Jump cut to 2,193 miles down trail. I’ve completed the AT, I’ve released the documentary of my experience called PACK & SOUL on Vimeo on Demand(S'ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre) and acquired by the spectacular platform Documentary+(S'ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre), I’ve written several stories for publications I revere, and I’m finally now starting to understand what the trail sages meant when they said, “The hardest part of the trail are your first steps.” The incessant fears and doubts I had before my 2020 AT thru-hike were by far the tallest mountains I had to climb. And the reality is, I knew it then as I know it now; just get there, take your first steps, the trail will provide. Over and over we hear it, we get it. But do we really? How many times did our parents tell us not to throw the ball next to the window? The answer is it didn’t matter. We’d never understand until the ball smashed through the window and we spent the summer mowing lawns to pay for it. As that is true, so is the fact that there’s just no way to quell those very human emotions before a thruhike. You simply force yourself to go anyway. If you want to thru-hike, throw the ball, break the window, figure it out. It’s what I did. It’s what we all do.
I’m glad I got that all out of the way, beginning is always the hardest part of writing an article, hmm… interesting.
Image courtesy of Nick Greene
WHO OR WHAT IS THAT? BECAUSE THAT’S NOW ME.
When I was ten years old I had one of those moments that would shape my character forever. I saw in someone else what I wanted to be. Though I didn’t know this person, I understood them completely. The figure came in the form of a hiker on the Appalachian Trail, specifically at Roan High Knob Shelter in North Carolina, only a few miles from Carvers Gap, and a few more miles from where my family had a winter home. The figure was rugged: leathery skin, tattered clothing, eyes filled with wisdom and purpose. He smelled god-awful. He was a vagrant whose mailing address was George to Maine. He was the future me. Clearly my ten year old self hadn’t the words to ascribe meaning to what I saw, but surely I mustered something apropos. Something like, “cool” or “rad.” The figure did have one more piece to him that stood out above everything else. It was his home, and it came in the form of a woven fabric and buckles that strapped seamlessly to his body. It was impossible to tell where he ended and the fabric began. It was invigorating. Apparently, his entire world was being carried from place to place, accumulating only what it could hold and shedding itself of anything superfluous. His home was his pack and his pack was his life. Right then and there, I became a hiker.
Let’s continue to jump cut, nothing fun ever comes from being too linear. The 32-year-old me couldn’t keep it a dream any longer, it was time. Just like how you know you’re in love or how you can feel that next fart won’t just be air, I knew what I felt. Oh, and yes, if you want to talk truthfully about thru-hiking, you have to be truthful, in all facets of life. A wise hiker named Walmart once said, “You’re not a true thru-hiker unless you poop yourself.” I digress.
Image courtesy of Nick Greene
ONE WAY TICKET TO GEORGIA
Just before my 4am departure to Springer Mountain, the Appalachian Trail southern terminus, I took a gander in the mirror. The honest truth is that I looked nothing like that figure from Roan High Knob Shelter. My skin was clean and face shaved. My clothing wasn’t yet worn to rags. I smelled good. And the worst part, my eyes weren’t filled with wisdom or purpose or anything at all, except maybe childish wonder. One thing, however, connected me to that mythical figure of my past, both of our lives were strapped to our backs. I imagine that when I saw him in 1999, his pack looked a bit different. He maybe even donned one of those glorious external frame packs. Regardless, he and his pack were one and the same. And standing in front of that mirror on May 10, 2020, I too was my pack and my pack was me.
The first steps on trail are like few others in life, perhaps similar to your first actual steps as a toddler. I don’t believe I stopped smiling for the first full month. Every challenge one expects to find on a thru-hike presented itself frequently and unequivocally. The cold rain, the blisters, the shin splints, the hiker hunger, the bear stealing my food; feel free to fill in the rest, they’re all there. But I learned there’s a difference between something being hard and being challenging.= At no point whatsoever was the Appalachian Trail hard, because it was always where I wanted to be. Through all the pain and reflection and yes, even boredom, not once did I imagine myself being anywhere else. And slowly but surely, my skin began to break. My clothes ripped here and there. My increasingly pungent aroma turned day-hikers’ heads aghast as I wafted by. And my eyes… oh those transcendent eyes. You hardly see your own face on trail, not until you go into town. So when I caught myself in a gas station mirror a couple hundred miles in, I damn near cried. I saw it. I saw the deepness. I saw the purpose and wisdom. It was undeniable and growing by the day.
There’s an imposter syndrome many feel on trail, especially if it’s your first thru-hike. For me, an important distinction occurred somewhere around the 500 mile mark. I no longer viewed the trail as anything separate from my “real life.” Once I accepted that home was wherever I laid my tent, I felt like I belonged. The low drum of pain I’d consistently felt either went away or became such a part of me that it was unnoticeable. Whichever it was, there’s really no difference. My body was a machine and left to its own devices was operating at max capacity.
AN EXTENSION OF MY BEING
As it did repeatedly, my pack played a major role in establishing my entire essence. Sounds like hyperbole, I know, but I truly cannot overstate it enough. And this is the pivotal moment that exemplified it… Trail Angels are individuals who dedicate their time to helping hikers accomplish whatever lofty goals they set out to tackle. For some, it’s a way of giving back to a community that helped them on their own hike. For others, they simply find purpose assisting a group of people who are as grateful as they come. It’s safe to say that Trail Angels are aptly named. They are haloed souls who help make the trail the spiritual place it is. Badly in need of a resupply, I hitched into town with a wondrous individual who scooped me up right away. He was a generous and kind person from the second I hopped in his truck. He told me of his family and grandchildren, beaming as he showed me pictures. It was the type of encounter where trust is established immediately and ineffably, old kindred spirits. We ended up spending several hours together as he drove me to a few different shops to help fix a piece of gear I broke. He even threw me $20 when we got to the market to, “get a little something special.” The Angel then told me I could leave my pack in the bed of his truck and he’d wait for me to grab my food, then take me back to trail. I froze. “Oh…” I stammered. “I uh, think I’ll take my pack with me.” “Don’t be silly,” he insisted. “Leave it here, I won’t go nowhere till you get back.” I hesitantly nodded in agreement and slowly limped toward the market. I nearly reached the entrance when I abruptly stopped, about-faced, and trudged heavily back to his truck. “I’m… gonna take it in with me. So I could, ya know, charge my electronics while I shop.” I felt terrible. I mean it was partly true, grocery stores are typically a hiker’s opportunity to charge a phone or camera, and squandering it wasn’t ideal. But there was something deeper here. I trusted this man with my life as he drove me on vacant backroads at 60mph. I was fine with all that no question. But leaving my pack with him, for some reason, just didn’t feel right. I had betrayed an Angel. As I write this, I get how it comes across, dramatic even by soap opera standards. But I’m telling you, it felt like I was leaving my first born with him. I was wearing my fanny pack containing my wallet, phone, and other valuables, so it wasn’t as if I was leaving my identity with him. But I viewed my pack as being equally as valuable as all that, and not because it’d cost several hundred dollars to replace everything. Because it was mine. It was me. I guess it was my identity. “Suit yourself,” he said with a genuine smile. “I’ll be here nonetheless waiting for ya.” And he was. Twenty minutes later I stumbled out of the market, my pack many pounds heavier with food, and found him sitting on the tailgate of his truck waiting for me with that same genuine smile. I’m not sure I said too much on the ride back to trail.
ONWARD
Time and time again, I’d show up to a hostel or pub and see a cluster of packs gathered outside and say to myself, “Oh great, Caveman and Snail are here. Seeker and Storyteller too. And there’s Books, Wayward and Pigeon, Freewalker and Walden…” I knew their packs as well as their faces, sometimes better. In a weird way, hikers even started to look like their packs. I guess it’s similar to those pictures of people who resemble their dogs. Living in the woods presents an abundance of moments that prove trail life just makes sense; like earning a name instead of one being thrust upon you at birth. Trail names, which are typically bestowed upon a hiker when they are from somewhere unique or do something specific to deserve it, become part of your essence. Before I got on trail, I spent a great deal of time pondering what my trail name would be. Let’s see… I’m a filmmaker making a documentary on trail. I live in Los Angeles. I’m from Hollywood, Florida. Whatever it’d be, I just hoped it wouldn’t be something lame… like Hollywood. So the first day on trail, after the fifth or sixth fellow hiker excitedly exclaimed, with their eyes as wide as if they’d discovered a new planet, “You know what your trail name should be…” Yes, I did know. And I leaned into it. I was Hollywood. Your trail name, your hiking style, your outfit that you wear for 143 days straight, and of course your pack, it is in fact an all encompassing representation of your true identity. Northward I marched, steadily accumulating legs more fit, a stench more fowl, and eyes more wise. I blended into the woods, becoming part of this world rather than merely a passerby. I was the hiker I always imagined myself to be, my entire world on my back. As I approached Katahdin Stream Campground, the northern terminus of the AT, I had the option to leave my pack at the bottom and take a smaller one up to the summit. I don’t believe I saw a single thruhiker’s pack down there. I never asked anyone about it, but I assume they felt exactly how I did, it just wouldn’t feel right to finish the trail with that part of us missing.
ONE MORE FOR THE ROAD
Now that it’s all said and done, only the reverberations remain. Evocative flashes of sights and faces and soundbites sporadically jolt me back to trail; this one maybe more than the rest, this perfect moment from a guy named No Rush. Somewhere down in Maryland, I met a hiker walking south. We spoke cordialities to one another for no more than ten seconds before he sat down in the middle of the trail, pulled out his stove and made coffee. Among the many adages he spewed effortlessly from his trove of experiences, he professed, “If you can’t carry it in your pack or in your soul, you don’t need it.” I told him in response that he just changed my life. I’m not sure I realized then exactly how much. I still may not. My pack and my soul. By that point, I knew quite well what was in my pack. I could navigate it’s compartments in my sleep and find whatever I needed. Except my spoon. You always lose your spoon. In any case, what was in my pack was covered. The better question was something I’ll spend the rest of my life answering… what’s in the other thing? PACK & SOUL can be viewed on Vimeo On Demand(S'ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre) where a portion of each purchase will be donated back to trail organizations and conservancy efforts. And on Documentary+!(S'ouvre dans une nouvelle fenêtre)