we started it; cold, tired, and in silence.

The next morning, the fourth day of the hike, while the weather remained the same, cold and wet, the mood among the hikers was noticeably lighter. Everyone was excited because less than four miles from the shelter was Neel’s Gap, where, right on the trail stood the Walasi-Yi Inn, which serves as an outfitter and hiker’s hostel. With the warmth of a building with four walls and a roof calling us, even the steep climb over Blood Mountain passed without notice. A high percentage of those attempting to thru-hike the A.T. end their hike at Neel’s Gap, some due to injury, but most because the trail just isn’t what they thought it would be- its too hard, too cold, too lonely. I had heard this statistic when E and I were still planning our hike and thought “How could someone who set out to hike to Maine, quit after only 30 miles?” But now, thirty miles into my own thru-hike, I completely understood. It wasn’t that the experience wasn’t what I thought it would be, I had prepared for the weather, the physical pain, the solitude; it was that I wasn’t sure that I was who I thought I would be.

We were giddy when we reached Walasi-Yi, all of the hikers taking turns calling their families to give them updates, browsing the store for items they forgot, many going through their packs to send home unnecessary weight. I talked to College Boyfriend, trying to sound more upbeat than I felt. In the comfort of the hiker’s hostel, on a tattered thrift store couch, I took off my wet boots and examined the blisters that had sprung up the night before.

“Whoa! That’s disgusting.” A bearded hiker sitting next to me looked at my heels, and the blisters that had become quarter sized, gaping wounds. “You’ve got to take care of that shit, or you’re not going to be able to walk.”

I went to the outfitter and bought some antibiotic cream and large bandages, knowing that with the wet weather, and friction from my boots, it would be hard to keep the bandages in place, and there wasn’t much hope that the wounds would heal anytime soon. An hour later, my heels bandaged, E and I agreed that we should get going. We had planned to hike another 7 miles that day, and as nice as it felt to sit in the warm hostel, as tempting as a hot shower sounded, we weren’t ready to deviate from our schedule quite yet. Of the twelve hikers who arrived at Walasi-Yi that day, only four of us left the building that afternoon; E and I, Mike, the thru-hiker we had met two nights earlier, and a section-hiker named Dan.

With nothing to look forward to except another wet, freezing night, the last seven miles of the day dragged endlessly. When I finally arrived at the shelter, E announced that the roof leaked, so to be careful where I put my sleeping bag. Also, she told me, several people had written in the shelter log, the notebook found in most shelters for hikers to write in, that mice and bats frequented this spot. Listlessly, I cooked my dinner of Lipton Noodles, and then climbed into my sleeping bag, which I had covered with the garbage bag that usually lined my backpack, in hopes of waking up dry. As we lay there in the shelter, side by side, E, Mike, Dan, and I, we played a game where you name as many bands as you can for each letter of the alphabet, trying to keep our minds off of what were truly miserable circumstances. We finally grew silent, but the rain continued to pound, mercifully drowning out the sounds of any mice or bats that may have shared our beds that night.

I woke up to Dan, the section hiker, quietly cursing “Fuck!” He hadn’t covered his sleeping bag like the rest of us, and he woke up to find that with the leaky roof, and the sideways rain, his bag was soaked through. “FUCK! I’m going to have to go back, aren’t I.” He looked desperately at us, hoping we would tell him otherwise, but we knew he was right. The temperature was close to freezing, and the rain showed no signs of letting up. The next town was more than a day’s hike away, and without a warm, dry, bag to sleep in at night, those conditions could lead to hypothermia, or worse. We said goodbye, and watched Dan head back towards Neel’s Gap, knowing it would be that much harder for him to get back on the trail after this setback, and knowing that if we kept moving, we would probably never see him again.

I lingered in my sleeping bag, dreading putting on my wet hiking clothes, and not certain that I could face another day like those before. I re-bandaged my feet, and watched as Mike and then E left the shelter. E and I hadn’t talked much since the rain had started, I didn’t want her to know how unhappy I was. She seemed so strong and confident, aware that the situation was miserable, but ready to face it nonetheless. I felt weak in comparison.

I reluctantly started walking, every step harder than the next. My gloves were still wet from the day before, and my hands were so cold, I could barely grasp my hiking poles. At one point, as the trail followed a mountain downward, I lost my footing and landed on my backside, hitting my knee on a rock. The knee instantly stiffened, and I struggled to continue walking. Our plan that day was to hike about 13 miles, but I knew there was a shelter after 6 miles, where we had tentatively agreed to stop for lunch. I thought that if I could just make it to the first shelter, E would be waiting there for me. I fueled myself on this notion, convinced that she must be as miserable as I was, or at least understand the pain I was in, and that once I got there, we could agree that we should stop for the day, instead of hiking the last 7 miles as we had planned.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, I saw the sign for the shelter. But as I approached the structure, my heart sank. There was no one there. E had already moved on, meaning that I would have to move on as well. But I couldn’t. It had taken every reserve of strength I had to make it to this point, and I had no idea where I would find the energy to walk even one more step.

And so I sat on the wood planks of the shelter floor, already shivering from the cold, and began to cry.

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Tags: appalachian trail, hiking, rain, thru-hiking