1,900 miles from home to Maine

I looked out the plane window

As the Appalachian Mountains passed beneath me on the flight from Portland, ME to Atlanta, GA. In the span of three and a half hours, I had covered the distance that would take me the entire spring and summer to complete, assuming I could finish. Watching all 14 states work out was intimidating, but he jumped at the chance to finally begin the Appalachian Trail and the long drive back to Maine.

106 days later,

I crossed the New Hampshire border and entered my home state. It was strange. For almost my entire walk, every step was unknown to me, every city and path I crossed one I only knew from my guide. The strangeness was gone as I passed sections where I had walked during the day or made night trips. Trail signs would now guide me along sections I maintained while working for the ATC, to towns I’ve driven through, and to neighboring mountains I’ve skied for years. This familiarity was only amplified in the first few miles of the Mahoosuc region of Maine. I had hiked this section three times before, and the highlight of the trip was always the opportunity to interact with the hikers. Now that I was experiencing the section on my own trip from Georgia, the experience seemed to come full circle. Although the brutality of southern Maine usually comes like a slap in the face after completing the Whites, every ladder climb, mud pit, rock jump, and spin through Mahoosuc Notch was as nostalgic as it was exhausting.

Along the route of the trail,

I have relied on the support of communities, shelters, and trail angels during my hike. This trust has often led to serendipitous moments of kindness from complete strangers, an aspect of hiking that I have deeply appreciated and would soon end. Being so close to home, I wanted to preserve the experience of the hike. While I could have hiked with full support from the New Hampshire border to Monson, gotten a family member to drop off a resupply, or taken all the zeros I wanted at my parents or grandparents’ houses, I wanted to experience Maine like a hiker.

In the end, I received the best of both worlds. My parents, grandparents, and high school cross-country coaches came out and gave a big hiker sign after crossing the Rt. 26. I was able to talk to several friends while passing through Carrabassett Valley and a friend walked with me through Caratunk. On the other hand, I briefly joined a tram for the first time from New York after meeting Night Owl and Smalls, who introduced me to their friend Kevin, a fellow Mainer who supported them through Rangely, and graciously let me join them to spend the night at their camp and treat us to a steak dinner!

Although I had encountered much more exhausting days

The 167 miles to Monson had some of the hardest back-to-back stretches of my entire trip. I barely managed to swallow another Clif Bar despite my hunger and savored every inch of walking, allowing me to divert my attention from every rock and root strangling the path; I was mentally ready to finish. The long days and continuous elevation changes were beginning to take their toll physically. Although injuries were never a concern, each day it became more difficult to force the pain in my legs to the back of my mind.

As I watched the trail from the plane window, I knew firsthand how difficult southern Maine would be, but I hoped my familiarity would give way to ease. With each day getting harder as the miles to Katahdin decreased,was It’s rewarding to experience my home state from a new perspective, receiving support from both people close to me and complete strangers.

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