An article on Samwise's AT Thru-Hike appeared in the January 4, 2002 issue of the Mt Vernon Gazette .
The Mount Vernon Gazette is the local paper for our current neighborhood in Alexandria, VA.
Appalachian Trail Thru-Hike 2001
A few months ago, I stood on top Mt. Katahdin in Baxter State Park, and I had walked 2,168 miles to reach it. My fingers traced the carved letters of the sign at the peak, "Northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail." I could hardly believe the journey of a lifetime was complete.
My first introduction to the Appalachian Trail came five years ago in Shenandoah National Park. My husband and I had recently moved to the area and were out camping for a weekend. At the Pinnacles picnic area, I remember reading a sign about this "footpath," over 2,000 miles from Georgia to Maine. I was surprised, amazed and intrigued by the very thought. I loved to hike, and the idea of traversing the Appalachian range was terribly exciting. Little did I know where that thought would bring me!
After two years of planning, I joined several dozen anxious, hopeful thru-hikers on Springer Mountain last April first. I was so excited to be there, I had to pinch myself constantly to be sure I was not dreaming. Or perhaps I was trying to verify that my skin was not yet frostbitten... My first night was the coldest of any I spent on the trail. My body was not yet acclimated to cooler outdoor temperatures and I shivered all night long, listening to the symphony of snoring all around me in the shelter. Was this what my next six months would be like? Yikes.
That first week was a full palette of typical AT experiences. I struggled up steep, slippery mountain-sides through two straight days of rain, began suffering knee pain by day three, had mice build nests in my pack, and outgrew my boots after four days of hiking. But I also had made at least a dozen new friends. I had watched the sun set from atop Blood Mountain, the highest peak in Georgia, one of only four hikers that week to see the view from on top due to constant fog. That night, we rigged a tarp over the damaged windows of the shelter (really a cabin) to keep the hurricane-force wind out and slept comfortably side by side on the wooden floor. I saw the earliest signs of spring, as delicate, five-petaled white flowers began to bloom along the trail. I was simply glad to be alive.
It did not take long to develop my routine as a thru-hiker. Each morning began between 5 and 6 a.m. As I packed, I ate pop tarts or cereal bars, washing them down with my morning ration of Gatorade. Every item of my pack had a specific place and I often packed more by feel than by sight, in the pre-dawn darkness. An hour later, I was again heading north, watching the sun rise and listening to animals scurry in fright as I crunched through the leaves on the trail.
My daily mileage goals had to be flexible, and I relied heavily on my maps to plan each day's hiking. I recall a day in northern Virginia, where I hiked 14 fairly flat miles with relative ease, hitched into town for a 2-hour restaurant lunch, and then hiked 6 more miles to a shelter for the evening. On another day in New Hampshire, I started climbing from the base of Wildcat Mountain at 7:00 a.m. For an unknown reason, nausea and vertigo slammed me with every step, and it took me over 4 hours to make the steepest 2-mile climb I had ever seen. After 8 hours, I reached Carter Notch Hut, where I stayed the night. Though I had planned to hike 13 miles that day, I had to be satisfied with 6.
No matter what kind of hiking day I had, my evening ritual was the same. Set up camp, in the shelter if there was a chance of rain, otherwise in my tent. Get water unless I was making a "dry camp." Cook supper. Clean pot. Write in my journal. Massage my swollen feet and knees for a few minutes while reviewing the map and guidebook for tomorrow. Crawl into my sleeping bag and read a chapter of my book before falling asleep.
Gradually, I made my way north. The highlights were frequent and exciting. I camped by myself for the first time on the trail in Plumorchard Gap, GA. I crossed my first state line at the gnarled oak tree. As I crossed from Tennessee into Virginia, I set my daily mileage record at 26 miles. Almost by accident, I hiked the "Damasca-thon," the 26-mile stretch between Iron Mountain shelter and Damascus, Virginia. It was not the first time the lure of showers, food and a bed induced a high-mileage day!
Trail towns seemed to come and go in rapid succession, with picturesque names like Hiawassee, Montebello, Delaware Water Gap, Caratunk and many others. Each time my first priority was the post office. Always a mail drop awaited me, with food and supplies carefully packed and sent by my husband, who served as "ground control" for the entire hike. His excellent packages, in addition to frequent treats sent by family and friends, made me the envy of many of my fellow hikers. It was exhilarating and sometimes painful to briefly reconnect with loved ones while I was in town, but it was their constant support and encouragement that gave me strength always to keep going.
"Are you hiking alone?" Over 6 months, this was the most frequent question I heard, the tone of the asker ranging from surprise to admiration to fear. Many people, friends from home, residents of trail towns, and even some fellow hikers admitted they would never attempt this journey alone. They perhaps felt safer with a companion or feared loneliness or weren't comfortable enough with their backpacking skills to go solo. Hiking with a partner can be great fun, and I sometimes wished I had a little more company along the way. However, thru-hiking north during peak season, as I did, meant I was surrounded by fellow hikers. Particularly in the evenings, we congregated at shelters, comparing our suppers of pasta and rice and sharing news of the day. In towns, we all gravitated to the same hiker-friendly places. It actually required a bit of effort to be alone.
But solo hiking allowed me greater freedom and solitude, which I preferred. I loved being able to spend an extra hour at lunch if I felt like it. I could be sick or have a bad day without bothering someone else. I could follow a whim, take an unplanned day off, or push a high-mileage day without the worries of a partner's time constraints or pace. I also encountered far more wildlife than my friends who hiked together down the trail.
Some people also wondered if I had additional worries as a woman hiking solo. The simple answer is no. I always tried to "hike smart," keeping in touch with hikers around me and choosing not to spend time around anyone who made me uncomfortable. I also avoided unnecessary risks, such as camping alone near busy roads. Overall, I found danger is no more prevalent on the AT than in any urban area. In fact, much less so. The Appalachian Trail Conference estimates 3 - 4 million people use the trail each year. However, since the 1970's, when such record-keeping began, there have been only 7 murders linked to the trail. By comparison, I live and work near Washington, DC, a population of just over half a million. In the year 2000 alone, 233 people were murdered in the District.
In short, I felt completely safe on the trail. And I was among many other like-minded women. In 2000, ATC statistics show that women who completed the trail (officially known as 2000-milers, to include thru-hikers and section hikers) were at 23%. Though it is too early to draw firm conclusions, the 2001 reports indicate 29% of thru-hikers were women. Even families have hiked the trail together. In the past two years, two families, each with five children, completed the trail. The youngest of these was 2 years old; needless to say, she "rode" with her mother more than she walked.
One of the greatest joys of thru-hiking was experiencing the generosity of strangers, a phenomenon known as "trail magic" and the providers known as "trail angels." These acts of kindness were often simple: a stranger stopped to give me a ride into town; a family living near the trail put out a cooler of sodas on a hot summer day. There were also tremendous gifts, such as the time I received a free nights' stay and meal in the home of a family near the trail in Virginia. Another time, I reached the summit of Mt. Moosilauke in the White Mountains without a drop of water left. I had refilled at the last stream, but an intestinal infection made me hike far too slowly and forced me to drink more than usual to avoid dehydration. Though it hurt my supposed self-sufficient ego, I asked a nearby day hiker if he carried spare water. He was better prepared than I was and insisted on giving me an entire liter of water so that I would not run out before the next source. Such kindness from total strangers was overwhelming! My faith in the goodness of humankind was renewed.
It was also very rewarding to meet many of the selfless volunteers who donate their time to maintaining the trail and shelters. Whenever possible, I stopped to shake the hands of those whose labor made my journey a reality. Records from ATC show that 4,629 volunteers contributed 201,466 hours in the year 2000. I was especially proud to hike through PATC territory, where 435 volunteers contributed 15,918 of those hours.
By the time I reached Hanover, New Hampshire, my guidebook stated that I had covered 80% of the miles, but that I had 50% of the work left. The first southbounders were also joining us at shelters, and attested to the tremendous difficulty of the terrain ahead. I quickly found out that they were right, but even such difficulty was not able to dissuade many northbounders who had come this far. We were in the minority. Of an estimated 2,375 thru-hikers who began at Springer Mountain, only 10-15 percent of us arrived at Katahdin. (As of November 2001, 260 northbounders had reported their hike completions to ATC, though more reports will continue to arrive daily.) My daily expectation dropped quickly from at least 15 to no more than 10 miles. My knees, which had hurt since Georgia, suddenly exploded with pain from the steep ascents, and worse, even steeper descents. Falls, cuts and bruises became commonplace.
Despite the difficulty, hiking above tree line was suddenly providing views that made the entire journey worthwhile! My favorite day on the trail was when I crossed the Franconia Ridge in the Whites. The temperature hovered around 40 degrees and the winds gusted to 30 mph that day, but the cold could not hamper my absolute thrill of being "on top of the world" for 7 miles. The clouds blew through in waves, allowing views of the massive mountain ranges around me to come into focus. The beauty was utterly breathtaking.
And then I reached Maine, the most beautiful state of all. One of Maine's gems is the "100-mile Wilderness," the most remote section of the AT. For 100 miles, I did not cross a single paved road nor encounter any towns. Still, the Wilderness is not as remote as it once was. A lodge has opened near its northern end and is quickly becoming a mecca for hikers and snowmobilers. While still isolated - arrival is via boat, which you must summon by air horn - it offers a chance to resupply, get clean and eat massive cheeseburgers and pizzas.
Maine also enjoys its status as the most difficult state. The so-called "hardest mile of the trail" is the Mahoosuc Notch in southern Maine. The Notch is a boulder field, left by retreating glaciers of long ago. For three hours, I clambered over the car-sized and house-sized boulders, crawled under the caves beneath them while pushing my pack ahead, and straddled crevasses between them. All to get through a single mile of trail.
Finally, in the early days of October, Katahdin drew near enough that I could see it at least once a day. A massive table-top shaped peak, it rose out of the distance like a myth, with nothing else on the horizon to obscure it. Each time I saw it, I could do nothing but stare, open-mouthed. Could it be that I was finally reaching the goal? So many mixed feelings flooded my insides. Physically, I knew my body was exhausted and could not push on much farther. Mentally, I felt hardened to trail life and knew I would miss the freedom of "hiking for a living." Emotionally, I was excited about summiting this grand peak, but even more excited to spend time with my husband after such a long absence. Missing him was unquestionably the most difficult part of the entire trip.
And so I found myself on October 4, standing on the windy summit of Mount Katahdin, "greatest mountain" in the native tongue. Unbidden tears poured as I touched that famous wooden sign. I had begun this trip because I loved to hike, and because it was there. By the time I finished it, I had been deeply touched by the goodness of others. I learned that life is too short to waste time. I found a mental strength that brought me past every boundary I had previously known. I re-affirmed the most important things in my life: God, my family and my friends. My life can never be the same.
