Appalachian Trail, Part 2
Our own prayers
Hi Folks!
This is the 2nd essay in a multi-part series about my recent 550-mile section hike on the Appalachian Trail. Not sure how many pieces I’ll write for this project, but they will piece together chronologically.
Thanks for taking time to read it (and the previous one). Please be sure to share it if you enjoy it.
With love!
- tom
On the occasions when I’m camping in the desert, I wake every morning to emptiness. A stark range of melancholy vistas and disappearing layers of violet mountains. It’s a daily testament to silence. To absence. A witness to enduring want. But this void, this scarcity, is actually a veil. Behind which is utter abundance.
In the desert, nothingness is actually everything. And by simply looking closely—by touching fine red dust to lips, to the soft of palms, by inhaling the bouquet of thunder and sage—the entanglement of desolation unravels into clarity. The mind becomes as clear as the sky. The futility of maps, of plans, of achievement, turns obvious.
All that matters is now.
The Appalachian Mountains are, indeed, no different. And like the desert, or really, like anywhere, this ancient mountain chain is an aggregate of all that is known. It is a universe of experiences, an endless cosmos of possibility.
In 2018, while walking across America, I slept in a cemetery where there was such an abundance of fireflies that their glimmer wept through my tent’s orange nylon. I humored myself by imagining they were the glowing eyes of ghosts. The glares of the lingering dead. I wondered if anyone had ever before slept here willingly. Laid a fatigued head down adjacent to headstones that marked folks’ beginnings and ends.
Before turning in, I inspected the closest grave markers, and said aloud the names carved into their weathered marble. One nearby stone’s inscription said, “Your love guides me still.” On another, “Reunited at last.” The trite lines were alarmingly simple. As if our demise underlines our triviality. I wished the dead goodnight, and assured them I’d be gone at the sun’s first light.
The following morning I intersected the Appalachian Trail at Highway 16 in Washington Township, Pennsylvania. I stopped at the nondescript road crossing and peered at the trail’s distinct white blazes that marked the lengthy footpath to the north and south. In both directions the singletrack quickly disappeared into a pitchy tunnel of trees. And though the shade looked divine in the blistering summer heat, I pressed onward along the crumbling narrow shoulder of the byroad. I knew in my bones that someday I’d stand here again as an AT thru-hiker.
I’m fresh into another section hike on the Appalachian Trail. This is my fifth time out since starting the northbound journey at Amicalola Falls back in Spring 2022. I’ve traversed every mile to this point—about 1050 so far—in 55 total hiking days.
More than anything else, I remember the people I’ve met along the way. Their names, their stories, and their reasons for being out here are piled in my consciousness as readily accessible nostalgia. I remember when Mother Hen offered me her homemade jerky. I remember when Rhodie and I crushed miles into Damascus while chatting about what matters most in this short life. I remember crossing paths with legendary trail advocate Robert Peoples while he diligently maintained a weathered section of Tennessee trail. I remember Kingfisher’s unlikely past as a blackjack dealer. I remember when Atlanta Santa told me he’d seen evidence of forest fairies, even heard them whispering secrets in the wind. He’d lost interest in trying to meet one, though, because, as he assured me, “They’re not nice.” And he told me so with such a degree of certainty that I refrained from inquiring further.
Take away the people, and any adventure is a grind.
I tromp through a thick Maryland forest just east of Smithsburg. It opens to a hilltop clearing and morning sun blasts my face for the first time today. I stop briefly to breathe in warm air. There is tenderness in my exhale, a noticeable release of weight from my chest and shoulders. Which immediately reminds me to name the things I am thankful for. I speak gratitude aloud to tall grasses as they crest and roll like waves in the breeze.
Ahead, two people and a leashed dog come into sight. They move casually towards me until I make them out—a older man and a woman. They both wear small packs that hang half-empty from their pear-shaped bodies. Their movement seems too lethargic for them to be thru-hikers. Their pulling dog, too, doesn’t fit the mold for a long-haul trail canine.
But I know better than to assume their status—because people are always more that they seem. A body type or movement style or gear choice is never an certain indicator of a person’s ability. And frankly, to size folks up with such limited perspective is unfair, if not disrespectful.
A few strides later, I encounter the man. He lopes past with the dog, who playfully lunges at me. The man yanks the leash and gives me a side-eye glance while mumbling something I can’t make out. I step to the side of the trail as the woman nears. She slows to wipe sweat from her forehead, then, between heaving breaths, tells me to be careful under the power lines ahead. “They shocked me,” she says wide-eyed. “It’s because I have metal in my shoes, though. So if you have metal, be careful.” She then speeds her pace to catch up with her partner and both are out of sight within seconds.
I’ve never heard of people getting shocked while walking under power lines. But her words make me uneasy as I pass beneath their crackling lengths. For a while afterwards I think about our unusual exchange. I consider the rapid dissemination of fear. It’s just takes one unsubstantiated voice to influence another’s belief. Even though I’ve walked under countless sizzling electrical lines before, I cautiously walked under that particular set half expecting the woman’s experience to suddenly be mine, too. And yet as I passed beneath them, nothing happened. Just like nothing has ever happened.
Later that evening, I’ve got a good trail internet so I do some research. I learn that it is possible for the human body, as a conductor of electricity, to experience a minor shock (called a “nuisance shock”) while passing under high-voltage power lines. And though it may be startling to be the unassuming recipient of the jolt, it’s generally harmless.
At the Pennsylvania border, a sign notes that I am crossing the Mason-Dixon Line, a historic boundary meant to clearly separate four states: Pennsylvania, Maryland, Delaware, and West Virginia. It was surveyed in the late 1700s to resolve border disputes. The largest portion of the line—the southern Pennsylvania border—later became informally known as the boundary between slave states and free states. These days, according to Wikipedia, it still culturally, politically, and socially separates the North and the South.
This morning, as with many previous and, I’m guessing, future mornings on this trail, my late father is on my mind. Reflections on him regularly send me down a rabbit hole, branching this way and that until I land on one halting thought. Today it’s this: We all have our own prayers, but we also can be the answer to other people’s prayers. Something about this idea of give and take, this human need for vulnerability, for openness, holds my attention. What are my prayers? I name a few to myself: I want to let go of outcomes. I want to live in the present. I want to move swift-footed. I want good health. I want to be strong. I want to leave behind my undesirable behaviors. I want to live according to light.
I walk silently along the craggy trail. Every step is an important choice since it has potential to roll an ankle. I wonder, does this foreshadow what’s ahead? Will Rocksylvania live up to its nickname? I think of one more prayer and whisper it as my trekking poles clang on the timeworn rock field. I want the universe to open my eyes wider so that I might see the world as it is, not as I fear or hope or dream it is.
It’s too bad this current iteration of me isn’t able to interact with my dad. The irony is that this version is the direct result of his passing. Still, I walk and consider the impossible narrative—I think he and I would have some interesting things to talk about. I think we’d enjoy each other’s company more than we ever did before.
If given a chance, I’d ask my dad if he experienced a similar emotional roller coaster when his own dad died. I’d ask him about his experience with getting older. About what it was like being in his 50s. Did he, too, notice sudden changes in the way he interacted with the world? Did he feel a sudden and flooding appreciation for the small things? I’d ask him these questions (and more), then maybe, and for perhaps the fist time in my life, I’d listen, like really listen, to his answer. We’d be two adults talking, commiserating about what it’s like to be alive. To be dying. I sure would have enjoyed this kind of camaraderie with my old man.
I tune into the hum of voices ahead, and as I turn the corner of a heaving boulder, I wave a greeting to a group of hikers just as my foot catches a rooted stone. I hurl face-first to the earth and land hard on my knees and elbows. “Oh shit, you OK?” someone shouts. I am pretty sure am fine, physically. Just a couple scratches to clean up. “I’m good,” I shout back. But I am rattled by the timing of the mishap. Because of course I fall right in front of these strangers. Of course I pull a header after many miles of speedy and sure-footed climbs and descents. The trail demands humility. And obviously I needed some.
“Thank you,” I mutter as I walk away with smarting knees. I address my words to the trail, to the universe, to my dad and ancestors. My tone is biting and sarcastic, but I really do mean it.
Today, nearly seven years after I crossed Washington Township, Pennsylvania during my walk across America, I bisect my own path at Highway 16. Regrettably, it isn’t until the road is miles behind me that I realize I did it. The landmark was but one of the day’s handful of uneventful road crossings, during which I simply hurried across the lanes of country blacktop to promptly return to a blanket of trees. Highway 16 came and went in a forgettable blip. And I totally missed it.
And though I had wanted to relish this moment of intersection as it happened, I also hadn’t been paying close enough attention to what was ahead. My focus had been only on my next step: The next log to step over. The cool breeze that offered relief from this unseasonably warm temps. The birdsong. The knock of a Pileated Woodpecker. The curl of budding ferns. While focused on the trail I had completely overlooked the mark.
That evening, while swabbing embedded dirt from the cuts in my knees, I reflect on the day’s events. It all makes doggone good sense. Because, if anything, my oversight and earlier fall are both clues that I’m living in the now. Which is precisely what I’m going for out here. I’ll take it, even if I have to leave some things behind.
Ah, cemeteries. My go-to option for camping. As long as your neighbors are quiet and not inclined to visit.
I also notice the little things a bit more now. The sun on my face, light glimmering on water or literally stopping to smell the roses (several times) during walks to the grocery store.
Nice essay Tom.
Thank you for sharing this, Tom. The pictures are wonderful. Hope your knees are ok.
Helene