How I See

This is a personal essay by Nicholas Reichard.

I was 700-odd miles into my Appalachian Trail thru-hike in 2015 when it finally “clicked.” I had spent years searching for this missing puzzle piece in my life, when all this time it was right in front of me. It felt like time had slowed down or even stopped. In an instant the colors were rich and the details were clear; everything around me was vivid.

I had known this moment would eventually happen, but why now? This was certainly a time I least expected to have a magical epiphany. Of course, in the moment, it didn’t feel any different — my description of this day is inspired by a bit of nostalgia — but nevertheless, this day was certainly life-altering. But why? 

Let me explain.

A group of hikers, including myself, hitched into a tiny trail town in the middle of nowhere, Virginia. None of us had known each other before we embarked on this grand adventure, but by this point, we were all practically family. Some call this a trail family, or “tramily” for short. We called ourselves Blade and the Cuts. How we got that name is worthy of another story in itself.

Town days mean something different for each thru-hiker. Most are eager to hit the trail after a greasy, warm, and un-nutritional meal that would only make us hungrier a short time later. For me town days were much more like a comfort blanket. I could let my guard down. I could take a shower, sleep in a bed, talk to my family on the phone, or even fall asleep to a movie I’ve seen countless times and forget about all the hiking that was yet to be done. 

“My greatest weakness ended up being my greatest strength.”

I had never considered myself an outdoorsman, and honestly, I joke about how ill-prepared and out of my element I was. One of the great traditions while thru-hiking the AT is that, (when you have the ability) to grow a beard, you do so in all of its glory, showcasing it to the world as you stand atop Mount Katahdin. A symbol of a personal and transformative journey that takes most thru-hikers nearly half a year to complete.

I was a few years removed from art school, where I had studied filmmaking and method acting in great detail. Which is what prompted me to start growing my beard months prior to the adventure, in a desperate attempt to blend in and give the appearance I belonged in the woods. I would think of myself as a method thru-hiker. 

“I struggled greatly in the beginning, but … those were some of my favorite times on trail.”

The young, lost Nick — or “Click,” as they called me — is nearly unrecognizable to the person I am today. Somehow this hilarious attempt to fit in worked, and there were more than a few times when I was approached and asked what other trails I had hiked before.

I struggled greatly in the beginning, but now as I reflect back, those were some of my favorite times on trail. I was shocked when I made it to Neels Gap and wanted to keep going! The mere 29-mile mark also happened to be the crossroad where nearly 20 percent of all thru attempts would end for various reasons.

My greatest weakness, my inexperience, ended up being my greatest strength. Not knowing how to set up my tent or what to expect next kept me going. My curiosity for what was on the other side of the mountain ahead of me served as fuel that pushed me forward. It was one step at a time.

As I got into a routine of hiking mile after mile each day, there was a conversation I had with my mom and dad prior to leaving that was playing on a loop in my head, muffling the sound coming from my headphones. With each step, the green tunnel and environment around me drained from my mind.

“I just wanted to be different.”

I was sitting in the backseat of my parents’ car as we discussed our plans to keep in touch over the next few months. My parents were apprehensive, and rightfully so, about my intentions to hike all 2,189 miles from Georgia to Maine. We were in the Greyhound bus lot in Columbus, Ohio, where I grew up, where my family still lives. It was cold, there was snow on the ground, and I believe this was the real beginning of my adventure.

My sales pitch to them was weak. I was in the worst physical shape of my life, I had a patchy and newly grown beard, along with some borrowed backpacking gear from my dad. I’m sure selling most of my possessions, including my digital camera, was a huge red flag in their eyes, as I can only imagine what mental health concerns they had for me at the time.

I sat there in the backseat with my one-way ticket that would eventually bring me to Springer Mountain. I tried to explain, “I don’t care about being better than any other photographer who came before me, I don’t care how well they captured the trail or if it was in Nat Geo or not, I just wanted to be different.” My response brought silence in the car.

I looked down, my hand clenched tightly on the nearly crumbled ticket. I was scared to death. I was scared to believe in the things I sounded so confident saying. I was getting tired of justifying myself, not only in this search for who I am as an artist, but in this journey of finding myself as an individual. Was this courage, or was I blindly naive and reckless?

“We could have done it alone.”

In that tiny trail town, we took a zero day — or, in other words, a day of no hiking. A day to rest, recharge, and replenish. We cramped in this little motel room, which still smelled of wet paint that had been added recently. An attempt, I’m guessing, to cover up the cigarette-stained yellow walls around us. Our grungy, foul-smelling gear was plastered all over the floor in hopes of drying out before we hit the trail again. It didn’t matter if the motel room was small, dirty, or uncomfortable. It was home for a night. 

At its core, Blade and the Cuts consisted of four members, including a German man whose trail name was obviously Blade. That’s what we started calling him after he refused to send home his massive knife that was probably made by a machete manufacturer. He would complain about the weight of his pack often, and that same knife that had little to no use in a thru-hiker’s backpack other than slicing cheese.

Then there was Pie, another European fellow, but his demeanor was calm. He was well-traveled and had a classic British accent we all tried to mimic. I can’t tell you how many times we made him say “water bottle.”

I hiked with both of those guys for weeks until I had a strange episode of vertigo, which I experienced right before the Smokies, causing me to slow down. That’s when I met Cheesebeard. He was from the east coast; we were both nerds and instant friends. We eventually caught up to my new friends, and once the four of us came together, we never separated again.

“Once the four of us came together, we never separated again.”

I think all of us were on a coming-of-age journey, and while we could have done it alone, getting to witness each other’s growth was gratifying. As a bonus, being an artist, I happened to be lucky enough to document it from the first mile to the last. 

Along the way, we even developed a set of rules. One of which was not being allowed to use a blow dryer on our gear inside any given motel room. I’ll save the other rules for another story down the road.

I type this with a smile on my face, but also my nose begins to tingle thinking back to the time we walked in on Blade, cigarette hanging from his lip as he stands in the bathroom. All of us instantly plugged our burning nostrils, trying to understand what in God’s good name was going on. He was completely unfazed as the buzzing sound from the blow dryer roared in his hand, roasting the mud-covered boots that were soaked in sweat and saturated from rain as they slouched over the countertop next to the sink.

This was his desperate attempt to dry the heavy leather hiking boots he donned each day that had made his feet look like pale, shriveled prunes. It was not working, and this unfortunate lesson, which we had painfully learned firsthand, resulted in us forfeiting a cozy night at a Holiday Inn weeks prior due to the stench. Even I would opt for a sleepless night in my tent, laying awake listening to the vocal whippoorwill’s relentless chanter. What I can say is, bless all the housekeepers that work in any trail town. 

“So much has happened in my life since I first stepped foot on the AT nearly a decade ago.”

Today, I sit and write these words inside my tiny studio apartment just off the coast in Southern Maine. My walls are riddled with photographs and objects, each one with a story that brings me happiness. So much has happened in my life since I first stepped foot on the AT nearly a decade ago.

I never would have imagined I’d be living so close to the trail that changed my life, or that I’d be navigating fatherhood after a divorce. I never would have imagined I’d be lucky enough to publish multiple books and work towards editing a feature documentary or that pivoting careers would bring me a new sense of appreciation in life.

With each year that passes, I’ve become more comfortable in being a relatively private person, something that at times feels like a direct conflict with my artistic goals in wanting to share art and inspire others. 

“The raw emotions I was feeling could also be felt through the photographs.”

As I reflect on this life I’ve had, I tend to look up at the shelves just above my desk, where a collection of binders sits neatly —“The Archives” as I call it. All of the film negatives and their contact sheets, meticulously organized by each adventure and year. Chronologically numbered to precisely match the digital files on my computer, allowing me to find any given roll of film or a specific photograph in a matter of seconds.

There was no artistic vision in the beginning, I was aimlessly wandering about in life. I had no idea at the time how much of an impact or parallel similarities I would find between thru-hiking and analog photography. Along the way I started to understand how much of an incredibly intimate process it was to shoot on film. That the raw emotions I was feeling could also be felt through the photographs because of their ability to allow me to stay in the present moment.

One of the cameras that changed my life was a vintage Pentax K1000, an easy-to-operate and straightforward 35mm film camera perfect for a student, perfect for me. I knew this camera was special when I first laid eyes on it. It was inside the camera shop in my hometown that has sadly since closed. I forget the name of the place, but it was run out of an old church. The stained glass windows offered unique light that shined down on the display cases in front of me. The camera was one of many yet stood out due to a huge dent in the viewfinder. The gentlemen at the store assured me it wouldn’t impact the photograph and was a true testament to its durability. 

He was right. 

“I was to find the beauty in the everyday moments.”

It was in that motel room on that zero day in Virginia when I raised the dented camera to my face and, for the first time, felt a sense of purpose. A sense of clarity and direction.

The moment I described earlier now felt like slow motion. Click. Click. Click. I was to capture life in the moment as I was experiencing it. Wherever it may be and whoever it may be with, I was to find the beauty in the everyday moments and not wait for a scenic overlook with a sign telling me this a great opportunity to take a picture.

I could see the photograph in my mind moments before it even happened. Of course, I was shooting with film, and I could not actually see any photograph as it was exposed. I would have to wait until town before sending the completed rolls back home, where they would long for my return. I would have to wait to develop (and honestly learn to develop) the film before any image I was eager to see would come to life.

“The artistic process would help me stay in the present moment.”

That was a truly incredible and indescribable feeling, getting to relive the moment for the first time as the images appeared on the roll, but now as a negative. I realized on trail that this type of devotion to the artistic process would help me stay in the present moment. It’s something unique to the analog photographer. We seem to care less about instant gratification and, in turn, are gifted in learning a thing or two about patience. 

It probably sounds obvious, but hiking across the country also teaches you a thing or two about patience. Some days I would find myself uninspired, but each step would bring me closer to the finish line. On a rainy day, that was all that mattered. What didn’t matter was whether I was hiking or not; the trail was a place where I could surround myself with my art both day and night. I could practice and be curious because everything I was experiencing was a part of the adventure.

“I was drawn to capture the times no one else seemed to be interested in.”

It was in that motel room that I realized I was drawn to capture the times no one else seemed to be interested in. These were the moments that felt different, that I was so desperate to find. It was on the trail that I learned to see. 

I am writing this now because, after nearly a decade, I once again lost sight of who I am. During my trail years, I would often shoot more film in a week than I might now shoot in a year. I’m learning that is ok. I’m learning to appreciate the photographs that sit on the shelves above my desk. The lessons they taught me and the stories they tell. I need that more than ever now as I teach myself to see once again.

I’m growing more confident each day that while my camera takes a break, maybe I can learn to see a different way. Perhaps typing these words will give me the courage I need as I embark on a new journey in life. Much like my bulky film cameras all those years ago, the ones that helped remind me why you never quit on a rainy day. My hope is that writing will make this uncharted territory seem less scary. Or maybe it is ok to be scared, like the time I sat in the back seat of my parents’ car, awaiting an adventure that would change me forever.

“There were times this year when I found myself lost and, for the first time in years, alone.”

Maybe this new chapter will feature fewer mountains and fewer photographs, but perhaps I’ll finally find the courage to share the rewarding tales of personal growth and adventure in this life I’ve lived. All the miles I’ve hiked and countless rolls of film I painstakingly loaded through my cameras, all of which helped prepare me for the most beautiful adventure yet: fatherhood.

Change can be difficult, but we can adapt. One thing I now know to be most true about myself is that this path I’m on has not been random nor navigated aimlessly. Regardless of the circumambient darkness that seems neverending, this is my attempt to walk towards the beacon of light. 

There were many sporadic times this year when I found myself lost and, for the first time in years, alone. I was desperate once again for a sense of direction while randomly chasing the flashes of light in the night sky.

“Life is meant to be taken one step at a time.”

Now I find myself much like I was in the moment on that zero day, with my closest friends huddled around the TV in the dilapidated motel room as I was experiencing my first magical, life-changing epiphany. However, instead of intentionally snapping photos and blowing through film as I once did, I have begun to notice that the typing of words on my keyboard, illuminated by the computer screen in my tiny yet cozy apartment, has begun to help me unearth a sense of newfound purpose as an artist. A form of communication that inherently has always been my Achilles heel. My kryptonite.

I want to remind myself to keep writing and to embrace this vulnerability I feel, this new side of me. A reawakening. A new journey and artistic endeavor that has relit my inner candle. Writing has allowed me to heal, to slow down and reflect. If there was any one thing to be said, it is that in all the miles I’ve hiked, photographs I’ve taken, people I’ve met, and paths I’ve traveled down, life is meant to be taken one step at a time. The words my parents proclaimed to me, which broke the silence in the back of their car that day I set off on my grand adventure.

Now I recognize more than ever writing gives me the chance to share with the world how I see. 

About the Author

Nicholas Reichard discovered his identity as an artist and individual while thru-hiking from 2015 to 2017, documenting life on the trail in a raw, gritty style. Since setting foot on the Appalachian Trail, he has captured more than 900 rolls of film, an endeavor that took him across the world and, ultimately, led him to settle in a quiet coastal town in Southern Maine.

Now,he enjoys the slower pace of life, embracing fatherhood and his role as a full-time firefighter. Nicholas remains deeply passionate about his art, aiming to share and inspire others through his vision and the way he sees the world.

Nicholas is the author of SToRIES and a contributing photographer to Sarah Kaizar’s Hiker Trash: Notes, Sketches, and Other Detritus from the Appalachian Trail. More of his work can be viewed through his personal website, www.nicholas-reichard.com.