Appalachian Trail, Part 5
To do nothing else but walk
I’m a note taker. In my off-trail life I scribble daily ponderings on scrap paper to tuck in my pocket. At the end of the day I empty my collection and try to make sense of them. Some are keepers—a poignant word or phrase that sparks a flame I want to fan. Others, however, are cryptic—either I can’t read my own handwriting, or my jottings no longer make any doggone sense.
Once in a while the noted tidbit is a complete thought. Like this curious one from earlier this year: Everywhere I go I am surrounded by butterflies. They flit and flutter around me, brushing my skin with their soft and weightless wings. They land on my body, covering me so completely that their marvel of colors, their movement, their very essence and energies become mine. This phenomenon may seem extraordinary, but it only serves to create havoc. All day long this abundance of butterflies poses an unsurmountable challenge. I am unable to accomplish my most mundane tasks. Or, when I do, I leave a trail of crushed wings. Their grace, our beauty, and this miracle, is a shared burden.
When I am open to interesting things, they role over me like a barreling wave.
On the trail I tend to be more open to inspiration than anywhere else. Here, it doesn’t make sense to scribble thoughts on paper, so when a thought crosses my mind, I pull out my phone and dictate a voice note. The transcription is never perfect, but it’s usually enough to prompt an accurate recall. These notes, along with countless photos, allow me to dream my journey after living it.
Lately, however, my creative process has been thwarted by the season’s excessive moisture. An unusual amount of spring rain, followed by days of blistering heat and soaring humidity, makes it unwise, if not impossible, to use my iPhone. At any given time I am either covered in precipitation, or I can’t stop sweating. Often it’s both. The resulting sheen of water on my phone’s glass screen confuses its sensors. The process of typing in my password regularly turns into a lengthy lockout. So rather than manage the ensuing frustration, I put it in a Ziplock and tuck it away.
Over the past week, I’ve gone multiple days without taking a single note or snapping a photo. I worry that my recollection of this hike will quickly disappear. But I am also intrigued by this predicament. Because the idea of not documenting anything—nothing at all—inspires its own sort of relief. I am compelled to do nothing else but walk.
Hikers may not much like wet trails, but land-dwelling juvenile Eastern Newts sure do. These bright orange salamanders with commanding red spots have become so ubiquitous that every step I trod is a near miss. When they first appear, I keep count: There’s a big one standing still on a rock, a small one on a leaf, a couple others nestled under a fiddlehead, one on an ash tree, another on a stick, in a puddle, more on the edge of the trail, more still in depressions of hiker footprints, and so on. These semiaquatic critters are, quite literally, everywhere I look.
After totaling more than 100 in an hour, what started as fun feels more like a chore, so I give up on the tally. Their sheer quantity outweighs their novelty—and though they are, in their own way, completely amazing, I am no longer preoccupied by their presence. I zip past, and try my best not to inadvertently squash them.
I depart Delaware Water Gap and cross from Pennsylvania into New Jersey. There’[s an immediate steep climb where, multiple times, I confuse the trail for a stream. If the theme of Pennsylvania was rocks, the theme of New Jersey, so far, is water and wet trail. My day old shoes, doused in thick mud, already look war torn.
Appalachian Mountain Club employee and YouTuber, Johnny Dollar, checks me in at the Mohican Center in Blairstown, NJ. “You’ve come to the right place,” he says with a smile before naming tonight’s special. “Carnitas quesadillas,” he says, “I highly recommend.”
After settling into my bunk room and taking a second shower in as many days, Johnny's dinner suggestion starts sounding far better than my bagged mix of dehydrated refried beans and Top Ramen. I throw on my cleanest set of clothes—basically my pajamas—and head back to the Center’s main hall. When my food is ready, Johnny personally delivers my plate to where I’m sitting at one of the many full-sized farm tables. “Bon appetit,” he bellows. His baritone resonates in the space like a monk’s chant.
I’ve spent the past two plus weeks eating a daily regimen of pre-packed, calorie-rich foods meant to fuel me more than provide any sort of culinary delight. I start the day with a cold soaked mix of oats and nuts, a pack of Spam, and some nut butter, then chase it all down with a protein bar and a cold cup of instant coffee.
Rather than eat lunch, I consume a 200 calorie snack every hour until dinnertime, when I usually devour another meat packet—either tuna or chicken—a mashed bag of potato chips, a 4-pack of fig newtons, and a full sized Snickers bar.
I live in a constant state of caloric deficit but never really feel hungry. In fact, I appreciate not having to think about what’s on the menu. I feel a deeper sense of peace when I have less options.
More hikers start trickling in for dinner, and it’s obvious that Johnny Dollar's carnitas pitch has gone viral. He repeatedly delivers one steaming plate after another, and soon the spacious room is a soundtrack of clinking silverware and contented sighs.
Me, Pop, Floppy, Flower Power, Donkey, and a handful of others sit sprawled out across our respective tables. We’ve all ordered more than our bellies can accommodate—the standard gluttonous move generally reserved for town stops. When we start chatting, our relative distance from each other requires us to project our voices. The sudden increase in volume conjures up the room’s dreamy, abby-like acoustics. Soft reverberations make me think about singing.
“Anyone else have tunes pop into their head while hiking?” I ask the room. Everyone says they do, so we go around the room to share our specifics. One of the dayhikers staying at the lodge says he channels Dylan most of the day. “Like a Rolling Stone,” he says. Flower Child reluctantly admits she’s often overcome by a catch hit by the Spice Girls. Someone else claims to be haunted by Willie Nelson.
When it’s my turn I tell everyone I’ve been keeping track of all the songs that regularly pass through me. I’ve accumulated a list that includes, “Another Day in Paradise,” by Phil Collins, “Walking in Memphis,” by Marc Cohn, the CHiPs television show theme song, and “Sailing,” by Christopher Cross. “Ramble On” by Led Zeppelin hits me every day as I start out.
“But every time I’m on a sustained ascent that's kicking my ass,” I say, “one particular song consistently repeats.” I then look around the room and am pretty sure that this demographic knows the tune I’m about to unveil.
“You all know, ‘I Am the Walrus’ by the Beatles?” They do, and follow my question hearty laughs. As they crack up, I bang my fist on the table to the song’s tempo. Boom, boom, boom. The pounding echoes from floor to ceiling. After a few beats I begin singing. “I am here and you are here and we are here and we are all together…” Folks applaud and encourage me to keep on. But since I don’t know the next part, I jump ahead to the chorus.
I sing even louder. “I am the egg man—wooooo, I am the egg man—woooo, I am the walrus!” I belt the lyrics, crooning my heart out. As I end that last line, the entire room chimes in with Lennon’s gibberish finale, “GOO-GOO G’JOOB!” Then we laugh and laugh and laugh, holding our full bellies tightly so we don’t roll from our chairs onto the slate floor.
A long hike is never only about the trail. The trail is simply one important detail. The most crucial component of a long walk is the people you meet along the way. Take away the interactions with hikers and locals and all the random encounters and all that’s left is an arduous grind.
So far I’ve walked nearly 1500 miles on the AT and I’ve seen some pretty spectacular sights en route. But this impromptu gathering is likely how I’ll subsequently answer the common question, “What was your favorite moment on the AT?”
My favorite moment, I’ll likely say, was when we strangers landed in the same place, at the same time, and sang our hearts out together. When we harmonized voices and feelings into a booming togetherness that could never have been planned. My favorite moment on the Appalachian Trail was when we, as many, became one.
Nice Tom. Being the antisocial bastard that I am, I think the newts would be my favorite part. It would suck to squish them though.
Bam!💥
Right on!
This is lovely! This is “It.”
A long hike is never only about the trail. The trail is simply one important detail. The most crucial component of a long walk is the people you meet along the way. Take away the interactions with hikers and locals and all the random encounters and all that’s left is an arduous grind.
James