Southbound: Why I'm Hiking the Appalachian Trail

AT sign in Western Mass

I stepped off the bus and the wind hit me like a bucket of water; it was at least twenty degrees colder than it had been in Boston. I'd put on my fleece and zipped on my pants in my bus seat, as I noticed the aluminum frame around the plastic window growing colder against my arm. It was October in New Hampshire, after all, and I knew it would be chilly, and was more or less prepared. I'd read the books and blogs about down versus synthetic, Nalgenes versus bladders, and for God's sake don't wear cotton anywhere near a mountain or they'll be pulling your hypothermic corpse down the trail on a makeshift sled before you can say "those clouds look a bit ominous..." I watched the bus putter north into the dark toward Gorham, growing small, progressively drawfed by the massive mountain walls plunging down to Routh 16. I was standing on the side of the road next to the Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, my new Osprey pack clean as a whistle, and I was about to get a crash course in hiking in the White Mountains.

I had come up to the mountains to find the Appalachian Trail. I knew it was somewhere up here in the White Mountains, and after a couple of Google searches I came up with the idea of taking the bus - I was carless at the time - to Pinkham Notch Visitor Center, camp, and perhaps hike along the AT; see what it was all about. I hadn't done a lot of hiking since I was much younger, and never in a place like the Whites. I think the last time I'd been here was on a family trip we took in 1989 or '90, when we saw the Old Man in the Mountain, before his unfortunate demise. We certainly didn't hike - it was strictly a car tour - but the experience stuck with me. I remember saying, after that trip, that I wanted to move to New Hampshire. I don't know why it took me so long to get back up here, but here I was, on some kind of vague quest I couldn't even explain to myself, inexplicably drawn to a trail I'd never set foot on.

One of the white blazes on the AT

On the phone, when I called PNVC to ask about the camping situation, the person at the desk told me I should camp at Hermit Lake, and that it was a "quick hike" up from the road, and hiking it at night - my bus arrived well after dark - shouldn't be a problem with a flashlight or headlamp. Great, I thought, and pictured a minutes-long walk over a grassy knoll to my campsite. To anyone familiar with the area, this is clearly not the case; it's a 2+ mile hike up the bouldery, rocky Tuckerman Ravine Trail. As crazy as that recommendation was on their part - they should have asked my familiarity with the area and experience level - I was also unprepared; I did almost zero internet research on the area, didn't look at trail reports or even a map. Even if I had, I had no concept of how difficult a White Mountain mile could be. None of this mattered, however, since when I went into the Visitor Center, new pack on my back, they told me that there was no room at Hermit Lake, anyway, and the Joe Dodge Lodge was full for the night.

"So... what do I do? I was told there would be room at Hermit Lake." "Well," the man cogitated nonchalantly, as if telling me where to find more coffee lids, "You can hike up into the Great Gulf Wilderness and stay at the Osgood tentsite. There might be room there." I didn't know what any of these words meant. He traced a trail on a map that was laminated to the counter. I stared at it, blankly, knowing that wasn't going to happen. I didn't even have a tent - they had told me I didn't need one, since Hermit Lake has several lean-tos (or shelters) you can stay in. I was trying to conceal my panic. I didn't have a car so I couldn't either sleep in it, or drive down to Gorham, or find a campsite near the road. I was kind of stuck here, and the best advice I could get was to hike five miles, in the dark, on rugged trails, to a site that may or may not be full. If I had done this, I would have discovered that this route is on the Appalachian Trail, something I'd learn later. While the gears in my head spun uselessly, a man next to me piped up, "We have an extra bunk in the lodge."

hiking down from Hermit Lake

I was flush with relief, agreed to it happily, and we squared away the details. While there are some private rooms at the rustic Joe Dodge Lodge, the bunk rooms are tight, sleeping hikers stacked three high. As I laid sleeplessly in my last-minute, wrong-place-right-time bunk, listening to hikers rustle and snore, a beastly storm blew in, and it rained and thundered without mercy for hours. I wondered what would have become of me if I'd hiked up into the Great Gulf.

The morning was beautiful, sunny with a crisp coolness in the air. I went back to the front desk and bought a map and compass - yeah, yeah, I know - and they recommended I hike up to Lowe's Bald Spot. Lowe was apparently a fellow in the Victorian age, who discovered this little bald that was relatively easy to get to and afforded a sweeping view of the Northern Presidentials, and he'd escort his socialite friends up for the day, women in hoop skirts and bonnets and all. It was a pretty quick hike; I clambered up to the top of the spot and saw my first real White Mountain view. "Well, I could get used to this," I said to myself, and drank in the view for quite a while. This was the first time I hiked on the AT, following the famous white blazes up to this little summit, and I don't know quite how to describe it, except - it felt right. That night I did finally make it to Hermit Lake and slept (on a raft I was using as a sleeping pad, which was surprisingly effective) in a shelter with a group of great folks, and hiked out and was on the bus home the next day.

So, why was I looking for the Appalachian Trail? Why am I attempting to thru hike it, two and a half years later? I don't quite know the answer to that. A seed got stuck somewhere in my consciousness a while ago, and it just seemed to grow. It's why I've educated myself about hiking, and the outdoors; every piece of gear I've bought, every mountain I've summited, I've had an eye to hiking this great American trail. Since I was a kid I've dreamed - literally and figuratively - of turning my feet to a path and just going. Just the thought of it is therapeutic; a soft gaze toward an adventure like this has assuaged a lot of pain and anxiety I've had over the last few years. I'd like to think I'm not running from anything, but instead going to find something; not sure what yet. And, I might make it to Georgia, and I might not. But I have to try. The time I spent in the Whites fixed something in me - I don't know how else to put it - and the AT attempt is a natural progression; a long green passageway into a more peaceful, focused life. I hope.

So, this is the year. I've arranged the time off from work, and am moving out of my house at the end of May. The stars have aligned, and beginning in early June, I will begin hiking South. Dana will come for the Hundred Mile Wilderness, and from there I'll go solo. For those who don't know, it's over 2100 miles, from Mt. Katahdin in Maine to Springer Mountain in Georgia, and typically takes 5 or 6 months to walk. I'll try to keep in touch, hopefully have the time and energy to write meaningfully about my journey, and I certainly hope some of my friends who enjoy the outdoors will come join me for a day or two on the trail. I have amazing people in my life, and I hope this odyssey will somehow make me more deserving of them. See you on the trail.