by Bill Walker
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
The 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.
The following day I passed through Erwin, Tennessee, to pick up Miss Janet, the notorious hikers’ hostel owner, on the way to the annual ALDHA (Appalachian Long Distance Hikers Association) Gathering in Hanover, New Hampshire. Miss Janet thrived on trail gossip and is part of the rich tapestry of the AT, despite never having hiked more than a couple miles on it.
When I mentioned meeting Justin Maximus on the first day in the parking lot at Springer Mountain, and wondering why he was carrying such a large knife, she stopped me.
“Do you know what happened to Justin?” she asked softly.
“No,” I said with eyebrows raised. “I asked a lot of people and got the impression he dropped out somewhere.”
“No,” she solemnly intoned. “Justin was killed in Duncannon, Pennsylvania. He got hit by a train.”
She then related a witch’s-brew tale of drinking, barroom brawling, and a romantic misadventure. Apparently, along the trail Justin had met a very attractive Ukrainian Girl called Water Boy. After striking up a trail romance with her he was scheduled to meet his girlfriend at the hiker feed in Duncannon. There everything came to a head, and he reputedly ended up in a shoving match at the Doyle Hotel. After being thrown out he had walked in front of the hotel to the train tracks and was either accidentally hit by or hurled himself in front of a train. Trail opinion tended decidedly toward the latter.
I had heard about it in Delaware Water Gap, but Justin had picked up the trail name Packstock (due to his heavy load) after we got separated, so I didn’t recognize it. All the stories on the trail related to what a jerk he had made of himself in Duncannon. This brought my mind
back to the first days on the trail in Georgia when he had talked so movingly of his distaste for crowds. Besides the obvious fact that his death at age twenty-eight was a tragedy, I found it extra sad that such a nice, authentic guy had died in a situation that had shown him in the absolute worst light.
The most-well-attended function at the Gathering, held at Dartmouth College, was the seminar on the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail). Well over 100 people showed up for it alone.
The speaker began by saying, “The PCT is the next step for AT thru-hikers.”
I left Hanover and drove to Chicago with the Gypsy Sisters, two members of the Class of 2005. We were shocked at the flat expanse of wide-open plains once we finally got out of the Appalachian Mountain Chain. The Appalachians had left their mark not just on me, but on the country as a whole. It seems no accident that the Midwestern character is down-to-earth and wholesome, while the Appalachian parts are flavored with more flinty, cantankerous, hard-boiled types. Thank God for it all.
Acknowledgements
As a first-time writer, I was daunted by all the technical work required to get a book published. I had never considered a book a matter of anything beyond writing it. When I started attending author’s meetings every writer seemed to have a hard-luck tale of being “battered, beaten, and abused” by a publisher. Fortunately, my experience with Indigo Publishing has been a positive one.
Publisher Henry Beers and his talented staff, including editors Joni Woolf and Rick Nolte, and graphic designer Audra George, proved to be quite service-oriented and forward-looking. Aspiring writers should be discriminate, but not deterred, by the publishing process.
Jerry Gramckow of Denver, Colorado, was also very helpful in reviewing and helping cut my bloated second draft.
Finally, my mother, Kathleen Malloy Walker, performed several thankless tasks in that memorable year of 2005, including fattening me up beforehand and afterwards, as well as sending and receiving clothing and hiker gear to and from various post offices along the way.
Suggested reading
Brill, David. As Far as the Eye Can See, Rutledge Hill Press, 1990.
Bruce, Dan “Wingfoot”. The Thru-Hiker’s Handbook, Appalachian Trail Conference 2005.
Bryson, Bill. A Walk in the Woods, Broadway Books, 1998.
Chazin, Daniel D. Appalachian Trail Data Book, 2001.
Emblidge, David. AT Reader, Oxford Press, 1996.
Hall, Adrienne. A Journey North, AMC Books, 2000.
Hare, James. Hiking the Appalachian Trail, 1975 Rodale Press.
Howe, Nicholas. Not Without Peril, AMC Books, 2000. Luxenberg, Larry. Walking the AT, Stackpole Books, 1994.
Mass, Leslie. In Beauty May She Walk, Rock Spring Press, 2005.
Mikkalsen, Stacy. Appalachian Trail Thru-Hiker’s Companion, Appalachian Long Distance Hiker’s Association, 2001.
Nash, Roderick. Wilderness and The American Mind, Yale University Press, 1983.
Rubin, Robert. Trail Years: A History of the Appalachian Trail Conference, Appalachian Trail Conference, 2000.
Shaffer, Earl. Walking With Spring, Appalachian Trail Conference, 1983.
Shaffer, Earl with Bart Smith. Calling Me Back to the Hills, Westcliffe Publishers, 2001
Solnit, Rebecca. Wanderlust: A History of Walking, Viking Penguin, 2000.
Sussman, Aaron and Goode, Ruth. The Magic of Walking, Simon andSchuster, 1967
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
In Memory of
Dedication
Part I
Chapter 1
Part II
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part III
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part IV
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Suggested reading