Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail (43 page)

“At four thirty a.m., although the weather forecast, while not outright diabolical like today, is sketchy. And I sure don’t want to endanger my reputation as a fair-weathered hiker.”

I got about three hours sleep and headed out with Mr. and Mrs. Snowman in the pitch black on September 27, 2005. I tried to relax by focusing on deep breathing. When Snowman noted my total silence his wife said, “He’s either sleeping or praying.”

At the ranger station I felt a little better when I saw that the rain accumulation the previous day had been 2.25 inches. The forecast for this day was high winds again, but with skies clearing by mid-morning. After forcing down some more mediocre trail food I swallowed three Tylenol and headed off. This time I was fully bundled.

I had expected the trail to be a quagmire, but the powerful wind howling through the narrow-cut trail had mostly dried it out. Again, I slowly lumbered straight up the first two thousand feet, concentrating on every breath. After ninety minutes I stopped in the same place as the previous day to ingest a Snickers Bar for a last energy boost.

The direst recurring thought stemming from my failure the previous day was of Kutza. She was an Israeli girl who had told me a moving tale back in Virginia of hiking all the way from Georgia to Mount Katahdin in 2002, but failing on multiple occasions to ever summit because of repeatedly terrible conditions. The story had seemed incredulous at the time. But now I understood.

I reached the giant boulder where tree line begins and, shielded by the rock, forced myself to sit down and deep breathe for a few minutes. Then, bracing myself for the worst, I stepped out for the second time into the howling winds and rock faces of Mt. Katahdin.

The gusts were even stronger than the previous day. Again I started over the boulder fields and rock walls of Katahdin, wondering how this was going to work. Fortunately, the strong winds had started thinning out the thick fog layers, and for the first time I got a look at parts of this granite monster of a mountain. Indeed, in this middle part it seemingly went straight up. But on this second try I could see blazes.

Mr. and Mrs. Snowman had started up at first light, but I soon saw her wedged in a crevice. Seeing she was immobilized I said, “You must be mimicking my performance yesterday.”

“Skywalker, please don’t step on me when you pass, or on the way back down either,” she replied good naturedly. “I plan to still be in this position.”

“Well at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” I replied. “That’s more than I could say yesterday.”

I judged this was about where I had turned around the previous day, and could even see the shelf where the tableland began and the trail leveled. I had been within about 150 yards of making it there the previous day. Nonetheless, despite the high winds, which periodically buffeted me from side to side, it was a different hike on this day.

Upon reaching the tableland I could clearly see the summit of Mt. Katahdin 1.5 miles off in the distance.
Home free
. A group of hikers had gathered around the summit marker, all bundled up. It was a fairly gradual climb over a rocky, moonlike landscape straight to the summit. There may be no other mountain on earth like Mt. Katahdin; a straight-up climb through a narrowly cut trail, followed by a grueling steep section of boulders and rock walls, and then a fairly gentle ascent across a wide tableland to the summit.

The trail runs right over Thoreau Spring. I emptied out my Nalgene bottle and filled up with what has to be some of the clearest, purest water in the world.

The wind howled, with gusts of up to sixty miles per hour, as I neared the summit. My first thought was that I would just touch the weather-worn sign-post I had seen in so many photographs in trail towns and then immediately head back down to get some relief below treeline.

“Skywalker, Congratulations,” Smiley said cheerfully. “Have you got your speech ready?”

“Yes,” I responded. “And it reads, ‘Any idiot can do it the second time.’”

“Well, you’ve undoubtedly set the record for hiking the entire Appalachian Trail in the least number of steps,” he replied. All joking aside, that might have been true. A normal thru-hike is said to require five million steps. Perhaps I had been able to make it home in four million paces.

Fortunately, there were no rumors about my performance the previous day as had proliferated after my abandoned backpack mishap in Georgia.

“I heard you couldn’t even see your hands yesterday,” one hiker said.

“The truth is a lot less friendly to me,” I said, and proceeded to recount the events of the previous day.

“You were smart,” everybody said, and they actually seemed to mean it.

Peter Pan offered to take a couple photographs of me on the renowned weather-worn signpost at the summit. They now occupy a prominent place in my living room. Those photographs and the good company were adequate consolation, for if I had summitted the previous day there would have been no photographs or celebration at the top.

It was strange to see the signpost indicating distances to southward points, but no more references to anything north. All along the way I had eagerly scanned such signposts and markers to glean distances to various campsites, mountaintops, etc. But after spending almost six months wondering if this trail actually had an end, I had to fight the tendency to think, “Is that all?”

I then huddled behind a rock wall with a couple other bundled-up hikers. It was a strange place to celebrate, but Katahdin and Maine are places like no other. The vast panorama of lakes, mountains, and forest offered that “other-world” serenity I wouldn’t be seeing again soon.

I had passed Smiley during his blazing summer of high passion in Pennsylvania, and Peter Pan in North Carolina. “The way everybody has been passing me lately,” I said, “I wouldn’t have had anybody to hike with soon.”

“We’re all glad to be here, I assure you,” Peter Pan said softly.

One factor that dims the summit celebration is that the successful thru-hiker faces a rugged 5.2-mile descent. I was dragging on the way down, but my deep-boned fatigue brought up a happy coincidence. The AT was almost a perfect match for a person of my ability. Had it been any more difficult or longer I couldn’t have completed it. But at no point during the 171 days had it been a disappointment. I felt challenged the whole way.

The key to my success in completing the entire trail was due to never overestimating my own abilities and rarely underestimating the difficulty of the trail. And, since I had been raring to try the AT for the preceding six years, I was able to recover from various setbacks and not stay discouraged for long.

At the base I went to the ranger station and had the audacity to write the imperial words of Julius Caesar in the register.

Mt. Katahdin Ranger Station—mile 2,174.8

9-27-05
: Veni, vidi, vici.—
Skywalker

But then I worried that my colleagues might not realize that was tongue-in-cheek, so I added how Mt. Katahdin had brought me to my knees the previous day.

My overwhelming feeling was one, not of exultation, but rather relief. Thru-hiking the AT was an all-consuming project. My every day had been preoccupied with details that are existential to such a long-distance hike. The whole thing had been a step in the dark, and I honestly had not known how in the world it would all work out.

Other northward bound thru-hikers were arriving at the base of Mt. Katahdin, looking up expectantly. I began assuring them that all would be cool for them the next day. Of course, my giving advice on climbing Mount Katahdin is about like the captain of the Titanic giving navigation advice! I was so at ease that I didn’t even worry about getting a ride out of the park until twilight. I began talking with an elderly couple who had driven from Missouri to pick up their middle-age son upon completion of his dream. They became worried as the sun began setting, and again I found myself in the odd role of providing assurance.

Finally, their son, Fido, came trooping down with an ear-to-ear grin that could have made another Missourian, Tom Sawyer, proud. They offered me a ride and we began piling our backpacks into their van. Then something occurred to me. “Fido, did you see Snowman and his wife?”

“Yeah,” Fido sighed slowly. “They were still going up when I was on my way down.”

We all looked at each other worried, and I said, “Do you mind if I go report it to the ranger?” I ran over and told the ranger that a couple was still on the mountain and most likely not able to get down before dark.

“Thank you,” he said in a business-like manner and wrote down the details.

I ran back over and we headed out of Baxter State Park. “Wouldn’t this be a great time to see a bear or a moose,” I buzzed, “while in a car on the way out of the wilderness for the last time.”

My mind went back to the first practice hikes in the dead of winter, as the wilderness lay dormant in a blanket of snow. In two days of hiking I had seen one squirrel, and never, ever breathed air so crystal clear or heard a silence so pristine. Then, for some reason my thoughts turned to a hot, humid mid-summer afternoon somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic States. By this time of year the forest was a constant hum of buzzes, chirps, and mysterious sounds. I had been walking down the trail when I heard a rustle. A smallish animal, perhaps a woodchuck or porcupine, ran out of the trees onto the trail and turned directly toward me. Then, it scampered as fast as it inhumanly could, though still very modestly, straight down the Appalachian Trail for about thirty yards before plunging back into the trees. In the most profound way it really is another world out there, rich in its own glory.

Europe is dotted with majestic castles and citadels of high culture from its imperial past. America’s past, on the other hand, is richly tied to wilderness.

I’m often asked about the AT: “Would you do it again?” The answer is a resounding yes. The ancient Greeks defined happiness as full use of your powers along lines of excellence. The Appalachian Trail and the outdoor life definitely offer the opportunity for great fulfillment and happiness.

I’ve traveled and lived all over the world. But like almost anybody who has hiked the Appalachian Trail, I found it to be the journey of a lifetime.

Epilogue

T
he first three weeks back my body went through a sort of deep-stage metamorphosis. My metabolism slowed dramatically, and I walked around with a newfound feeling of inner tranquility. A lifelong poor sleeper, all I had to do was lie down at night and I would wake up nine hours later, seemingly without having moved. This was not only due to a bone-wearying fatigue, but a profound emotional peace. My mother chortled to her friends on upon weighing me and seeing I had gained fourteen pounds in three days.

We had a party with thirty guests, including Eugene Espy, the second-ever thru-hiker back in 1951. The guests demanded a question-and-answer session from Mr. Espy and me. I started by offering a toast from the class of 2005 to the class of 1951. The great thing was the interest of people who never before had any attraction to or experience in that “other world.” There is indeed something distinctive about the American DNA that perks up at the mention of wilderness.

The morning after the party I headed off on a six-hour drive to Hot Springs, North Carolina. I parked the car in front of a meter in the one-street town—teeming this past spring with northbound hikers—and headed up the main road. This time I knew where to look, and when I saw the double blaze signifying a right turn on the side of the highway rail, I was more forgiving of my mistake five months before. I headed up the mountain as fast as possible. Two things hadn’t changed: I was still worried about
rain
and
bears
. After two hours
on the right trail
I arrived at the bridge I had circuitously found in May. I was now an official thru-hiker, and hitched back into Hot Springs.