And… I’m leaving – The Trek

Week 7 miles 1424-1508 – 76 miles traveled (plus 8 miles marked in yellow) – 473 miles traveled in total

Bougie King has left the AT. After a week of smoke, and even with the help of light charges and spark plug housings, the tank is finally empty. Although I’m probably the last of the unsupported flip flops(;) who left Harper’s Ferry 8 weeks ago, it’s still a day with some regret. But of course, there are many thoughts and emotions this morning, as I sit in the shadow of Maria McCabe’s famous lodge in Salisbury, Connecticut.

Double Zero at Highland Falls

A church friend’s aunt offered me a home away from home in Highland Falls. I could stay as long as I wanted, to rest my sore left knee and even get transportation to carry a backpack and resupply. Patricia and Ronnie were fantastic hosts: their house was a panoply of color, original souvenirs, wind chimes and Colombian cuisine. While it’s not specifically a hiker’s hostel, its atmosphere certainly was! And there was Anne, shuttle driver extraordinaire, happily taking me from one place to another, somehow without the aid of modern directional support. She was also a tour guide at one time and gave me a free tour of West Point on my last zero. And through all this support, Patricia and Ann made me feel like a superstar, asking questions and shaking their heads in disbelief upon hearing about my hiking efforts.

I needed this walk because I wanted to connect with other humans – to leverage a shared goal – a long walk – as a way to bridge the gaps that were forming between us. What I discovered was that connection does not need to be found with a common purpose; It can be found with a gift, an act of kindness, a conversation. Patricia, Ronnie and Ann gave me these gifts. We talk, we listen, we share. And a little more gas was added to my tank.

The week that was

A week ago I decided in Highland Falls that this would be my last week. As any walk-through or tabloid will tell you, that’s contemplating an early exit: there are a million reasons. But generally everything becomes one: the pleasure of the walk is over. So this last week, I would push myself to walk for a full week in an attempt to cover 500 miles, about a quarter of the AT. It would take long days to reach Massachusetts, in a week that promised higher temperatures and increased humidity. I had little left in the tank, but I knew that with a little determination and a lot of determination I would try. I planned to pack all week and sleep in a bed every night. I would need at least a 20 mile day for this to happen.

Misery

It’s called the Misery Index for a reason. High heat and humidity sucks for everyone, even hikers. Get up early to beat the heat? Breathe 3 hours of saturated air. However, it was still the best option, as the misery index reaches unbearable levels in the early afternoon. And although I was saved earlier in the week, by Wednesday the index was rising. Thursday’s walk from Cornwall Bridge to Falls Village was intentionally shortened by 4 miles (my first official yellow fire) when I asked shuttle driver Doug to help me with a starting point closer to Falls Village. I arrived at Jenny’s Cabin drenched in sweat, fighting mosquitoes, just before a heavy storm.

Connections

Some of the best memories of the trail will be the connections I made with my fellow travelers. I was so tired of the division, the distrust, the distance between us. The Camino would provide those common points, it would take the phones out of our hands and we would see each other again. It turned out that I had more of a connection with younger travelers than my older peers. Maybe it was because we didn’t see the need to compare ourselves, to measure ourselves against each other. Throughout much of Connecticut, I kept running into Skillet, a young man barely out of his teens who was planning a yo-yo (taking the Trail both north and south) for some 4,000 miles. I wanted to be one of the first 100 to complete the journey.

I helped him when I could, with some extra food, the old man’s advice about not smoking. And it helped me see the joy of simply taking what the day gives you. We met by chance under the Bull Bridge over the Housatonic River. I was having lunch and I offered him some. He said, «No, that’s all yours, man… I’m going swimming, maybe I’ll jump off that bridge!» Here I was on this journey learning to be mindful and present. Skillet saw a bridge over a river and suddenly it was time to swim. Fortunately he didn’t jump: it was a covered bridge.

In a shelter in Pennsylvania I met Slim Jim, a young woman from my same neighborhood in Western New York. She found out that I sing and asked me for a song. We agreed to swap houses: hers, an apartment at home, and mine on a lake in Texas. Our talk was brief, but full of innocence and fantasy. A few weeks later I would see her again in the southeast corner of New York. Our eyes lit up as we recognized each other: «Bougie?! Slim Jim!» We spoke only briefly, but the moment was still special. No judgment or inspection, just genuine happiness at the recognition and good news. I hope to take these lessons with me when I return home.

Result

Now I’m writing at an old friend’s house from work: a little rest before catching a plane back to Texas. He has a fancy tent at the back of his house, so I can acclimatise to life at home little by little. The truth is that it won’t be difficult. Some final thoughts on this “abbreviated” walk:

1. I’m a beast: I hiked almost 500 miles, up and down thousands of feet of rocky and often slippery terrain for 8 weeks, all while carrying a miniature house on my back (well, some days I had a Sherpa). I slept outdoors, pooped in a shed, and wore the same clothes for days. I filtered water from streams to drink, swallowed toothpaste to keep bears away from my campsite, and smelled my own stinky odor every time I raised my arms. I did this with a regulator on my motor: a blood pressure medication designed to keep my beats per minute at 130 or less. All the climbs were difficult, often with breaks every few minutes to catch our breath. I had walked a maximum of only 4 miles while preparing for this hike; I had chronic foot pain that only subsided with a cortisone injection and orthotics (one for each shoe) that arrived the day before we started the hike. In short, I got over some shit.
2. The trail is a beautiful gift. Of course it is difficult, but it is also an antidote to what ailed me. You must be present. You can’t be anywhere else in your mind or you’ll miss a fire, trip on a rock, or fall off a mountain. And being present was what I needed: to let go of the incessant rings and rings of my phone, the need to check the news, my emails, and the bane of my existence: social media. The trail is simple and the route is basic: walk, eat, rest (well, and do your business). When my mind found a moment to wander (which could never happen in the meandering rock garden of Pennsylvania), the thoughts were sober and efficient: Where would I make my next camp? When did you need to supply? How many more steps before a break? How could I shift my weight onto my back to relieve the pain in my shoulders? Was it poison ivy? How long has it been since I looked for a white flare? The concern was for what was real and present. Not the ambiguous and the potential. The trail is beautiful – the further north I go, the smoother the path as rock gives way to pine needle. Footsteps so quiet you must tap your poles to alert wildlife to your presence. And the forest creatures! My last walk was like being told “see you later.” Early in the morning I saw a wild cat; Minutes later 2 owls hoot. Near lunch a doe – she gave me a moment to talk to her – to take a photo. Then he looks at me carefully as I continue forward.
3. Falling short is not a disappointment. The saying “until you walk a mile in my shoes” was spot on: sort of. The effort was immense, the sacrifice real, the pain and discomfort incessant. As I began to see my fellow travelers leave, I didn’t think less of them, nor more of myself: they’d had enough. The walk was no longer the joy it had been. I knew that when I shared that feeling, it would be my time to walk away. I knew that willingly doing something that brought me less joy and more discomfort each day was less of a vacation and more of a job. I didn’t want to come to hate the Path.
4. The 60-year-old who walks the trail has more insight than the 25-year-old who dreams of walking the trail. He often felt that the two of them were conversing as he walked. After all, it was me, the 25-year-old, who had imagined the hike. But how could I know what it would feel like to walk with a 60-year-old body? Over those weeks along the trail, the 60-year-old’s learned experience eventually dominated the 25-year-old’s dream.

What’s next?

There is the question. I have been told that some stray from the path and immediately long for it again. Others return without problems to the lives they left behind.

I hope to be somewhere in between: living at home, with my family and friends close to me. But with the trail never too far away, reminding me that every day, every moment, every step, must be intentional. And that the way to live life is to be present in it – in that moment – ​​and not wait for the next thing. Make every day have a purpose, make every action intentional. I only have this life; I intend to be present in it.

Thanks for reading.

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