When morning light finally signaled the end of the night’s torment, I stuffed my wet and lumpy sleeping bag into its sack and unzipped my tent to check on the Little Debbies. The delicacy had not been touched. I knew that the package contained over two hundred calories, fuel I could not ignore. The cakes were my own breakfast.

Not wishing a repeat of yesterday’s misery, I donned my GORE-TEX rainsuit, then quickly dismantled my tent. This day was also rainy, windy, and cold, but never matched the terrible conditions of the previous day. We hiked eighteen and a half miles and called it a day when we reached Laurel Creek Shelter. This shelter did have a roof and faced away from the wind. We dropped our packs with relief; at least there was a possibility of a good night’s sleep here.

I pulled my sleeping bag from its stuff sack, and it dropped to the floor with a thud. Still damp from the previous night, the bag carried the stench of wet feathers. I could not sleep wrapped in the foul smell, so at the least I would need to dry the area where I would lay my head. Brilliance struck again. I crawled inside the sleeping bag with my cookstove. Tenting the bag over my head, I lit the stove and began the drying process. The smell was horrible, but the tactic actually worked—the dampness warmed and evaporated.

Just when I was congratulating myself on my ingenuity, a new aroma permeated my little cocoon—burning feathers. I had burned a hole in the bag, and feathers were escaping, landing on the stove and bursting into a display of fireworks. Alarmed, I threw back the sleeping bag, and a cloud of feathers puffed into the air around me, drifting gently to the floor.

Duct tape patched the burned hole, but at least I had a dry place to lay my head that night. Granted, I also had a splitting headache from the fumes I’d inhaled, but I willingly paid that price for a good night’s sleep. I scooped up some of the feathers on the floor and stuffed them down a small gap in the shelter floor. Mice might reject my Little Debbies, but surely they would appreciate this gift.

My efforts did produce rest that night, and morning brought the gift of sunshine. It’s incredible how sunshine can improve one’s disposition. A sunny day also gave us an opportunity to dry out all our gear. At noon, we stopped at the Niday Shelter and, under the midday sun, spread tents, sleeping bags, and all our wet clothes over any and every bush. In an hour, we again had dry equipment and our packs were several pounds lighter.

———

As I had planned this hike and counted the miles and days I would be on the trail, I questioned whether I might become bored hiking through the woods day after day.

I never did. Every twist and turn brought new wonder.

I remembered a quote from Benton MacKaye, the originator of the AT. He said the ultimate purpose of the Appalachian Trail would be “to walk; to see and to see what you see.”[1] How often we witness a scene of great beauty but don’t comprehend what we see. A beautiful sunset, a bright full moon, brilliant stars on a cloudless night. We are too busy to see. The stresses of life blind us. Our eyes behold, but we do not grasp the greatness of what God placed here for our enjoyment.

Several weeks before, walking along a lovely stretch of trail where flowers splashed their colors everywhere and trees towered above me, I remarked to God that He had done a particularly good job on that section of the trail. I heard Him reply, You are my son, and I made it for you.

The Creator of everything I saw had named me as a son. I was an heir. How wonderful is that? If we could actually grasp the significance of that father-child relationship, then perhaps we could also begin to see what we see—and maybe even know what we know.

Sailor and I hiked in twenty-one miles of sunshine that thirteenth day of May. By evening, we were crossing Rt. 620, a small country road that follows Trout Creek. We weren’t too far from the next shelter, but it was half a mile off the trail and we did not want an additional mile of hiking. Hiking wisdom recommends camping away from highways, but this was a small country road and we were ready to call it a day. Our tents went up, in sight of both the creek and the road.

Most of our clothes and equipment had dried in the sunshine during our noonday break, but my shoes had been damp for most of the day. Now, as we stopped for the night, I realized that even my shoes were dry; everything had finally recovered from the downpours of the last two days.

I took my water filter to the knee-deep Trout Creek, running clear and cold just across from our campsite. Perched on a rounded rock, I filtered a liter of water and then jumped back to the creek bank. And slipped. My dry shoes were once again waterlogged.

We were on the trail early the next morning. Morning sun slanted through the trees and the beauty of a Virginia spring throbbed around us. We crossed Trout Creek on a footbridge, and immediately the trail turned upward. Our challenge of the day would be Cove Mountain, with rock formations along its spine. The most prominent formation, Dragon’s Tooth, jutted upward another thirty-five feet from the mountain. Our descent proved every bit as difficult as the climb. The trail downward was a series of rock steps and switchbacks; u-shaped iron rods had been inserted in the cliff walls, handholds to assist hikers navigating the steep path.

Eight miles brought us to Rt. 624. A small grocery down the road promised hot breakfasts, pizza, sandwiches, and supplies. The lure of food was irresistible. And when we arrived, we found real luxury: restrooms.

We ate. And ate. We sat on the concrete outside the store and feasted.

I checked my phone and found I had not only service but also a message. My youngest daughter had been busy herself the previous day. While I was laboring over the Virginia mountains, she was laboring to give birth to a son named Isaac.

“I’m a grandfather!” I yelled to Sailor.

“Congratulations!”

I’m an absentee grandfather, I thought to myself. Should I have been with my daughter instead of trekking through the mountains? Her mother never would have missed this event. I called my daughter and she was very clear: yes, she wanted me at home.

By the next evening, Sailor and I would be in Daleville, Virginia, where my friend Ina would meet me and drive me back to Damascus for Trail Days. I had scheduled two zero days to attend the event; Ina would then bring me back to Daleville, and I would continue my hike. But after talking with my daughter, I considered riding back home with my friend, spending several days there, and then coming back to the trail.

A big question mark was written on that plan: If I took a break now, would I ever get back to the hike? My imagination put me at home with my family, relaxing on my front porch. The picture was so enticing that I knew if I left the trail, I would probably never come back. And yet—I had a new grandson to hold and a daughter who wanted me to come home. I still had a few days to mull it over.

I dangled at the edge of the cliff, peering cautiously over the edge. McAfee Knob, one of the most photographed spots on the AT, juts out over a long valley; and from my perch I could see tomorrow’s challenge, Tinker Cliffs.

On my hikes in the Grand Canyon, I’d developed my own system to rate “survivability levels” of falls from precarious perches. The scale of danger ran from broken bones to hospital stays to extended hospital stays to certain death. McAfee Knob registered somewhere between “extended hospital stay” and “certain death.” Trees below might snag a plummeting hiker and prevent instant death, but death might be the more favorable ending. Still, I couldn’t resist the photo op, standing at the tip of the rock with nothing but sky behind me, and then sitting, reclining casually with my legs dangling over the edge.

As I lounged at the edge of the high rock, I was still mulling over my dilemma. This spot was seven hundred miles into my hike, almost one-third of the distance to that sign on Mt. Katahdin. Every mile brought new people and experiences into my life. I was leaving behind the old and becoming new. And I liked what I was becoming. What adventure and transformations lay ahead? What might I miss if I went home now? What things did God still want to show me?

———

Another ending. This was my last night in Sailor’s company. Tomorrow we would arrive in Daleville. From there, I would head back to Trail Days in Damascus and Sailor and his son would continue the hike together.

We stopped at Campbell Shelter for the night. Situated on a slight incline set back from the trail, it was a peaceful spot. Deer ventured close to the shelter throughout the evening, unalarmed by our presence. The quiet spring evening in the woods was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

Tinker Cliffs were beautiful . . . and challenging. The trail threaded through, around, and over massive boulders, and we scrambled over formations with unusual names like Snack Bar Rock, Lunch Box Rock, and Hay Rock.

I could not ignore the stabbing pains in my left leg. I’d altered my hiking gait after pulling a muscle on that incline outside the restaurant, and the change had possibly put more strain on my left leg. Or maybe, after seven hundred miles, my legs just decided they were tired. I limped toward Daleville, and the only thing that kept me walking was the promise that once I reached town, I would have two zero days to recover.

We left the woods abruptly. Emerging from the safety of the forest and finding ourselves at the edge of a major highway always astounded us. We stood on Rt. 220, where thousands of cars passing daily probably never noticed the small path through the trees, leading 717 miles south to Springer Mountain, Georgia.

A short walk down the highway brought us to a Howard Johnson, where Sailor would stay for the night and meet his son in the morning. I had a four-hour wait for my trail boss Ina to arrive and take me back to Trail Days. Hikers on many roads in all directions were finding their way to the reunion. During the time I waited, several cars pulled into the parking lot, and the occupants rolled down windows and asked if anyone needed a ride to Trail Days.

Ina arrived at six o’clock. Seeing me for the first time since Springer Mountain, she burst into tears. Turns out, though, these were not tears of joy at seeing me again; rather, she was shocked by the pathetic figure I presented. I could barely walk, had lost almost forty pounds, and was undernourished and undergroomed.

For the next two days, Ina pumped me full of anti-inflammatory drugs and huge quantities of high-calorie foods. In retrospect, my trail boss probably saved my hike.

———

Trail Days, begun in 1987 as part of the Appalachian Trail’s 50th anniversary, is a gathering and reunion, a chance for hikers to share stories and knowledge, to meet old trail friends, and to take a few days of rest. Vendors set up booths hawking equipment and food, and music and activities fill two days. A city of tents springs up, and everything quirky and timeless about the trail permeates this celebration of the AT family.

In my pre-hike life, my judgmental spirit would have stifled any enjoyment of this event. I would have looked askance at this odd assortment of humanity. Now I was a part of it. I had lived on the trail for almost two months, and I knew the character of many of these hikers. In Damascus, I looked at the crowds and knew these were some of the most genuine and honest folks I would ever meet. Time and again, I had witnessed hikers young and old come to the aid of another. It seems like the less a person has, the more willing he is to give it away.

Two days passed quickly, and I was still in considerable pain. My leg ached and my decision to continue my hike also left an ache; I knew my choice was selfish and this hike was taking priority over my family. Ever since I’d heard the news of my grandson’s birth, I had been arguing with myself. If I went home to see him now, the risk was great that I would never return and finish the hike. Little Isaac would not even know Grandpa had been missing, but I knew I was disappointing my daughter.

Her sad “I need you here” lingered in my mind when Ina dropped me off back in Daleville. I limped across Rt. 220 to the trail, a pathetic figure who had just put his own agenda above his family. For the first time since my first hours on the trail, I was hiking alone, and thoughts of family and home intensified my loneliness.

Dear God, I hope You’re out here today, because I haven’t felt this alone in a long time.

For eleven miles I struggled to keep moving; every step sent sharp pains through my shin. At Wilson Creek Shelter, I found six other hikers already settled in. I set up my tent outside, both to avoid the snores and to have my own space while I felt sorry for myself. I had disappointed my daughter. I was homesick. My body ached. And I realized I was starting over—I recognized no one inside the shelter. A rainy night matched my mood, but the morning brought sunshine, and I started a new day.

The trail crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway several times in the twenty miles I hiked that day. Those twenty miles were made possible by more drugs than I take in most years. Twelve Advil taken throughout the morning did nothing to curb the pain. In the afternoon, while on a break at Cove Mountain Shelter, I met Cheech, a hiker who had also been at the Wilson Creek Shelter the previous night. Cheech had just returned to the trail after a hiking injury and subsequent emergency surgery. He carried prescription pain pills and generously shared them with me. After taking the big blue wonder pill, I went floating over the blue ridges, which soon became the Blur Ridge Mountains. I no longer felt pain in my leg; I didn’t feel much of anything. All I was aware of, on that dreamy afternoon, was a little stomach discomfort from my pharmaceutical diet.

At the Bryant Ridge Shelter that night, I reflected on my two solitary days. I’d been worried about the prospect of hiking alone, but I realized the loneliness I felt at times was now superseded by another feeling: confidence. I was confident hiking alone. I was going to be all right out here, after all. I had survived losing my wife, I had survived leaving my job, and now I was passing another test. I could survive by myself. I am on the adventure of a lifetime, and I will enjoy what each day brings, whether I’m alone or in the company of others.

Cheech also stopped at Bryant Ridge, and I thanked him for sharing his painkillers. He reached into his medicine bag and gave me four more for the next day. Trail magic!

I needed those painkillers for several big climbs. Apple Orchard Mountain loomed ahead. But I never saw Apple Orchard. A thick fog bank parked on the mountain and refused to move. Bare tree limbs reached out of the fog as I passed, and trail signs were barely visible until I stood in front of them. The fog and blue pill combined to make my memories of that morning vague and dreamlike.

Later in the day, visibility improved and I hiked along a ridge where the elements were gearing up for battle. On one side of the ridge the sun shone brilliantly; on the other side storm clouds threatened. I hoped the sun would prevail.

I smiled a lot that day too, and I’m fairly certain that was not an effect of the drugs. It was impossible to look at spring wildflowers and not smile. Those bursts of color that I had rushed past and never seen in my old life now brought little surges of joy. On that day, pink and white azaleas bloomed in profusion along my path, an absolute gift from God.

My solitary plod ended at seven that evening; I had hiked 22.7 miles. Arriving at Matts Creek Shelter, I found it empty. Tents were pitched within sight of the building, but the shelter itself was unoccupied. I dropped my pack inside and anticipated a quiet night, having the shelter to myself.

Before unpacking, I checked the register to read the daily trail news. There was a reason I had the building to myself. Recent entries complained of an infestation of fleas. Hikers recorded horror stories about waking up at night to find bites all over their bodies, and so I camped outside that night along with everyone else.

As I signed my entry in the register, another name caught my eye. For weeks, I had followed Sir Enity and his journal posts. His entries always spoke about peace and love and often ended with “If you can’t carry it in your heart or on your back, you probably don’t need it.” Since I marched to the beat of a faster drummer, I often caught up with hikers ahead of me. And the entry tonight told me I had finally caught up with Sir Enity.

There were others whom I hoped to overtake on the trail too. A priest on sabbatical was on a pilgrimage somewhere ahead of me. A young man was hiking along the AT as part of a trek around the world. I hoped to meet them and hear their stories.

I set up Big Agnes and went to the creek to filter water. A lone figure emerged from a tent at the edge of the creek and joined me. Sir Enity had entered my world. We introduced ourselves, and in the ensuing conversation I found that his wife had also passed away, after a short illness just eight months before. He told me his story.

“After she passed away, I took a good look at my situation, took stock of what was important to me, and decided I didn’t need anything that I couldn’t carry in my heart or on my back. I gave away 90 percent of my accumulated stuff and came to the trail.”

His wife’s body had been cremated, and Sir Enity carried a vial of her ashes with him to scatter at the base of the Mt. Katahdin sign. “I cannot tell you how much I miss her,” he said. He didn’t have to try; I already knew.

“You know, Apostle, there just isn’t any way to make sense of it. It is what it is,” he added sadly.

Of all the moving words that have been written about loss, this phrase puts it most succinctly. I lay in my tent that night and kept returning to his words and the image of a man carrying a vial of his wife’s ashes with him on the long, hard path to Maine. His grief was so familiar to me.

It is what it is.

__________________
[1]. Jim Schmid, ed.,“Trail Quotations part 3,” American Trails, http://www.americantrails.org/quotes2.html.