Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail

by Paul V. Stutzman

  Many hikers spend much time drying and packaging their own food; I had neither the time nor the desire to do so. Instead, I bought freeze-dried food. Cooking dinner would mean boiling twelve ounces of water, pouring it into a foil bag containing four ounces of food, waiting ten minutes, and then relishing a one-pound meal. That meal would supply five hundred calories, and additional nutrition would come from trail mix, energy bars, breakfast bars, candy bars, and Little Debbies. I planned to carry a week’s supply of food, and I would call my trail boss with instructions on where and when to send each subsequent food box.

  Ina, my friend and co-worker, would be my trail boss. Support at home is crucial for conquest of the AT. Small details can have large repercussions. For example, if a food drop arrives at a post office on Saturday but the hiker doesn’t arrive before noon, chances are that the food can’t be picked up until the post office opens again on Monday; thus an entire day is lost. Planning food deliveries also involves choosing the best pickup location, whether a post office or hostel.

  ———

  I found myself paralyzed by uncertainty and doubt. Can I hike through fourteen states and over two thousand miles? After much mental jousting with my fears, I knew my choice must be to believe. The AT was teaching me before I had left a single footprint on the trail.

  Had I known all the results of my choices, all the details of the next months, all that waited for me on the trail, I probably would have rapidly backed away from a path so difficult. But I would also have missed the most incredible journey of my life. It was not only an incredible journey on my own two feet wandering through spectacular creation, but also a journey of discovery through the landscape of my mind and heart.

  Preparation for a long-distance hike should include building an appropriate degree of physical fitness. Although I was not a total ball of flab, twenty-five years of pies, pastries, and rich restaurant food had created twenty pounds more of me than was necessary. Winters in Ohio are not conducive to any kind of exercise regimen. Hence, my only physical preparation for the trail consisted of several trips up and down the stairs with my loaded pack.

  How difficult could this be, anyway, this idyllic footpath, this extended walk in the park? Sure, I’d have extra weight on my back, but I reasoned that every pound of body weight I lost would be like an extra pound taken out of my backpack. My math reassured me; if I carried a thirty-five-pound pack, but lost twenty pounds, it would feel like I was carrying only fifteen pounds.

  Oh, my math was so wrong.

  Saturday, March 29, 2008. Two months had passed quickly and my final day at the restaurant had arrived. Normally, our Saturdays were very busy, so I went about my routine, trying to keep a sense of normalcy. Doubts had crept in countless times since I had sent my resignation letter. Was this what God wanted me to do? Could I change my mind? But there was no turning back. A new manager had already been hired. I was free to go.

  My mind raced through jumbled thoughts and emotions, some logical, some philosophical, some wildly irrational. How could anyone replace me so quickly? This place can’t survive without me. How can I give up everything here to become a jobless bum? But some rational brain cell came forward and admonished me, Just leave already. There is probably someone in the dining room choking on a piece of bacon right now, while the new manager has to explain to an irate customer why the eggs turned green. I took one more sentimental journey through every corner of my stress factory. I’d already said my farewells to loyal friends and co-workers, so I finished my memory walk, turned my back on my safety net, and walked away.

  ———

  I couldn’t give myself one unoccupied moment, or I would have to face the fact that I was unemployed. I decided to leave for the trail that very day. My backpack was ready, and in a few hours I went from maintaining a job and a house to lugging around a thirty-five-pound bag that held everything I’d need to survive in the wilderness.

  Amicalola Falls State Park, twenty miles east of Ellijay, Georgia, was my destination. Amicalola Falls is a series of seven falls dropping a total of 729 feet down a rocky mountainside; the name itself is Cherokee for “tumbling waters.” At the base of the falls, I stood wrapped in a blanket of mist. Taking comfort from the sound of the falling water, I felt a kinship with this river. My life, flowing merrily along, had suddenly arrived at an abyss where everything fell away and the waters tumbled and crashed over the edge. But after the abrupt, headlong plunge down the cliff, the river quiets itself in pools and then moves on steadily and unhindered. I wanted the same for my life.

  I was finally here at the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. Tomorrow I would take my first steps on the trail that had held my dreams for so long.

  Thru-hikers stop at the visitor center in the state park and sign their first register on the trail. These notebooks log hikers’ progress and record their thoughts along the way. Hikers leave information, warnings, encouragement, or gripes for those coming after them. I browsed back through several weeks of entries, looking for names I recognized from reading the Trail Journals website.

  The Trail Journals site was created for hikers to post journal entries so family and friends can follow their progress; folks at home can also send messages to a hiker. The site is a great place to gather information; for several years, I’d hiked vicariously with thru-hikers. Now I was no longer a reader of Trail Journals; I would be one of the writers.

  I entered my name in the register and officially became hiker number 391 attempting to walk from Georgia to Maine.

  In my room at the Amicalola Lodge, I spread out my equipment. Nervously, I packed and repacked my backpack. Should the tent go in flat or upright? Two liters of water or three? I filtered water from the room faucet, just for practice. The night was restless and long.

  A blanket of fog dropped before morning, making visibility almost zero. It delayed my departure for a few hours, which I filled by needlessly unpacking and repacking several more times. The fog at last lifted, and I set out to find the trailhead somewhere at the top of Springer Mountain.

  An eight-mile approach trail leads from the lodge to the trailhead on the mountain. It is a blue-blazed trail, which means it is not an official part of the Appalachian Trail, which is marked with white blazes. I could either hike or drive to the summit trailhead, where I would start my thru-hike. My trail boss, Ina, had driven to Georgia with me to return my car to Ohio. And since she had not yet departed with my car, I chose to drive to the trailhead. As it turned out, it would have been easier to hike the eight miles. U.S. Forest Service Road 42 was made for a four-wheel drive vehicle, not my family sedan. We bumped around, over, and through ruts and rocks and arrived at a sparsely graveled parking area at Big Stamp Gap.

  Another vehicle was unloading hikers. Someone was giving them directions: head south for the start of the trail. That can’t be right. Maine is north. I hadn’t even taken my first steps on the trail, and already I was confused. I realized then that the trail went right through the parking lot, with one path leading north and one leading south. The official beginning of the AT did indeed start one mile south of where we stood. So the first mile of my hike would be south to the start of the trail, and then I’d hike back to this parking lot again and continue through it, northward.

  Since I would be hiking back to this spot, I convinced Ina to hike those first two miles with me. I had persuaded her to take a day off work to deliver me to Georgia, and now I was going to squeeze two more miles out of her. Actually, it was just a ploy to delay the loneliness that I already sensed was waiting for me just a few steps into those woods.

  A cluster of gnarled trees and an outcropping of rocks greeted me when I arrived at last at the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. On one large rock was the first white blaze of the trail. For the next 2,176 miles, those small two-by-six-inch painted white marks would be my road map, almost 80,000 of them on trees, rocks, signs, buildings, and even railroad ties. Adjacent to the first blaze, a bronze plaque embedd
ed in the rock bore the image of a hiker and the inscription,

  Appalachian Trail

  Georgia to Maine

  A Footpath for

  Those who seek

  Fellowship with

  the Wilderness.

  I posed for a photo at the first blaze and then signed the register. Enclosed in a plastic bag, the fat notebook contained entries from optimistic hikers, often bold or brave statements. My entry simply read, “Apostle, heading to Maine.”

  We finally arrived back at the parking lot, one mile of the trail under my feet. With a heavy heart, I hoisted my pack. The time had finally arrived. Just when I had thought this day could not possibly get sadder and more depressing, it started to rain. I dropped my pack again, and for the first of many times in the months to come, I put on rain gear. I was scared. I wondered if this was the worst decision of my life. My friend and I had said good-bye, and there was nothing more to say. As I watched the car disappear down that dirt road, I felt more alone than I’d ever felt in my life. The raindrops and my tears fell together as I turned and trudged into the woods.

  After sniveling along for a short distance, I stopped to compose myself and take stock of the situation. Let’s see . . . you quit your job, you are standing alone in a woods in Georgia, and you plan to hike 2,176 miles to Maine. You have never camped for more than a weekend in your life, and you intend to live in a tent for almost five months. Yes, indeed, that does make a lot of sense. Now get moving.

  It took some time, but my emotions finally settled down, and I began to notice my surroundings. I was walking on a carpet of pine needles, through a stand of Cathedral Hemlocks. Stover Creek flowed to the right, and the song of running water soothed my saddened spirit. For several miles, the trail was the idyllic pathway in the woods of my dreams.

  Several hikers had overtaken me. We paused to chat, and as they moved on I wondered if we would meet again in the days to come. My start date determined who I would meet on the trail. Beginning one day earlier or one day later would have changed my personal interactions all the way to Maine. Who was I destined to meet when I chose March 31 to begin walking north?

  Several miles later, I stopped for a lunch break and experienced for the first time that great relief of slipping the heavy pack off my back.

  Another eight miles brought me to Hawk Mountain Shelter. It was only four o’clock, but the next shelter was seven miles away. I approached this shelter with the intention of stopping but soon realized it was already full. If I stayed here, I would have to set up my tent nearby. While I considered my options, two hikers left the shelter, having decided the building was too full and it was too early to stop. Their plan was to hike several more miles and then set up camp in the woods. I asked to join them, and was graciously received.

  “What’s your trail name?” one of them asked.

  “Apostle,” I replied. “Apostle Paul. I’m hiking to Damascus, hoping for an enlightening experience. Damascus, Virginia, that is. Then on to Maine.”

  They found the humor in my biblical reference, and introduced themselves as Marathon Man and Lion King. Most hikers are known by trail names. In earlier years, a hiker would often gain such a moniker as a result of some stupid or habitual action on his part, and the nickname would follow him forever on the trail: “Nose Picker” or “Gas Bag” or sometimes something much worse. Most thru-hikers today choose their own names before setting foot on the trail, as a means of avoiding this potential denigration by fellow hikers. I’d chosen Apostle, not only because my name was Paul, but because the definition of apostle is “one sent forth on a special mission.”

  The three of us hiked several more miles and stopped at Horse Gap, just a small clearing in the woods with a creek running along one side. We would set up camp here. It was time to unfurl Big Agnes.

  Big Agnes was my tent. Shopping for my home away from home during those two frantic months of preparation, I knew I wanted something big enough to hold myself plus all my worldly possessions. I chose a Big Agnes Seedhouse SL2. This two-person tent weighed nine ounces more than the one-person model. I agonized over adding those extra nine ounces, but in the end, I chose the luxury of additional space. By the time I got to Maine, I realized that nine ounces of luxury carried 2,176 miles translates into lots of extra exertion.

  With our tents pitched and meals eaten, it was time for us to hang our bear bags. We were hiking through bear country and had been advised to hang our bags from a sturdy tree branch, out of any prowler’s reach. I realized in dismay that the only appropriate branch was directly over my tent. Just great. The bear could use my tent as a launching pad to reach those food bags. It was not a comforting picture. Rather than relocate my tent, we headed farther into the woods, searching for a suitable branch. I know what you’re thinking: You’re surrounded by trees; shouldn’t there be branches everywhere? But, as I would learn, finding a good branch for bear bags is never easy.

  We made many attempts to hurl a weighted rope over a good branch. I must report, our throws were mostly unsuccessful; we broke several perfectly good branches in the process. Finally, we lassoed our branch and hung our three food bags, a tantalizing buffet we hoped was out of the reach of any forest marauders.

  The rain had started again and was coming down hard by the time I finished filtering my water. It was eight o’clock—hiker midnight, as it’s known on the trail. I scrambled out of my soaked clothes and snuggled into my fluffy, down-filled sleeping bag. The first day of my lifelong dream was complete. I was utterly weary, from both the physical and emotional ordeal of the day. But I had survived one day.

  I got very little sleep that night, kept awake by raindrops pinging on my tent and my still-churning emotions of the day. I wondered what lay ahead of me on this narrow path to Maine.

  Every year, approximately four million people visit Ohio’s Amish Country, hoping for a respite from their busy lives. They come to enjoy the scenic beauty and the slower lifestyle of the Amish and Mennonites. I grew up as part of that community, insulated from the outside world.

  But the quiet, rural community I knew as a child was transformed by the wealth tourists brought to town. Tourist dollars became a vital source of income for area residents, and restaurants, shops, furniture stores, inns, flea markets, and cheese factories soon dotted the landscape.

  Most of these shops are closed on Sundays. Consequently, most of the tourist crowd leaves by Saturday night and is deprived of witnessing our number one industry: religion.

  Unlike most communities that appear to have a mix of bars and churches, the community of my childhood had only churches. That was fine, since no one had a thirst for alcohol (or so I thought). Churches sprouted up everywhere. In my community, spreading the gospel sometimes meant moving down the road a few miles and building a new church. Often this migration was prompted by disagreements within a congregation on superficial things like dress, color of vehicles, and other vital issues that determine eternal destiny.

  In this mix of churchology, I formed early beliefs and learned lessons about life and leadership. It was very clear that my outward appearance mattered more than my inward condition. Sure, we were taught “salvation,” but salvation was contingent on obedience to a strict regimen of rules. The straight and narrow path that was intended to deliver me to life everlasting seemed as narrow and precarious as a balance beam.

  Shortly after I was born into an Amish family, my parents decided to leave that church and, as the saying goes, “jump the fence.” The fence we jumped was quite low, and we landed in a conservative Mennonite church that was not far removed from our previous Amish beliefs.

  Now we could travel by car instead of horse and buggy, and we were soon the proud owners of a Studebaker. To this day, the Studebaker is on my short list of the ugliest vehicles ever made, but that first car did expand my horizons, since now we could travel farther and visit other churches. Visits to other congregations were pretty much the extent of our exploration of the wider world.


  As time passed, riding in the old Studebaker became dangerous. Sometimes the right rear door popped open if a passenger was forgetful enough to lean against it. After my sister fell out of the car one day on our way to church, Dad realized the old car had to go.

  At the car dealer’s lot, a 1956 Pontiac captivated my dad. A thing of beauty, it gleamed with shining chrome; Chief Pontiac himself perched on the front hood. There was a problem, though. Our church strictly forbade two colors on our cars. This shiny Pontiac would be labeled a sinmobile. After discussing this dilemma with the car salesman, Dad agreed to a compromise; the price was adjusted so that we could afford to repaint the car.

  We drove home in bliss, swathed in yellow and chrome, with the magic sounds of the radio drifting from the dashboard. Of course, the church would not permit a radio, so we would have to remove the antenna with a hacksaw. Somehow I convinced my dad to delay that amputation for a few days, and I would sneak into the garage to enjoy stolen moments of the wonder of radio. This was just one of the enticements to adventure that would beset me as I lived out years of convoluted attempts to stay on the straight and narrow way. Dad soon discovered my malfeasance, and I watched with sadness as the hacksaw removed my connection to the outside world.

  We waited for the body shop to schedule the paint job, and I took great joy in the delay. I rode up front whenever I could, hoping all my friends would see me in this beautiful vehicle. But my dad parked it behind the church on Sundays, attempting to hide it from judgmental eyes. On the day the yellow chariot was painted, it left our house a thing of beauty but returned in the evening a dark blue version of its former glorious self.