Trail of Healing: Finding Solace and Strength on the Appalachian Trail

This guest post was written by Carson Calkins.

Rain pounds the roof. The lawn is a collage of puddles and mud. You sit on a cabin’s porch, fortifying your food supply from a package your parents sent you. The hostel is brimming with fellow hikers this morning. Some are hungover. Most are hungry. All are tired.

You glance up. The rain is a wall. You had planned to leave in the next fifteen minutes. Now, you question whether you should. If you wait it out, you may not reach your scheduled destination for the day. You have braved the rain before, so you believe you are equipped to handle it. You wrap up your resupply, secure your pack to your thin frame, and toss your poncho on.

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Although once as towering and jagged as the Rockies, the Appalachians have eroded significantly over their 480-million-year existence. The first trees had not evolved when this North American range first formed, stretching from Canada’s Newfoundland to the United States’ Alabama. The Appalachians are ancient. You decide to trek their most famous trail.

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Growing up, you were not an outdoorsy kid; you were an A/C kid. Much of this was due to your father. He disliked quotidian outdoor activities like camping, hiking, and fishing. Your only forays into the outdoors as a kid occurred either at friends’ ranches or at camps.

Once, while fishing from a canoe at a camp in fifth grade, you tossed your fishing rod back in an attempt to cast it. When you attempted to swing it forward, you were unable to. You were befuddled until you realized you had tossed the line so far back the hook was now caught in the branches of a nearby tree.

You became a fitness fanatic in your teenage years, but still only ventured outside to run or perform some other form of exercise. Your affinity for the outdoors didn’t strike until your late twenties.

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The Appalachian Trail is roughly 2,190 miles long, traversing fourteen states from Georgia to Maine. The trail is the brainchild of American forester and conservationist Benton MacKaye.

The idea came to him while he was healing from immense sorrow. In 1920, his wife — Jessie Hardy “Betty” Mackaye — committed suicide by jumping into the East River in New York City. An old friend of his — Charles Harris Whitaker — invited him to stay at his residence in the country to help heal.

It was there, immersed in the solace of nature, that Mackeye first conceived the Appalachian Trail. The first section opened in 1923 in New York. Fourteen years later, in 1937, it was completed.

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You have never lost a partner you loved in the way Benton Mackaye did, but you did have your heart broken once. And like Benton Mackaye, it was in nature you found respite. Respite from the depression that had swallowed you whole. Respite from the shattered heart you had to repair at the same time.

You relocate to Washington state for a period in your late twenties. Depression’s shadow strangles you, and your relationship is on the precipice of collapse when you visit Olympic National Forest. Hiking alone, a sound off-trail catches your attention. You scan for where it originates from when you glance downward and find the source.

Stopping suddenly, you gaze at a slim branch that extends from a fallen tree. A single leaf remains attached toward the end of the branch. Water trickles from it, creating a minuscule puddle beneath. As you watch, revelation hits: if a single leaf on a fallen tree in this vast forest still has value and a purpose, then so do you.

You leave Olympic National Forest two days later, but that moment — and the sentiments it produced — remain entrenched within. In the following months, you realize that in order to truly heal, you need Mother Nature’s embrace.

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The mud swallows your shoes. In your belief you could brave through the storm, you didn’t believe it was necessary this morning to check the upcoming terrain. Now you’re paying the price; a 2,500-foot climb over four miles during a torrential downpour. Your steps drag.

There is no sign of life around: no other hikers or birds singing. All you hear is the rain and the slosh of mud when you step. You left the hostel brimming with confidence, but now you doubt you’ll reach your destination due to the weather. Your frustration only makes your nearly forty-pound pack weigh more.

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There is no single definition of the term thru-hike. At its most basic level, it is a hike which one completes end-to-end in one go and covers a long distance. Examples include the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the Continental Divide Trail. All of which are over 2,000 miles from terminus to terminus.

The first individual to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail was Earl Shaffer, who hiked south to north in 1948. Like many young men of his generation, he served his country during World War II. He enlisted in the army prior to the attack on Pearl Harbour in 1941 and served as a radioman in the Pacific theater.

Although Earl survived the war, the trauma of witnessing such carnage — and losing his close friend Walter Winemiller — greatly afflicted him. It was on the Appalachian Trail that he sought refuge. He had no guidebooks to lean on, replaced the soles to his boots twice so he didn’t have to purchase a new pair, and mailed his tent home after only a few days on trail. He slept in his poncho instead. Following his completion of the trail in 1948, he said he thru-hiked to “walk the war out of my system.” It was respite he sought and found.

Perhaps the most famous Appalachian Trail thru-hiker is Emma “Grandma” Gatewood, a mother of eleven and survivor of serial domestic and sexual violence by her husband. She would often find refuge in nature during those bouts of violence. In 1955, at 67, she became the first woman to solo thru-hike the trail.

Gatewood ultimately became the first individual — male or female — to hike the Appalachian Trail three times. She did not carry a tent, sleeping bag, or compass. She wore Keds and ate Vienna sausages, nuts, chicken bouillon cubes, and greens she foraged for along the way.

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You have never been a victim of domestic or sexual violence like “Grandma” Gatewood, but someone you love dearly has: your sister. In the fall of 2016 she was raped in downtown Houston and came to disoriented and stumbling down an empty street. This sparked a downward spiral that eventually led to the estrangement between her and the rest of your family, including yourself. Y’all eventually reconnected prior to your departure for the Appalachian Trail a few years later yet the relationship was still very much in repair.

When you returned from the trail, she happened to come visit you and your family the following week. You told her about the physical hardships and spiritual benefits — such as reflecting on the past, facing demons, and pushing the mind and spirit to the brink — of the journey.

She resonated with this, not because she was an avid hiker, but because she had discovered much of the same from an outdoor hobby which had helped her heal the previous few years — mountain biking. This was the first thing y’all had truly bonded over since the estrangement. To this day, y’all’s outdoor adventures — and all that is experienced physically and spiritually — remain a fixture of your rekindled relationship.

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You imagine Grandma Gatewood as you stand in the downpour. Her homemade denim bag tossed over her shoulder. Her Keds encased in mud. All that shields her from the torrent is a raincoat and shower curtain. You are carrying over $1,500 worth of food and equipment. Grandma Gatewood’s food and equipment likely didn’t total $10. You’re thirty. She was over 65. You were stupid for not waiting it out, perhaps negligent, but this much you know: if Grandma Gatewood did it, so can you.

Unlike “Grandma” Gatewood, you will not finish the trail. You still step off at the halfway point in Harpers Ferry, West Virginia. It is not due to injury or squandered finances. Instead, it’s because you found what Benton MacKaye, Earl Shaffer, “Grandma” Gatewood, and even your sister found in nature: healing.

You reconciled with your past. Rebuilt your heart with strength you discovered within by hiking over 1,000 miles solo. Battled your depression daily while alone on the trail, not allowing it to destroy both you and your planned thru-hike. You started your thru-hike walking beneath the stone archway at Amicalola State Park fractured and left Harpers Ferry on a train headed home, healed.

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About the Author

Carson Calkins is a seventh-grade English teacher who resides in Rexburg, Idaho. In his spare time, he ventures out on solo hikes in Idaho and Wyoming and writes. Growing up he disliked the outdoors and loathed writing. Now, he cannot envision a life without either.

All images, including featured image, courtesy of Carson Calkins.