The Why Behind the Walk

When I tell people that I’m planning to hike the Appalachian Trail, the question I get asked the most is “You’re not going alone, are you?”

After that, it’s “Wait, the whole thing?”

(Shoutout to “You should really carry a firearm.” To which I think, but never respond, “People cut the handles off of their toothbrushes to save weight in their pack, do you really think I want to carry a gun and ammunition?!”)

I’ve been asked about my sleeping bag rating, and my kitchen setup, how often I’ll get to shower, if I have a plan for after I finish the trail.

But rarely, if ever, have I been asked “Why?”

I suppose, for my friends and family, that question seemed futile. “Why?” they may have asked themselves. “Well, it’s Mary! Our free spirit. We may never understand why she does things, and we certainly don’t know why she wants to sleep on the ground for 6 months.” They were there when I accepted admission to a college 12 hours from my hometown. They dropped me off at the airport when I was 19 to spend a summer working 2 ½ hours from the nearest grocery store. After all of the adventures so far, I don’t think this decision came as a shock to any of them.

For my colleagues, the question “Why?” seems silly. I work at an outdoor outfitter. Many of the people I work with are hikers, some have even thru-hiked before. I’ve dreamed of this hike since the moment I learned what long-distance hiking was, and I think many of my colleagues have, too. They’ve seen the view from the summit, felt the gentle breeze, watched the mountain laurels bloom. They don’t need to ask why. They know, and they feel it, too.

My love never asked me “Why?” either. He never asked if I was sure, or if the timing was right. He never questioned my reasons. Instead, he went into the woods with me. He tended campfires and made us dinners of hot dogs complimented by the ketchup packets we took from the gas station on our way up. He listened to my fears and my hopes and my everything-in-betweens.

So when the time came for me to ask “Why,” it was only to myself I had to answer. I thought on it, for a long time. And I wrote down a list.

Crossing a Finish Line

I have many, many interests, goals, passions, dreams, projects, ideas, and dare I say even proficiencies? I thrive in the creative sphere, and my notes app is chock full of short story ideas, research on what glue to use for what project, and lists of numbers I use to count rows while knitting.

I have so much I want to do. I am also very easily distracted, often bouncing along to the next project like a dog in front of whom an entire laundry basket of tennis balls was just dumped.

The result of that combination has been a lifetime of “almosts” and “half-dones.”

I am the self-proclaimed queen of unfinished projects.

Eventually, the expired rolls of film, unraveling balls of yarn, and half-full notebooks start to get heavy. They sit on the shelf and take up space and watch as you vacuum your bedroom or sit on your phone or, hell, as you take up a new hobby sure to be left in a corner or a box.

The ghosts of these half-dones whisper haunting thoughts: Maybe I’m just not a finisher. Maybe I’m destined to a life of almost achieving something great.

It’s a scary thing to consider. I think at some point we all feel like maybe we’re not meant to complete all we set out to do. But ruminating on these possibilities won’t get that book written or that scarf made. And it certainly won’t get me to Maine.

I have developed a determination to see things through. I know tenfold, or even thousandfold, how it feels to start something you don’t finish. And I know how much better it feels to cross a finish line. To check something off of your list. To know you did it the best you possibly could’ve.

Simply put, I’m hiking the Appalachian Trail to hike it. The whole thing. To start AND to finish. And I’ll be damned if I let injury, or illness, or my own reasoning get in the way.

For When We’re Old

I’ll be straight up: I have a terrible memory. Like, what-did-I-even-have-for-dinner-last-night, forget-the-name-of-someone-I-used-to-see-everyday, oh-shoot-those-plans-were-tonight type of memory.

But even on my most forgetful days, I remember the Moments.

I remember when I was dropped off in the middle of nowhere Montana and saw those mountains that close for the first time. I remember playing cards on my first ever backpacking trip when I was 13 and the leaves were changing. I remember the cold cold plunge into a lake in Vermont just before leaving for my first winter break in college.

I know that as we get older, our memory tends to get worse, and mine is rough already so that thought terrifies me. Therefore, I’ve made it my life’s mission to have more Moments. And where better to do that than a thru-hike?

Not only will I hopefully experience a whole host of new things (Half-Gallon Challenge, I fear you.), I’ll get to re-experience some of my favorite places (Shenandoah, I can’t wait to make my way back to your familiar trails), and make memories the whole way, memories that I’ll hopefully remember for a lifetime.

This is also where blogging comes in. Having documentation of my day-to-day is deeply important to me. I debated for a while on how best to go about this. Would I follow in the footsteps of Dixie, the thru-hiker whose AT YouTube videos I’ve watched thousands of times, and vlog my trip? Would I start a TikTok account? Would I take all of the gear I used for my college honors thesis and podcast the whole way?

But for me, at the end of the day, I always end up writing. I’ve been a follower of The Trek for years and am so so excited to document my journey here. After all, I have to find some way to put my rather expensive journalism degree to work!

I will do my best, for you all and myself, to write with honesty and grit. To document all of it. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And hopefully the beautiful too 🙂

(Side note: Apologies to my parents and grandparents reading this. I swear when I feel it adds emphasis and you’ll just have to forgive me for that, as well as any mention of any events or bodily functions that would have been banned at the dinner table when I was in middle school. I know it’s gross, but the people demand the truth, and who I am but a vessel for that information. Love you lots!!)

I also believe that, through writing, I’ll give myself time to reflect each day on the journey. Somewhere to place my thoughts, somewhere to appreciate how especially good my instant coffee was that morning or how damn cold I was that night. These little lowercase-m moments can sometimes get lost in pursuit of the capital-m Moments, and I want to have record of it all.

The dream is, upon reaching old age and settling into a rocking chair on my porch somewhere quiet and warm, to look back and see a life lived. A life full of decisions, right and wrong, and successes and mistakes and memories and moments and Moments. I know my life on trail will be filled with all of those things and more.

Take Me To The Mountains

Alright, after those two rather introspective “Why”s, now we’re turning our focus outward.

Man, I love the woods.

I love the trees. I love the way the light falls when the sun starts to set. I love the weather-worn rocks that are older than time and live at the tops of the highest mountain summits.

I love the bugs, and the rain hitting leaves, and the power of really big wind (but ask me about these again in a few months).

I also love the way I feel in the woods. Like I can breathe. I love knowing that I’ve got nowhere to be for miles, and that when the sun sets I will go to bed and when the sun rises I will too.

I think a lot of people go to the woods for the same reason. The removal of many of daily life’s distractions allows you to look and really see, and listen and really hear. To think, and to feel, and to probably (at least a few times) have a good cry in the middle of nowhere.

These things always kept me coming back for more.

The Humble Personal Journey Arc

Some people go on long-distance hikes to find solitude in nature, to find themselves alone among the trees.

I am not one of those people.

One of my all-time favorite things about backpacking is meeting people. I’ve met so many awesome people while out on weekend trips (You’d be shocked at how many friends you can make if you carry a deck of cards in your pack). The social aspect is one of the primary reasons I chose to go NOBO.

But even with the inclination towards fellowship, I predict many miles will be spent alone.

One of the scariest things about taking this trip is knowing how much time I will have to myself.

I’m prepared to walk in the mud and rain and snow. I can sleep in almost any condition. I’ve read all of the articles on bear safety (and survived some run-ins with grizzlies, shout out my Montana crew!). I’ve even got my gear box prepped at home with all the things I could possibly need sent to me while I’m on trail.

But the truth of the matter is, I’ve never been on a journey like this at all. I’ve struggled with my mental health for most of my life, and never before have I had as much time alone with my thoughts as I will on the AT.

I started college at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, and have felt some sort of “stuck” since then. I floated through college with only enough presence to pass my classes and maintain a few friendships that, if they survived that time in my life, will hopefully never go away. My feet were on the ground, sure, but my mind was miles away.

When the going got tough, I would set up my sleeping pad and bag on my dorm room floor and fall asleep to YouTube videos of hikers doing exactly what I’ll be setting out to do in a month. I dreamed of one day going on a trip like that and feeling, well, alive again.

Now I’m about to live that dream.

I know there will be hard times on this trip. Things will happen both on trail and at home, as “real life” continues, that I’ll have to grapple with. I’m sure there will be instances where having so much time to think will be difficult. But I’m also looking forward to really sitting with the hard feelings.

I am hoping to use these few months I’ll have, with limited distractions, a straightforward routine, and the company of the forest, to learn. To reconnect with myself and the world. To figure out what I want out of this life.

I am still young, and although the ticking doomsday clock and headlines-in-all-capitals persist, I have time. And I think this journey will help me figure out how I want to spend it.

In Conclusion

So. That’s why I’m here.

There’s a quote from a fantastic movie (that was a book first, which I haven’t read and therefore have no idea if the quote is in the book as well), The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.

The first time I heard this line, something in me shifted, and now it’s a bit of a mantra for me, a reminder to myself of “the point.” I think it sums it up my Appalachian Trail “Why?” pretty damn well.

“To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, draw closer, to find each other and to feel. That is the purpose of life.”

Until next time,
M