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

by Paul V. Stutzman

  At Woody Gap the trail brought us into a clearing within sight of Georgia Rt. 60 and easy access to the towns of Suches and Dahlonega. For any hiker ready to throw in the towel and give up the trail, this is the first good chance to escape.

  Resting on boulders along a parking area, we took a short break, unaware that here we would meet our first trail magic. Trail magic is an unexpected gift of food or drink from strangers, and comes at some of the most unlikely times and locations. Trudging along in the woods, hikers suddenly come upon a large container full of drinks, candy bars, or even beer. In areas without a water supply, a kind person will leave several gallons of water. One morning, in the middle of the woods, we found pastries and a large thermos of hot coffee. Often trail magic is the work of former hikers who understand how wonderful and appreciated these treats can be. Many times a journal accompanies the gift, explaining who has left the magic and the reason for the kindness. Hikers sign the journal with their thanks and names, and in turn many of the Good Samaritans follow the hikers in logs kept on the Trail Journals website.

  Hikers have another way of snagging treats, a far cry from trail magic. This is the trail practice of yogi-ing. It refers to a hiker’s attempt to approach a person with food and make a pathetic attempt to get food without begging. This should only be done as an act of desperation, although in some cases a hiker will yogi only to see if he can rise to the challenge of getting someone to hand over some food. A fine line separates subtlety and stupidity, and sadly, some hikers cross that line.

  While we rested, a woman and her daughter approached and asked if we were thru-hikers. “We intend to thru-hike, but we’ve only walked twenty miles so far,” one of us replied. They asked if we wanted cold beverages. Coca-Cola is my favorite soft drink; I craved it many days on the trail. Sure enough, she had a Coke. My first trail magic consisted of a cold Coke and a banana.

  Refreshed, we crossed the parking area and started the one-mile climb up Big Cedar Mountain. Nearing the top, we stopped at Preaching Rock, a rock formation that gave us our first panoramic view of the area we were hiking.

  By the middle of the afternoon the rain finally stopped, and hiking conditions and our spirits both improved considerably. Spring had not yet reached this elevation, and with no leaves anywhere we were afforded great views of our surroundings. We arrived at Miller Gap just as dusk settled in. A strong spring flowed nearby, so we set up our tents in a small clearing adjacent to the trail. We had hiked thirteen miles that day and were now twenty-three miles closer to our goal.

  After my delicious meal of rehydrated Spanish rice and beans, I began the nightly ritual of hanging our food bags with a search for a suitable limb to hold our cache. Out of the thousands of trees that surrounded us, the best candidate was a limb hanging directly over the AT itself. The branch was not large, but it was supple enough that it did not break when the weight of four food bags was suspended from it.

  After a brief discussion about tomorrow’s plans, the four of us headed to our respective abodes. My clothing and other gear were drying on a nearby bush. I brought everything into my tent and slipped my exhausted body into my sleeping bag. Every muscle in my body ached. If I could only sleep this night.

  But I lay awake and relived my first two days on the trail. I was finally here, out in the woods, jobless, doing what I had dreamed about for so long. Several hours passed while I solved all of the restaurant’s problems and then moved on to the world’s problems. My body may have left my job, but my brain was still in business mode. Sometime around midnight, my mind admitted it was as exhausted as my body, and I drifted off to sleep.

  A shrill screech close to my tent jerked me awake. For the next several hours, none of us slept as two owls shrieked incessantly. One screeched from one side of my tent, and seconds later the other replied from the other side. We had surround sound with owls. Yipping animal sounds came through the night too, but nothing reached the decibel level achieved by those owls.

  I managed to doze off several times, only to be awakened at dawn by more loud hooting—this time, hooting laughter from Marathon Man and Lion King. I unzipped my tent and saw the joke. The branch holding our food bags had betrayed us during the night. Apparently not as strong as we thought, it had slowly given way to the weight, and now our food was at eye level, drooping low over the trail itself, inviting any passing bear to partake. Unwilling to have our sad attempt at food-hanging ridiculed by other hikers, Marathon Man and Lion King quickly brought down the bags. The scene would have provided good trail gossip for veteran hikers to share at shelters.

  The day promised excitement; we’d be hiking out into civilization again. We planned to hike only eight miles to Neels Gap, where the Appalachian Trail passes through a building housing a hiker hostel and an outfitter known as Mountain Crossings. The building is known as the Walasi-Yi center, using a Cherokee word referring to a giant mythical frog that supposedly guards the gap on Blood Mountain. The thought of a shower and laundry at the hostel gave us enough courage, though, to face any mythical beast.

  A larger obstacle than the frog was Blood Mountain itself. At 4,461 feet, this mountain is the highest elevation on the Georgia section of the AT. From our campsite, we had a five-mile hike to reach the summit, five miles that included numerous PUDS (the trail acronym for “pointless ups and downs”).

  Traversing the PUDS before Blood Mountain, we caught up with a Vietnam veteran lugging a pack weighing close to sixty pounds. Hiking uphill, he lagged far behind us, but on the downhill slopes the weight of his pack propelled him forward. He told us he was contemplating a thru-hike but was not yet certain of his plans. Considering the weight he carried and his seeming lack of purpose, I doubted his chance of success. Most hopeful thru-hikers are well aware of advice from Dan “Wingfoot” Bruce, respected hiker and former author of The Thru-hiker’s Handbook, who cautions that your hike must be the most important thing in your life at the moment, or you probably won’t finish. Whether my own motivation was wise or selfish was unclear to me, but I did know that nothing was more important to me at that time than finishing the trail to Maine.

  As we neared the summit of Blood Mountain, we sometimes lost our focus on the white blazes. Instead, our eyes were constantly drawn to the incredible views in every direction.

  At the Blood Mountain shelter, we dropped our packs and took a break. This structure is a two-room stone building erected in 1934 by the Civilian Conservation Corps. The mountain’s history fascinated me. Its name supposedly dates back to the 1600s, when the Creek and the Cherokee Indians battled for control of the area and the mountain “ran red with blood.” The name could also have been inspired by the colorful red lichens covering the rocks near the summit. I preferred the more peaceful explanation, but other names in the area also told violent tales, places like Slaughter Gap and Slaughter Trail.

  We were on our 2.4-mile descent to Neels Gap when we met hikers with good news. On the patio at Mountain Crossings, a church group was grilling hamburgers for hikers. Could we be lucky enough to have trail magic on two consecutive days?

  Mountain Crossings at Neels Gap sits directly across from U.S. Highway 19/129. Two images immediately caught my attention. The first was smoke billowing from the charcoal grill, promising food. The second was possibly the best business plan ever conceived: an outfitting store sitting—literally—on the Appalachian Trail. The AT passed right through the building.

  What a perfect location for this business. Every year, two thousand hikers attempt to thru-hike this trail, many of them carrying too much weight or the wrong equipment. Almost all of these hikers become customers here, out of necessity. The store has everything a hiker could ever want, and they do know what hikers need. The staff will go through your backpack (at your request, of course), sort out all unnecessary weight, and ship it home. Although 20 percent of hikers stop here and give up dreams of a thru-hike, many other pilgrims find aid and encouragement that make it possible to continue.

  But first, t
he aroma of grilled burgers drew us to the patio, where a local church group used a meal as an opportunity to share God’s love with us hikers. They didn’t need to preach a sermon; three cheeseburgers and a cold Coke spoke more to me than words ever could.

  The Vietnam vet had joined us, and I suggested he take his pack to the staff at the outfitter and let them lighten his load. He was ready to do just that. Our little group also took advantage of the laundry, and then luxuriated in hot showers.

  Lion King was feeling the effects of three days of hiking in the rain and trying to sleep in a wet tent and damp sleeping bag. He and Sailor decided to spend the night at a cabin nearby. Marathon Man and I debated the merits of sleeping in bunks at the hostel or hiking a few more miles and then camping for the night. The real question was whether we wanted to risk being kept awake by owls or by human snores. The owls won; we decided to move on to find a campsite along the trail. Lion King and Sailor would leave early in the morning in hopes of catching us the next day.

  I checked on the Vietnam veteran. At the back of the store, he and a staff member had laid out everything from his backpack, sorting into “keep” and “send home” piles. The pile going home was larger than the pile to keep. He carried knives of all shapes and sizes and a collection of books that weighed almost as much as my pack. If I stayed close to him, his knives, and his library, I would never have to fear for my safety or worry about boredom.

  Alas, he decided to stay at Mountain Crossings, possibly for several nights. I never saw him again, or heard whether or not he continued hiking. Perhaps he was using one of those distancing techniques; perhaps he had already found his peace and contentment after only thirty miles on the trail. Perhaps his heavy load had exhausted his determination.

  ———

  The Appalachian Trail runs through the breezeway connecting the hostel and the store. Marathon Man and I walked through it and once again entered the woods.

  We hiked for an hour and arrived at a clearing called Bull Gap. We set up camp, and in the course of the evening, other hikers joined us. There were ten of us, old and young, sitting on logs around the fire, eating, comparing equipment, talking about our hiking goals and dreams. It had not rained for hours, I was dry, and my clothes were clean. The sun set over Bull Gap, and my body begged for rest. Contentment soaked through my spirit as I left the circle around the fire and strolled to my tent; the trail was becoming my home. I climbed into my sleeping bag and willed the owls to screech quietly.

  Out of sheer exhaustion, I slept most of that night. The hoot birds woke me several times, but they were not sitting on every corner of my tent this time; they screeched their conversation somewhere off in the distance. Marathon Man and I were the first out of camp, a routine we continued throughout our days of hiking together. In accounting terms, we were LIFOs. Last In, First Out was a hiking style that suited us both.

  We walked into a wild battle between man and the elements. It was not a good day in the woods.

  Heavy morning fog was our mildest adversary. As we climbed the highest elevation of the day, Levelland Mountain at 3,942 feet, high winds brought rain that changed to stinging sleet. For the next ten miles, we struggled against battering winds and rain mixed with ice. We were blown over several other mountains, finding brief respite only in the gaps between. We crossed mountains Cowrock, Wildcat, and Poor, and cut through gaps Tesnatee, Wide, and Low. Visibility was at best only fifty feet; we saw the trail underfoot but could only assume we had indeed climbed those mountains and threaded the gaps.

  There were no morning breaks. Stopping would only allow cold and misery to overtake us. Shortly after noon, we reached Low Gap Shelter and gratefully stopped for a rest, a snack, and a chance to filter more water. The shelter protected us from the rain and sleet, but the howling wind blew cold blasts through the front opening, extinguishing any hope of warmth.

  The wind also blew in Sailor and Lion King. All of us were weary of the battle, so we agreed to hike just a few more hours and then set up camp and take refuge for the night. Before leaving the shelter, I put on every article of clothing in my bag, hoping for more insulation.

  We climbed no more big mountains in the afternoon, but several more hours of wind, rain, and sleet exhausted us more than any climb. At five o’clock, we stumbled into a small clearing near Red Clay Gap and set up camp in record time. By six, we were all in for the night. On a day when most intelligent people stayed inside, we had covered fifteen difficult miles.

  I peeled off layers of wet clothes and welcomed the warmth of my sleeping bag. My tent refuge was comforting; I was dry and safe from the storm raging outside. And the presence of my three fellow hikers allayed the fears that surely would have prowled through my night if I had been alone.

  The rain pounded most of the night, but I had the best rest since taking to the trail, probably because the night was so miserable that even the owls stayed indoors. Lion King was not so fortunate and spent another night fighting the elements trying to invade his tent. He was also suffering from a worsening cold.

  The morning brought more rain, with no letup in sight. Our first substantial climb was 4,025 feet over Blue Mountain, followed by a 1.4-mile downhill slide to Unicoi Gap. The trail was now a wet and slick obstacle course, with every rock and root the enemy. Staying upright was a challenge, and my hiking poles saved me countless times when I slipped on wet leaves. Marathon Man hiked without poles, and although he did an incredible balancing act, nature often won and a loud thump announced another wipeout.

  We reached Unicoi Gap without breaking any bones. Here the trail crossed Georgia Rt. 75; the town of Hiawassee was eleven miles west. Lion King decided that he must get off the trail and buy new equipment if he had any hope of continuing his hike. He planned to hitchhike to Hiawassee, get a motel room and take time to recover from his cold, and then find a ride back to Neels Gap to buy a better tent and backpack. We could either join him or move on without him.

  Apparently Sailor, Marathon Man, and I had not yet had enough misery. We opted to continue on, confident that Lion King would catch up with us soon. But we never saw him again. Several days later, a hiker passed us and in conversation told us about the seventy-year-old he had encountered in Hiawassee. They had met in town and split the cost of a motel room. He reported that Lion King had new equipment but was staying in town a little longer to wait out the rain. Unfortunately, 2008 was one of the wettest years in Appalachian Trail history, so, for all I know, my friend may still be in the motel in Hiawassee, waiting for the rain to stop.

  I had enjoyed my time with Lion King; we shared conversations about life and death and missing our spouses. I can only wish for him the peace and healing I found on my journey north.

  Our group was now reduced to three. Marathon Man, our new leader, was sixty-three and defied every description of a hiker. He hiked without poles, had a pack made in 1969, and traveled in blue jeans. He was oblivious to modern technology, but he was in great shape, and that seemed to compensate for everything else. Seventy marathons had prepared Marathon Man for this rigorous hike; he had finished one just before starting the AT. Sailor had marathon background too; he had speedwalked the Chicago marathon. Sailor became our anchor man. I trudged in the middle.

  Both of them had been Boy Scouts too, so they knew how to tie those knots to hang our bear bags. The only knot I could tie was in my shoes, since my boyhood church had frowned on joining such worldly groups as the Scouts or 4-H clubs. There I was, Apostle, hiking between two adult Boy Scouts; me, an out-of-shape restaurant manager who couldn’t tie knots, being pushed and pulled over these mountains by a marathon runner and a speedwalker. I was well aware that any time they chose, the other two could hike away and leave me to my own pathetic camping skills. But they allowed me to hang around, and because of their patience and my stubbornness, I ended up covering miles much faster than I thought possible.

  We climbed high and then slid downward, climbed and slid, all day. After Blue Mountain, Rocky Mou
ntain was a 1.3-mile climb followed by a 1.2-mile descent to Indian Grave Gap. We climbed and slid over several lesser obstacles and then faced Tray Mountain and a 2.5-mile uphill struggle to the highest elevation of our day. Shortly before we reached the summit, we came upon a wonderful sight. A local Boy Scout troop had parked a small camper beside the trail and offered hot chicken noodle soup and lemonade to hikers. But there were no Boy Scouts in sight. We couldn’t blame them, in this horrible weather. We served ourselves and took stock of our day.

  It was early afternoon and we had slipped, staggered, and stumbled close to ten miles. Should we set up our tents and avoid more punishment, or keep fighting the wind and rain to make more miles? Seven more miles would bring us to Deep Gap Shelter. The name itself appealed to us; we envisioned a refuge deep between the hills where the wind could not reach us. It seemed like the right choice, and we were fortified by the chicken soup.

  We crossed a three-mile ridge crest called the Swag of the Blue Ridge. Under normal conditions, this would have been an easy walk, with little elevation gain or loss. That day, we were battered by strong winds and blowing rain as we struggled across the ridge. After that, Kelly Knob almost stopped me. At 4,275 feet, the climb was so steep and slippery that at times I thought I could go no farther. Mercifully, that was the last mountain of the day. We fell into Deep Gap Shelter around six o’clock.

  In ten hours of nasty weather, we had hiked seventeen miles. We were either true hikers or we were idiots. I had never been this exhausted or gasped and wheezed so much in my life as I did in my climbs that day.

  ———

  Somewhere on the trail, perhaps on that wet and slippery day, I started a habit that stayed with me all the way to Mt. Katahdin. When I slipped or stumbled, but recovered without falling or twisting my ankle or breaking a limb, I heard myself say aloud, “Thank You, God” or “Thank You, Jesus.” That day, I was probably thanking the Good Lord all day long.