Skywalker--Close Encounters on the Appalachian Trail

by Bill Walker

  Listening to all this I thought: No wonder this guy has been able to hike the damn trail thirteen times. I just want to thru-hike once and spend the rest of my life bragging about it, instead of endlessly re-enacting it.

  As we prepared to depart Warren spoke movingly of the gratitude and reverence he held for the AT. “I have respect for everybody out there,” he said, “as long as they aren’t damaging the trail or another hiker in some way.” He ended the four-day seminar by saying, “If your goal is to hike the entire trail, then do it. Unfulfilled dreams are bad.”

  I drove up I-81, through the Blue Ridge Mountains to my sister’s house, which was near the AT in northern Virginia. Warren had been looking directly at me when he strongly suggested we take a couple long practice hikes. I closely studied the official AT data book he had given me and found a fourteen-mile stretch from Highway 7, where my sister could drop me off, to a road crossing on West Virginia Highway 9, where she would pick me up that afternoon. I hadn’t yet bought all the necessary equipment so I loaded my backpack with twenty pounds of books, along with some sandwiches.

  The topography in an area aptly called “the Roller Coaster” was quite demanding the first few miles, and I immediately began wondering if I could make the fourteen miles to Keys Gap before dark. Then it leveled off, and I began making better time. An eerie silence reigned, and I didn’t see or hear a single other living creature all day in the dormant winter forest. Combined with the blanket of late winter snow, and surrounded by mountains on all four sides as far one could see, it was a magical scene.

  I arrived at Keys Gap on West Virginia Highway 9 at four in the afternoon, having hiked fourteen miles in seven hours.

  I had been wondering for several years whether the whole AT idea was gigantic folly, so my adrenaline was rushing upon completion of the day’s task. Looking at the data book I saw that the next road crossing was at the historic city of Harper’s Ferry, which was also the headquarters of the Appalachian Trail Conference. I quickly called my sister on the cell phone and notified her, without allowing time for a response, that I was continuing to Harper’s Ferry.

  I later learned that she had then called my mother about what I was doing and they did some simple arithmetic. I had averaged two miles per hour the first seven hours. It was four o’clock and it would be completely dark in northern Virginia by six o’clock. That meant that at the pace I had maintained so far there was time to hike at most four more miles before dark. But it is 5.7 miles from Keys Gap to Harper’s Ferry. Further, I didn’t have a flashlight, sleeping bag, or tent with me, and heavy snow was in the forecast for the evening.

  Off I went, hoping the trail would be as easy as it had been the last five miles. But, it wasn’t. The gentle inclines became more pronounced. As I headed up the mountain I began doing the same arithmetic my mother and sister had done and realized I had a time problem. At that point a thought crept into my mind that would reappear on several occasions in the next six months. Regardless of how I felt, and fatigue was indeed setting in, I had to make it.

  The terrain became much rockier, which was a problem because my boots were beginning to kill me. I stumbled over rocks and roots, and cried out as I hurried. But there was no time for a break as the sun began to fall below the hills and the temperature dropped.

  The data book showed that at the four-mile mark the trail reached the top of Loudon Heights at which point there was a steep descent into Harper’s Ferry. It was too late to turn around, and it was now getting dark. My hopes rested on reaching that hilltop and then heading toward the lights of Harper’s Ferry, in case I lost the trail. I was slowed by the rugged terrain and my throbbing feet; the point of maximum concern came after traveling what seemed like a quarter mile without seeing a blaze. Was I off the trail and, if so, what would I do? It even occurred to me that if I went much farther without seeing a white blaze that I might have to abandon my backpack in order to get to Harper’s Ferry before pitch black dark. Why had I packed books, rather than a flashlight? Instead of preparing for a twenty-mile hike, I had packed for a sedate picnic.

  Finally, I saw two posts ahead. Squinting hopefully, I read Loudon Heights on the right and Harper’s Ferry 1.7 miles on the left. Looking below to the left I could make out lights shining way below and even hear the distant roar of the Shenandoah River. Greatly relieved, I bounded down the steep descent into Harper’s Ferry, frequently veering off the trail, whose blazes were almost invisible in the enveloping darkness. Improved morale, however, didn’t change the fact that my feet had gone from consistent pain to indescribable agony as I continued stumbling over rocks and roots and screaming in anguish.

  In total darkness I finally reached the river and highway and luckily saw the path to the steps of the bridge leading over the majestic Shenandoah River. Following the AT blazes that run across the bridge, I saw a Comfort Inn and called my sister. “She’s already gone out in the car looking for you,” her eleven-year-old daughter informed me.

  “That was stupid,” my sister barked out the second she found me. Then she called my mother in Georgia who gave me a much more comprehensive lecture on my stupidity.

  That night I had to drag myself up my sister’s stairs. The next day my two big toenails were black and blue (I would eventually lose them), and I spent most of the day in bed, while six inches of snow fell outside. While it was encouraging that I had been able to go 19.7 miles in one day—with a backpack—it was also a glimpse into what a mess a person could get into with poor judgment. And it was sobering to think that this was what I would be doing on a daily basis, followed by spending my nights out there.

  On the way home from Virginia to Georgia I stopped again at REI in Atlanta. Dutifully, per Warren Doyle’s advice, I exchanged my tent for a tarp and my boots for some mid-cut trail shoes. But I had no idea if I was actually making the right decisions.

  I began the homestretch of preparation by moving into my mother’s house in Macon, Georgia. Having always been too thin for my extreme height, I was desperately trying to gain as much weight and strength as possible as quickly as possible. My mother was feeding me prodigiously and I was drinking high-calorie, enriched drinks. Finally, I was able to get my weight to 212 pounds, the highest of my life. And while I have never been an impressive physical specimen, the months of training at Gold’s Gym had me in the best condition of my life.

  The real possibility of bear encounters was another concern that loomed in the recesses of my mind. To the great amusement of friends I even visited the dancing bear act when the circus came to town. I wanted to see how their bear trainer handled the two bears. Fred, the male, was much larger than Ginger, and the trainer gave him plentiful helpings of honey after the acts. But all I could think was that if I see one of these enormous mammals out in the woods alone there wouldn’t be a fence between us, and I wouldn’t have a bottle of honey handy either.

  After it was over I sauntered over by the trainers to chat. “Do you have any suggestions about how to respond if I see a bear on the Appalachian Trail?” I asked.

  “A wild bear, you mean?” she clarified.

  “Well, yeah, out in the woods, in case I run into one,” I stammered.

  “Gee, I don’t know,” she said to my disappointment. “It’s probably best to stand up on your tiptoes and wave things in the air to make yourself look more fearsome. That, and try talking to him if he starts approaching you.” I was hoping for something more reassuring than her answer. Was I really going to stand on my tiptoes and wave something at a bear, or would I just follow instinct and hightail it?

  The final big item on my shopping list was a sleeping bag. REI didn’t have any seven–foot-long down sleeping bags, so I ordered one named “the Ponderosa” from Western Mountaineering in California for $438. At that price it had better keep me warm!

  The sleeping bag arrived on March 26 which meant everything was in place to leave as planned on April 1. But there was one problem. I didn’t feel ready. I called several friends to s
ee if anybody could be convinced to go, at least for awhile, but they all demurred. I still had never spent a single night outside, and wondered if I had what it took to head off alone into the woods for six months, take what comes. It was at this point that a lack of resolution led to my first major blunder.

  Warren Doyle had a practice hike scheduled from April 1 to April 4, starting in Ceres, Virginia. It was a grueling march of seventy-four miles in four days. Those who completed it were eligible to go on his “expedition,” which was van-assisted. I called Warren and asked permission to try out. “Why are you suddenly interested in this?” he asked, dubiously.

  Nonetheless, he warily assented.

  What followed was a comedy of errors. First, I arrived late and missed the “Circle of Dreams.” This was a huddle in which expedition members solemnly yearn to make it all the way to Mount Katahdin in Maine. Then, I got caught red-handed violating the prohibition against eating anything but cold food for the four-day march. Finally, the weather was so diabolical on the second evening that I told Warren that I would have to sleep inside my car because of fear of hypothermia.

  “Then, you’re not going on the expedition,” he fired back.

  Before we parted ways he said, “Bill, this is a major journey you are about to undertake, and you don’t appear to be ready.” When I thanked him for his honesty, he said “It’s not me that’s telling you. It’s the trail telling you.”

  When I arrived home two days early on Monday afternoon, April 4, my mother laughed knowingly at my vague explanation of what had happened. I then endured another lecture to attempt just a section, culminated with the question, “Why set yourself up for failure?”

  I replied softly, “I’m starting this Sunday,” and went upstairs to bed, exhausted.

  I still hadn’t ever spent a full night outside and decided to spend the night of Tuesday, April 5, out on my mother’s lawn. Since there weren’t two trees the right distance apart to set up my tarp, I just threw the sleeping bag on the ground, cowboy style, and tried to sleep. After about two or three hours of uneven sleep I woke up cold, with tensed-up neck muscles, and was unable to get back to sleep. At first light the next morning I went back inside and got three or four hours of deep, lusty sleep in my soft, warm bed.

  When I woke up I decided I needed a sleeping bag with the “full mummy” feature, to fully envelop my neck and the back of my head. So I called Western Mountaineering and asked if I could switch it out for a full-mummy, seven-foot, down-filled bag. The saleswoman got the manager on the line: Yes, they could finish one called “the Badger” in a couple hours and overnight it to me. When it arrived on Thursday, April 7, I tried it out on the rug inside, but had no idea how well I would be able to sleep in it.

  The last couple days I spent loading my backpack and agonizing over which items were absolutely necessary and which weighed more than the benefits. I was especially sensitive to my cold nature. Two sets of long johns, a balaklava and stocking cap, a fleece vest, two rain jackets, rain pants, and four pairs of socks made the cut. But also heavily influenced by Warren Doyle’s minimalist philosophy, a stove, a camera, underwear, and even a watch, fell by the wayside. And I would only have the one shirt and pair of pants on me every day. I was “ready.”

  part II

  “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.”—Robert Frost

  Chapter 2

  Daniel Boone described the southern Appalachians as “so wild and horrored that it is impossible to behold them without terror.”

  The southern terminus of the AT is at Springer Mountain, in north Georgia, seventy-six miles south of the North Carolina border. Just getting there can be complicated, as it lies right in the middle of the Chattahoochee Valley National Forest, nowhere near a town of any note. My mother volunteered to drive me to this remote spot. The irony of a seventy-year-old mother dropping her forty-four-year-old son off into the mountains for a six-month journey didn’t elude me. As the formidable north Georgia mountains began to appear in the distance it occurred to me that many hikers from outside the South probably had a different image of Georgia and were in for quite a surprise.

  Driving up U.S. Forest Service Road (USFS) 42 our eyes widened as we wound our way up the narrow, steep mountainous, dirt road that dropped off precipitously on the outside. Between “oohs” and “ahs,” my mother renewed her lecture that this should be considered a two-week adventure, and I should be proud to do that much.

  Finally, we arrived at the trailhead parking lot, and I was relieved to see several people unloading backpacks. It was about 1 o’clock, and the weather was gorgeous. I asked a couple people where exactly the trail began. The summit of Springer Mountain was nine-tenths of a mile hiking south from the parking lot—the trail then went straight back down through the parking lot and continued north. I decided to hike south up to the starting point without a backpack and come right back down to the parking lot.

  At the top of Springer Mountain a “ridge runner” named Glenn was giving an orientation lecture to a group of hikers and asked me to join in. His theme was “low-impact hiking,” which minimizes humans’ effect on the environment. He so belabored the point of digging six-inch “cat holes” to bury our feces and toilet paper that our necks became sore from nodding. It seemed especially ironic that animals have more rights than humans in this regard.

  Then he segued to the subject of bears. I listened closely as he spoke in deliberate fashion: “Bears have seven times greater sense of smell than bloodhounds. It is incumbent on you to hang a ‘bear bag’ (a food bag suspended out of the reach of bears) every evening at your chosen campsite.”

  Oops, another task at which I was incompetent and, thus, had been amenable to Warren Doyle’s counsel to just keep my food bag with me at night.

  “And one final thing”—Glenn paused for gravity—“there’s a certain amount of glorification attached to thru-hikers. Some start thinking they are the only people on the trail and want to dominate it. All other hikers—day hikers or section hikers—have the same rights as you.” I was too green to have any sort of attitude or a swagger, but would eventually learn the basis for his remarks.

  I then went over and signed the register for thru-hikers. I was number 1,093. The obvious question was how many of these hikers would still be headed north come September.

  Back in the parking lot I found my mother with some newfound friends. She introduced me to a late-twentyish fellow named Justin, and his girlfriend. Tattoo-covered and bedecked with a headband and long flowing hair, Justin seemed an unlikely friend for my more traditional mother. But they hit it off.

  I introduced myself as “Skywalker.” This had seemed like an obvious trail name, given my height and surname of Walker. People often ask me how a thru-hiker gets a trail name. As best I can tell about half choose their own, and the rest get tagged by others. It seemed like a good idea to name myself and not risk picking up some unflattering name such as Snot Rag, Rat Puke, or Puss Gut, three thru-hikers I would meet farther up the trail.

  Justin and his girlfriend had a tearful parting and he headed off down the trail. Then a middle-age, upbeat looking fellow passed through the parking lot and stopped to introduce himself as “Scottie Too Lite.” My mother, being partial to resume talk, immediately had all the essentials down. Scottie had worked at IBM in Connecticut for thirty-three years, until a recent corporate restructuring. He would be one of many such victims of corporate downsizing I would meet on the trail. In fact I would soon notice a clear pattern of the trail being heavily populated with people having gone through a major life change such as graduation, divorce, or retirement.

  About this time, three attractive girls from Chicago showed up in what appeared to be designer hiking clothing. The oldest one, at about twenty-two, came over and asked a couple questions at which point my mother began to elicit biography information. “I have a certificate for outdoor excellence,” she said. “I’m in charge of safely getting my younger sisters to the finish.”

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p; “Have they hiked before?” my mother asked.

  “Barely,” she said rolling her eyes.

  “So you’re leading your inexperienced younger sisters almost two thousand, two hundred miles through the mountains to northern Maine?” I asked in disbelief.

  “We’ll get there,” she said stoutly. From what I later heard they barely made it to North Carolina.

  As hikers streamed through the parking lot and headed north—hopefully to Maine—it was clear I was entering a whole new world. Growing up I had spent nice Sunday afternoons like this at the golf course, before going home for dinner, a shower, and sleep. But here people were spending a nice Sunday afternoon hiking in the mountains, followed by God knows what.

  My mother and I hugged as I worried about her trip back down the steep, rugged U.S. Forest Service Road. Looking around at mountains as far as the eye could see she said, “Bill, I’ll have dinner ready for you next Saturday night. Don’t let pride get in the way of good judgment.” And then I departed.

  Quickly, I caught up with long-haired Justin. He was adjusting his back pack, which looked to be twice the size of mine. His most visible accoutrement was a bulky dagger sheathed to his side. This was a surprise because I hadn’t even considered bringing a weapon. What more, there seemed a basic assymetry to his strategy. With his impressively muscled physique, Justin should have been able fend off any possible human attackers without any weapon, but this knife couldn’t possibly keep a mauling bear at bay for long. Nonetheless, eager to make my first real trail friend, I followed him along the trail. In a sense this was following a lifelong pattern of standing or walking behind shorter people, and I was to continue it much of the way on the AT.