AT Diaries – Observations Volume 2

What follows are the causal observations made by the average hiker over the last few hundred miles, in no particular order and with dubious connection to observable reality.

• The loose packaging is great. I don’t want to admit it, the purist in me wants to deny it and the Scrooge in me doesn’t want to pay for it, but it’s true. After crossing into my fourth state, I finally decided to try the loose packaging and I was not disappointed. I don’t plan to make it a regular activity, but yes, it is a great pleasure. Walking (with only daily essentials) instead of backpacking (with the weight of your own survival on your shoulders) are two extremely different experiences. I finally understand why day hikers are so cheerful and smell so pleasant.
• Trail sections are a real thing. For quite a while I heard a lot of conversations that included something like, «you’ll have your trail legs soon» or «once I get my trail legs I’ll be fine.» I’ve long suspected this idea: that legs can reach in, out and change almost like a Mr. Potatohead. I viewed the concept of the trail section as a joke that experienced hikers played on less experienced hikers, along the lines of «make sure you buy your dehydrated water tablets» or «I only bring ultralight toilet paper.» I was tremendously misinformed. I can say without a doubt that after a quarter of the trail, my current legs are very, very different. At Springer Mountain I wobbled like a baby giraffe. When I arrived at Grayson Highlands I walked with authority like a Clydesdale. What a difference 500 miles make.
• The trail is long but narrow. It seems like every other day I run into someone I met 2 states ago. Because hikers have a pretty specific set of goals, we all tend to wash in the same places: specific hostels, laundromats, breweries, buffet restaurants. I guess one of the mysteries of the journey is how we manage to stay out of each other’s reach during the weeks in between.
• Entering a hostel is very similar to boarding a pirate ship. On numerous occasions I have walked onto hostel property and thought, «where the hell am I?» These establishments are usually houses that function as forced landing zones for hikers. Employees, owners, day trippers, long-term residents, and passers-by are generally barely distinguishable from each other, although employees tend to accomplish some task with military efficiency: doing laundry without interruption, changing sheets moments after a guest has left, cutting potatoes, rolling up towels. You get the idea.
• Hiker trash is a term of endearment. Within the hive of activity at a lodge, one can usually find a person calling themselves «hiker scum» or affectionately referred to as «hiker scum.» They may have worked there, gone to zero for a day or month, or been inherited to the new owner when the property was sold. While I can’t claim to know the full taxonomy of each specific subset of hiker trash, imagine a person who is equal parts van bum, wandering troubadour, Grateful Dead Roadie with just a hint of outlaw biker. This person can usually be seen and heard dishing out Rain Man caliber information about specific locations on long trails they hiked years ago. Do you want the best shower on the road? Where to find wild blueberries? Where to get a free burrito in a sparsely populated New England county? You know who to ask.

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