Above and Below The Mason-Dixon Line

7 Differences Between Starting with the Herd Halfway Vs Starting in Georgia

Okay, technically I started my hike last spring a couple hundred miles below the Mason-Dixon line, at Rockfish Gap outside of Shenandoah. The Mason-Dixon line is located along the Maryland and Pennsylvania border, and not in the deep south as this northerner once thought. An attractive little stone monument demarcates this historic divide based upon a boundary dispute. The monument houses a mailbox into which a trail journal notebook is tucked, presumable for civil hiker discourse.

After now hiking 1,800 miles in total, I’ve noticed a few differences between starting almost midway versus starting at the southern terminus in Georgia. To be fair, last year found me starting amidst stronger hikers who had trimmed down their kits and most of whom had already been hiking for more than two months, but it is easy to contrast the differences and see what time and experience potentially does to a thru-hiker.

All of these observations are anecdotal and not in the least qualitatively analyzed. Or peer reviewed. And I’m certainly not suggesting they are alternative facts. It’s not like I’m siding with the McCoys over the Hatfields, which by the way, is in no way related to the Mason-Dixon line, but let’s not get into a war over words. These are merely things I pondered upon during hours when a brain wanders as much as feet.

1) Too much stuff.

A lot of people start out carrying too much gear, too much food. This makes sense. Most of us haven’t embarked upon an epic journey living on very little. Thus there are lots of “just in case” items. I’m guilt of packing too many bandaids and other first aid items that to date have remained untouched. I’ve also schlepped an extra long-sleeve shirt that has mostly gone unworn, even the second time around. And my luxury items still include a titanium coffee cup and a Therm-a-Rest brand zigzag foam sit-upon—all items some peers might find unnecessary.

A lot of people start out carrying too much gear, too much food. This makes sense. Most of us haven’t embarked upon an epic journey living on very little. Thus there are lots of “just in case” items. I’m guilt of packing too many bandaids and other first aid items that to date have remained untouched. I’ve also schlepped an extra long-sleeve shirt that has mostly gone unworn, even the second time around. And my luxury items still include a titanium coffee cup and a Therm-a-Rest brand zigzag foam sit-upon—all items some peers might find unnecessary.

On day two I met a couple struggling with large packs including cool Helinox camp chairs. Lightweight yes, but necessary? Ultimately not. I agree that there may be a fine balance between comfort and misery, but once you get into a routine, for the most part, there is little time for kicking back and relaxing at the end of the day in a camp chair. That’s a different kind of camping.

Another fellow, in an effort to be frugal, started out carrying thirty days worth of food, consisting primarily of rice, beans and oatmeal. First all, I can’t personally stomach the idea of such a restricted diet, but secondly—All. That. Extra. Weight. Right from the get-go.

By Harper’s Ferry people have either stripped down their pack weights and disposed of the superfluous, adapted how they manage their resupplies or have been culled.

2) Where’s water?

This sort of falls under the same category as too much stuff. I know a lot of people really like CamelBaks and hydration systems built into backpacks, but that means you may tend to carry more water than you need when water is plentiful and a liter is enough between sources. I also hear people complaining about the tubes. This is another piece of gear that seems to be dropped as the miles accumulate in favor of gatorade or smart water bottles.

3) Ridding water of the nasties.

Sawyer filters appear to have the squeeze on the market here in the southern section as the preferred method for purifying water. I only knew of one person using Aquamira Water Treatment drops or other less manually-intensive options. While Sawyers were still popular, there were far more people using light-weight drops north of Harper’s Ferry. Alas, I remain in the minority with my heavy, but reliable, Steripen.

4) What time is it?

While there is little dispute that 9 p.m. is hiker midnight, what constitutes as morning appears to be an entirely different matter. Whenever I stayed in a shelter last year, I could almost could guarantee that someone would be up at 5—and then of course, so were the rest of us. Since starting back in Georgia, few people were up before 6, maybe even as late as seven—and even more surprising, I was usually the first one up. And this from someone who is never the first one up at home. Unless there is an early plane to catch. Even more remarkable (at least to me) is seeing tents still set up as late as 10 a.m. Maybe because the scale of the trail is so vast, Katahdin yet so distant, the same sense of urgency to get an early start isn’t yet driving hikers. Or I just happen to be crossing paths with lots of night hikers.

5) Flora and fauna.

This is the one area where north vs. south becomes personal. I’ve discovered that I really don’t care for rhododendrons. They are dark. And steamy. And I feel like mud is always involved. I recently hiked an additional three miles up to a summit in order to avoid camping within the damp confines of a rhododendron-rich campsite. Give me the whispering song of a high and dry white pine over the leathering rustle of the low-lying rhododendron any day. (And yes, the irony that I willingly chose rhododendron blossoms to use in my featured image has not been lost on me.)

On a more positive north/south note: I’ve seen seven bears within the first several hundred miles. This compare to three total last year over 1300 miles. Perhaps it’s just coincidence, or this is just a better time of year to see them. Unfortunately there will be no moose to be encountered during this leg. That is, unless I find myself holding a particular brand of Canadian beer down here.

6) A false sense of security based upon the herd theory.

Despite the fact that a bear appeared right next to the Silers Bald Shelter in the Smokies, while four of us were eating breakfast, and that I saw bear #7 two minutes after passing Virginia’s Old Orchard Shelter where more than a half dozen hikers still lingered, I’ve heard more than one person suggest that bears won’t bother our food when there are lots of people around—so chill about hanging it in a shelter. But the idea that bears fear us is misguided at best, dangerous at worst. And by dangerous, I mean for the bear.

Any bear that discovers easy pickings from the low-hanging fruit—in other words—poorly hung food bags, garbage-filled fire pits or food left behind or routinely hung in shelters—can become emboldened. A fed bear can easily become a nuisance bear and then a dead bear.

7) Are ya a true hiker, laddie?

My personal focus group of one definitely saw more men sporting kilts during last summer’s northern leg. To date, only one brave heart was spotted south. I can only assume the advantages of increased airflow become more desirable the farther one travels and as summer heats up. Meanwhile, I’m still rocking my Purple Rain skirt with its four perfectly placed pockets. Fun fact: Purple Rain also sell kilts for the men folk.

Regardless of geography—or starting points—the things that continue to unite us are the siren calls of nature, the lure of a singular line defined only by 2×6 inch painted white blazes and the comforts we choose to carry. Or not.