Appalachian Trail Journal -- Little Miracles and Near Disasters
Everyone wants to hear about the "best" parts of the Appalachian Trail. I could duplicate stories you've heard about the wonderful ponies in the Greyson Highlands, the majesty of the White Mountains, and the remote ruggedness of Maine. These are all great, but it's the little miracles that stick with you after a thru-hike. That and the near disasters. I offer a few of both here.
I've heard the views from Big Bald are great, but when I went over it was hailing, with thick fog that made finding even the obvious trail difficult. I had a stretch of wet and cold for about three days and got to the point where I knew I absolutely had to have both some sun and a food resupply. At this point, I had very little idea where potential jumping off spots were. I was just starting what was to become a habit of questioning hikers who were more prepared with books and maps. I have to say though, that I greatly enjoyed the feeling of being surprised by things, so I tried not to ask too much, and only when I needed it. Well, I really needed sun and food, and I got them -- just at the very point when they were most needed. It gives you faith.
Usually, I would start looking for potential sleeping sites about an hour before dark, hoping to have one nailed down a half hour before the sun went down. Every once in awhile this was a problem. Everything I looked at was rocks or sloping or wet, or full of trees or roots. Twice I camped on top of large rocks. A few times I just setup on the trail. One time, I was climbing a hill and couldn't see any spots on the way up. Night was falling fast, so I kept pressing, hoping for something at the top. Near the top, I found the mountain was almost completely jagged with rocks, completely impossible to sleep on. Except for one spot that was just exactly the size of my small bivy! It was miraculous, and I had perfect views of sunrise and sunset.
I had some terrible heel blisters in Tennessee, thanks to my horrible Montrail shoes. At the time I had some old Teva sandals (picked up my Crocs in Damascus) so I put them on and hiked without the heel strap. Somehow I managed to do this for three days. They would come off regularly and sticks would constantly get underneath, but I somehow managed to keep going, doing fairly big mile days, until I got out to a town to fix things up. It reminded me of when I would see people in the Himalayas walking around in flip-flops. You can get used to just about anything if you have to.
I rarely stayed in motels in towns, but I made a few exceptions and they were generally money well spent. One place I wanted to skip was Harper's Ferry because I knew the options were bad (BTW, the hostel just past here is no good since you can only get in at night). Two things drove me into one though: a huge rainstorm was coming and the Lakers/Pistons Finals were coming to a close. I needed to negotiate a lower price than offered though, which took some time and wheedling. The minute I struck a deal a tremendous downpour started. I half expected the motel clerk to try to renegotiate! The electricity even went off, but it came back on in time to see the Lakers lose. This was one of those rare nights when it is far, far better to be civilized for the night.
The notorious Mahoosuc Notch is one of the more memorable parts of the AT, but it became the prelude to a bit too memorable experience for me. The Notch is an extremely narrow canyon filled with boulders (and snow!) that the trail twists through like an obstacle course. It's a lot of fun, and a wonderful experience, but even in the best conditions it's often described as the slowest mile on AT. Not planning ahead very well, I didn't get into the Notch until after 6pm, and then was further delayed by a large group of teenagers who were akwardly coming through from the opposite direction. Some of them moved with the speed of an overfed sloth and they, with their monstrous backpacks, completely blocked the narrow passageways.
Then it started to rain and the boulders became slippery. So, by the time I got out of the Notch, it was already starting to get dark. I'd heard about a nice camping spot not long after the Notch, but I somehow missed it and wound up climbing a hill. Once again, I'd hoped to press to the top and find a flat spot. But this time, the lights went out on me. I'd hiked in the dark many times, but with the rain, this was a very dark night. I quickly got to the point where I could no longer tell where the trail went. I couldn't even see my hand in front of my face. It seemed like I was just going up a steep waterfall (which actually did turn out to be the trail!) so I turned around and started back down. I climbed down to a relatively level spot and slept on the trail. The next day, in the light, I was first amazed that there were mini-rivers running down either side of me and I just happened to pick the only spot on the trail that wasn't flooded. Next, I could not believe what I had blindly climbed down -- it was so slippery steep, with many possibilities for truly nasty falls. It's astounding that I didn't get hurt. It made me think of the blind guy who walked the trail and kept falling down.
This doesn't count as either a little miracle or a near disaster, but I have to leave off with this. If anyone has any doubt about which direction to hike the AT, let me put it to rest with one word: Katahdin. I vividly remember getting my first glimpse of it, from the top of one of the mountains in the 100 Mile. It almost seems mystical, especially since I'd been thinking about it for so many miles. And the climb at the end is just fabulous, easily one of the highlights, and especially so on the perfect day I had for it. Sure, Baxter is rife with serious logistical problems. I got around one of them by spending my last night on the trail just outside its borders. But the glorious finish is well worth the hassle! And yes, it's crowded in the South towards the beginning, but I can't imagine walking all those miles and ending up in Amicalola, or even worse, somewhere in the middle, after a flip-flop. It just doesn't have anywhere near the same impact.