Two years ago, when I attempted the AT, I was carrying grief from my father’s passing and the trail felt dark, close, and sinister. The humidity was oppressive, my shirt and shorts were perpetually soaked with sweat, and the motivation to keep going was gone.
This time it felt different. Very different.
This time. It’s fun.
Not only the joy of feeling the ground echo with my steps, but also the excitement for what awaits me. And an appreciation that I didn’t have before. The views of the PCT and CDT are not here, but the tranquility, grace and beauty are.
I took the bus from Poughkeepsie and watched the blue dot on FarOut race down the road toward the red line of the trail, ready to tell the driver where to stop.
Yesterday’s rain had dried off the road, it was cloudy and a fresh wind moved the trees. I pulled the cord too late and the bus overshot. I walked down the sidewalk to the trail and saw my first white flash.
I needed a photo to make it official. The fire was in a large oak tree, but I couldn’t position myself to get a good shot. I looked ten meters down and saw a better one. “This is my hike, damn it,” and he took the photo there.
My first fire. Ten meters away from the “official” trail, but it is my hike.
A hiker shot past. Thin, tattered hoodie, small backpack, moving fast. «Hello,» he said, and left. “I’m never going to see him again,” I thought, “and that’s okay.”
I started hiking.
My pack was still too heavy, but as I followed the curves of the trail, stepped over rocks, and the canopy moved in the wind, I was surprised to feel light. Agile, even. I placed my feet carefully on slopes and rocks. On the straights I picked up speed. My joints moved smoothly. Painless.
This is working.
And so began my first week on the AT. It was a good one.
Variety
If I had to choose one word to describe the AT, it would be variety. I don’t know why it didn’t register during my first attempt in 2024, but compared to the PCT and CDT, the AT changes every hour.
The first day I climbed over slabs of gray rock, feeling the soft give of pine needles alternating with layers of oak leaves, the hollow mass of the boardwalk above the swamp, and the shoe-wetting undergrowth of grass.
Slabs of gray rock, the valley stretches below.
Pine needles and oak leaves, soft underfoot.
The hollow mass of the boardwalk above the swamp.
And then the grass from the grass soaked my shoes.
The second day I found myself submerged in the Tenmile River, with the cold water pushing against my back and washing away my sweat. My wet shorts and shirt cooled me down for the next hour.
Soaked in the Tenmile, it washed away the sweat.
When I reached the Housatonic River, I emerged from the Green Tunnel into full sun and found myself missing its shade. This time it was not oppressive.
St. John’s Ledges
I had a scare this week.
FarOut showed the contour lines running down the ridge after Kent. It would be steep; That was obvious, but I didn’t bother reading the comments. It was called St. John’s Ledges.
I started down the ridge and ran into a couple of day hikers, and we had a nice chat about the PCT and other trails. Rain was threatening and they worried, not about the humidity, but about the rocks below. This did not set off any alarm bells; I was having a great day.
The first rocks were small, then they became the size of a truck. I had taken off my knee pads when I entered Kent (vanity, I suppose) and hadn’t bothered to put them back on. Now the rocks had large gaps and sharp angles.
My trekking poles were worthless. The tips slipped. I launched them down the “trail” in front of me and, as gently as possible, descended the next giant step. I picked up the poles, carried them uselessly a few steps, and threw them forward again.
