VA: AT Culture and Woods Hole Hostel

Woods Hole Hostel, Mile 625.8

For weeks, I’ve been hearing whispers through the hiker grapevine. You have to stay at Woods Hole. You’re going to love it. According to FarOut (the AT hiker app) this is, “one of the oldest and favorite hostels on trail and ‘a slice of heaven not to be missed.'” So I started counting down the miles. 

A little update: 

In my last few blog posts, I shared the challenges of walking through injury. Achilles tendonitis forced me to slow down and rest, as I desired to stay on trail. This resulted in a few “see you later’s” to my trail family. For the first time since Springer Mountain, I was alone. No one was waking up to the deflation of my sleeping pad, no one was sharing lunch in the midday sun, and no one was expecting me at camp. No one was there to look when I said, “mira!” at the beautiful view or creature hiding in the trees. For the first time on trail, I wasn’t consulting with anyone to determine where we would sleep each night or how many days until our next resupply. 

A few things remained constant: I knew who I was. I knew I was loved and supported (on and off trail). I knew where I was going and to get there, I needed to wake up every day and keep walking. Also, I had no idea who I was going to meet each day. 

Due to the nature of my injury, I took a week to walk only 6-10 miles a day. This was a strange time, as I was left with hours unoccupied. I watched as a bubble of hikers passed through, people I had never seen on trail before. I met new friends, spent nights sleeping in shelters beside several retired men, and even caught Kristian Morgan out on a jog (training for his supported FKT attempt!). I knew many of them I would never see again. I kept walking during the Appalachian Trail Days in Damascus. That was a quiet week on trail. 

Time went on, and I began to ramp up my miles. To my surprise, I found a few people at camp multiple nights in a row. Old Soul, Roadkill, and Tree Beard became familiar faces that I would spend a few evenings with. As I tried to keep up, they challenged me to try higher mileages again. They also taught me that there are so many people out here to learn from and walk with, beyond my original tramily. This trail is full of fascinating people with unique stories. Being on my own allowed me to connect with other hikers in a way I might have missed if I was walking with the Ducklings. 

Arriving at Woods Hole

By the time I arrived at Woods Hole, I was exhausted. I had managed to keep up with my new friends for a few days, but my legs still needed time before they were back to normal. I decided to zero and say “see ya when I see ya” for the millionth time. 

Woods Hole is a half mile walk off trail, down a gravel road, and nestled in a hill. Operating as a hiker hostel for 38 years, the 1880’s log cabin is now run by the founders’ granddaughter, Neville. She grew up watching her grandparents welcome stinky hikers into their beautiful corner of the world. A pasture filled with goats and pigs leads to a sunrise view over distant mountains. Raised beds of lettuce fill the yard just beyond the front porch. Stained glass, painted rocks, and banners adorn every nook and cranny. 

Appalachian Trail Culture 

On trail, hikers frequently discuss other trails. Chances are, if you’re on the AT, you’ll meet someone who has walked the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail), CDT (Continental Divide Trail), or wants to at some point in their life. We dream about the rainless days and endless views of western trails as we stumble over roots in the green tunnel and set up our tents in the rain. It’s a continuous debate: which trail is harder, which trail is better, yadda yadda yadda. One point I repeatedly hear is that of the AT’s culture. The Appalachian Trail is not only supplemented with shelters, at which one can expect to congregate with other hikers each evening, but it is also surrounded by an entire support system. The communities around the trail, ranging from hostels just steps off-path to Trail Towns with hiker shuttle services, are a part of a mutually beneficial relationship. Hikers need a shower, a hot meal, and a food resupply. Hostels and small towns need hikers to keep their businesses alive. 

In 1955, 67 year-old Grandma Gatewood became the first female to complete a solo thru-hike of the AT. At the time, she sought shelter on rainy nights by knocking on front doors and sleeping in the barns of families living near the trail. Today, many of those farmhouses are now hostels. Thousands of hikers have passed through these tiny Appalachian towns, hidden amidst the mountains, and found respite in the staples they provide. Southern cooking and cold milk at the local diner? Yes please. Cold soda and ice cream sandwiches from the dollar store? Praise God. Hospitality and kindness shown to filthy, stinky hikers? Unbelievable.

If you’ve ever heard someone talk about their experience on the Appalachian Trail, there’s usually a magical nostalgia, something they can’t quite put into words. What do they love about the trail? The people, the culture, the way of life. Why do they keep coming back to it? Something calls them to return, time and time again. It’s quite difficult to accurately depict the spirit or the essence of the trail. There’s something about it that I cannot exactly put my finger on. But if you ever walk into a place like Woods Hole, I think you will understand. 

My time at Woods Hole

I arrived just in time to shower before dinner, the main event. Water for the showers is heated by a wood-burning oven. I slipped on some loaner clothes as the dinner bell rang and joined the circle of hikers standing in the grass. Neville introduces herself and tells us a story about how some part of Woods Hole came to be. Afterwards, we pause for a moment of silence before she asks us to introduce ourselves and share something we’re grateful for. I look around, recognizing only a few of the faces I see. We are of different genders, ages, stories, homes, paces. We are all grateful. And we all share a beautiful homemade meal of Tofu Curry, fresh salad, warm bread, and cookies. There is a spread mason jars, filled with colorful salad dressings and toppings. We eat off of plates Neville made with her own hands. Everything is homemade, she notes, except for the Parmesan cheese. Nothing is wasted. We pour our scraps into a pail for the pigs. This meal is a blessing. It is nourishing for the body, heart, mind, and soul. 

The next morning, we gather on the front porch as the sun rises. Settled in rocking chairs, we sip coffee and smear apple butter over fresh bread. We linger, making conversation and taking our time. I watch as hikers pack up and wistfully walk back up the long driveway, knowing their time has come to return to the rugged, merciless trail. I am grateful for a day of rest. My chafed and aching body is relieved to spend the day writing post cards, publishing blogs, and catching up on messages from family and friends. I talk with the work-for-stay hikers who stumbled upon Woods Hole and stayed longer than anticipated. This place is a haven, a restful respite, something we didn’t know we needed until we came. This is what I want my home to be like for others.

Another night of sleep in a bunkhouse that has housed hikers for decades. I sign my name in the logbook along with a few words to express my gratitude. Another circle of hikers in the front yard pausing to give thanks. One last meal of eggs, zucchini bread, french toast, ham, and fruit.

Now it’s my turn to walk back up the driveway. My bag is packed with bread and cheese. I hug my new friends goodbye. “Don’t go, Birdy!” they call. I don’t know if I will ever see them again. But that’s just how life is. I get to love what I have while I have it. And today, I am grateful for a place like this.