The Next Big Adventure

When my brother and I were much younger, our mom did something daring: she took two kids on a backpacking trip.  At the time, Dad had a job that didn't allow many days off, so she took us for 61 miles of the Appalachian Trail (Rainbow Gap to Fontana Dam) with her sister and their aunt and uncle (also siblings).  Come to think of it, I never realized before, but that trip was three generations of sibling pairs.  Wild.

My brother was so young, and his pack so small, that he really only carried his own sleeping bag and a little of his clothing--Mom carried the rest of his clothes, because we couldn't fit anything else in his pack.  I carried my stuff and helped Mom with our share of the food and kit, as much as I could.

I think it rained for two solid days at some point.  At another time, we were following blue blazes (the AT is marked with white blazes; side trips and detours are marked in blue) to get to either Cheoah or Silar Bald--I can't remember which it was--and the adults were convinced we were lost while I was certain that we were still on the blue blaze route and just needed to keep going to return to the trail.  We later discovered I had been right.

We got blisters.  At the end of the week, the adhesive on the moleskin I had applied to my feet had bonded to my flesh, and the moleskin itself had started to dissolve, so I couldn't seem to scrub my feet clean.  Meanwhile, the constant rain had permeated our boots and dyed our feet the color--and pattern--of our socks.  I didn't really have frostbite; I just had blue toes.  And a little athlete's foot from never getting them dry.

I was the only one who had avoided stepping on the thirty thousand snails all over the trail.  The others said it was like walking on eggs.  The crunch, and the squish.

On a separate trip, during the school year when my brother and I couldn't join, a late spring storm surprised the other two pairs of siblings.  Snow fell deep, and it was a big enough news story that we followed it closely from home, five or six states away.  The four of them crowded into one tent for warmth, and pulled double layers of wool socks onto their hands, because it was springtime and none of them had brought gloves.

It sounds awful, I know, but the weird thing is, I had to think really hard to remember some of those details.  My biggest memory from my AT experience was wanting to do it again.

Wanting to do it all.

Before Mom was even diagnosed, she joked that she wanted us to carry her ashes in a cast-iron Dutch oven to scatter on the AT, from Georgia to Maine.  After the cancer finally killed her, Dad took his boys to Georgia and we scattered a little of Mom's ashes on Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the AT, where most thru-hikers begin the journey.

I've always wanted to finish the trip.  I wanted to hike the entire AT anyway, because it's something we talked about since that very first backpacking excursion over twenty years ago.  Later, I was given a new reason.  It supplements, rather than supplants, the original drive.  I was a very late baby.  Mom carried me for almost ten months.  I'll only have to carry her for about five.

I've wanted to do this, with her ashes, for many years.  For various reasons, I've never been able to coordinate it.  Lately, though, my schedule has opened up.  Unemployment offers ample opportunity to drop off the grid for several months.  I started thinking about it more seriously, and maybe two months ago, I formed the seed of the plan while I was out for a run.

The plan was to spend this year planning, training, and coordinating.  I'd do some shorter hikes to figure out what kind of mileage I could cover, sort out my gear, and maybe visit a few sections of the trail.  Then, next year, I'd take the long walk.  That was the plan.

I told a friend about it, and even my idea to write a book about the journey.  He asked me about my angle for the book, and I told him about Mom's ashes.  "Let's do it," he said.  "Let's do it now."

He has a manic, infectious enthusiasm about every project he tackles, and as much as I tried to dissuade him from launching directly into such a monumental trial, I found myself agreeing with him.  We're in great shape; we know we can hike for miles on end, and after a couple weeks on the trail, we'll be in even better shape. We both have long history with camping and hiking, and between us we already have all of the gear we need.  Most importantly, we know we can put up with each other for that long, even under trying circumstances.

We later discovered that he didn't have the opportunity he thought he had to wander in the woods all summer.  Faced with hiking it solo after years without backpacking, I was still willing to do it, but I found myself so focused on cramming all the preparation I could into the scant three weeks I had before the planned departure date that I often woke in the middle of the night thinking of backpacking food, and couldn't fall asleep for over an hour after, my mind still churning with details like tent choice, the logistics of resupply, and how far I thought I could reasonably hike every day for five months straight.

Ultimately, I decided to stick with my original plan.  There are a lot of other things happening this spring, summer, and fall that I'd have to work around, and as appealing as it was to just drop everything and hike 2,200 miles, casually declaring it "no big deal" when I finished, I know better.  It's a very big deal, and I want to know that I have everything ready before I head north.

I've talked to Dad and my brother, and the only reservation either of them had was that my brother wanted to go, too, but can't get the time off.  They both plan to meet up with me from time to time.  The Girl has offered to coordinate some gear and food drops.  I haven't told many people yet, but I've been met only with support.  That alone is encouraging.  The fact that nobody has had any doubt that I can do it, and everyone wants to help.