Two Month Update – Trek Appalachian Trail Two Month Update

Two months ago, I never thought I’d miss sleeping on the floor. Even writing that seems silly. Yet somehow, my sleeping mat became a familiar companion, my inflatable pillow a little gift I looked forward to, and my quilt a warm cocoon I crawled into every night in the secret hope that I would grow wings for my feet to rest on. Walking into my store became a routine that I didn’t expect to love. In fact, sleeping was my biggest fear and anxiety about this whole thing before it started. Maybe it was just tiredness, but I like to think it was my entire team slowly molding to me and becoming a home of sorts. Now I’m back on my couch in New Hampshire, coffee in hand, and I honestly miss those quiet nights in that little haven where the world was reduced to the dimness of my headlamp.

I arrived home a few days ago, just after completing two months of travel. Just before I left, I got pretty sick. Maybe it was norovirus (although that seems unlikely since my hiking partner never contracted it) or maybe it was just those sketchy gas station cheeseburgers, I’m still not entirely sure. Every time I mention cheeseburgers, people just nod and say, «Yeah, you should have known better.» Regardless of the cause of my illness, I spent three days hiding in a hotel, hoping to recover, but I continued to feel worse. In the end I had to admit defeat and return home to recover. The idea of ​​walking around all day on crackers and applesauce just wasn’t realistic, and there was no way my stomach was ready for my usual menu of oatmeal, instant coffee, candy, granola bars, Knorr Sides, and instant potatoes. I could barely handle half of that without feeling nauseous on a normal day.

If the trail teaches you anything from day one, it’s that your plans don’t matter much beyond Springer. You have to adapt. Either you learn to accept whatever comes your way or you’re done. In the end, I couldn’t escape what was happening to my body and I ended up here, at home, without my tent. Now that I’m finally feeling better and have some space to think, it feels right to share some of what the last two months have really been like. I tried to write about the journey, but every time I did, it seemed impossible to explain it to someone who hadn’t been there. Before I started, I imagined posting weekly reflective updates. That became maybe every two weeks, then once a month, and suddenly a third of the trip passed before I knew it. Out there, life comes down to the basics: water, food, shelter, weather, miles and sleep. It’s hard to write something reflective about what you’re going through when you’re still in the middle of it.

Instead of trying to summarize all the crazy things that have happened over the past few months, I keep thinking about one night that stands out. It started early in the morning, somewhere in Virginia. It’s funny out there: half the time you don’t even know exactly where you are.

The rain started out soft, barely hitting as I half slept, earplugs in and my AT buff piled up like a makeshift eye mask. That was my usual setup. I’m definitely in the ignorance is bliss team when it comes to sleep. The gentle tapping turned into a full-on shower. At some point an earplug fell out and suddenly the rain sounded deafening. I stood there debating: do I reach for the earplug in the dark or just try to go back to sleep? At that moment, lightning illuminated my tent. Instinctively, I began to count: “One Mississippi, two Mississippis, and…” The thunder cracked so close it shook my chest. Before I could even realize how far away I was, the rain became even harder and the entire sky went crazy. I love a good storm when I’m safe inside a house or car, but inside my tent? That fear hits differently.

With a flashing bar of service, I texted my hiking partner, Turbo, who was camped a few tents away: «I’m scared.» Naturally, I made the rookie mistake of Googling, “Is my store safe in a thunderstorm?” and of course the internet told me I was basically in the worst place possible. As I spiraled, Turbo replied, «Me too. I didn’t think there would be lightning. It’s really close.» I snuggled deeper into my quilt, careful not to touch the tent poles, and felt the ground vibrate as another bolt of lightning struck. It was the closest and strongest lightning bolt I have ever experienced. My heart was racing; I was convinced a tree would fall or the ground would turn electric and fry me from the outside in. In the end, I thought, well, if I was going to die, it probably would have happened by now. So I texted Turbo: «So close. Stay on your platform, don’t touch your tent poles,» as if he suddenly knew something about lightning safety. Three in the morning became four. I was still wide awake, half sure these were my last moments, half knowing there was nothing I could do about it.

At 5am, the rain finally let up, so I thought I’d get a head start on packing. The moment the rain came down, the sky unleashed another torrent. I ran to grab our bear, the food bag now full of rainwater, muttering to myself: Is this really my life?

Around 5:30, Turbo appeared outside my tent, unzipped the rain, and found me already packed and waiting. I could barely hear her in the rain, so I just yelled, «Come in!» Soon we were both inside, dripping and laughing, exchanging stories about the night. Somehow, he managed to fall back asleep, without earplugs! Honestly, I was a little jealous of how calm she was about it. I admitted that I had spent the early morning hours hatching a desperate plan to hike 24 miles on a wild day and get to a shelter before the next storm. Surprisingly, she was totally on board!

We packed up at dawn, while the rain continued to fall, and we moved faster than ever. Watching Turbo move forward, the name of his trail made a lot of sense. Through the fog, a small shop appeared like a mirage. We walked in, dripping and hungry, and ordered two cookie sandwiches and a coffee each. The day’s terrain was soft and somehow we covered 24 miles in eight hours. When we arrived at the hostel, friends we hadn’t seen in weeks were gathered around a table, surprised and happy to see us. That night we showered, ate real food, played cards, and sang karaoke late into the night. It was wonderful.

That night stays with me because absolutely nothing went the way I thought. I went from seriously thinking that I might have to get rid of everything to laughing around a tightly packed table on a shelter porch just a few hours later, with a tent drying on the porch railing and a plate of real food in front of me that tasted heavenly. That’s the strange rhythm of the path. One moment you’re sure everything is falling apart and the next you’re warm and surrounded by people who totally get it. In reality, it’s not the dramatic survival story that people imagine. It’s more about constant adjustments, making small decisions in the dark and then waking up and realizing things turned out very different than you expected.

In a few days, I will return to Virginia for trail days and then return to the trail my hiking partner followed while I was home recovering. When I first got home, that gap between us seemed like a big mistake, as if breaking the streak meant part of the journey was over. It seemed as if going off track meant giving up or being disappointed. I haven’t completely gotten rid of that feeling, but I know the trail doesn’t care about perfect timelines or unbroken miles. It’s always there and you start again when you can. Sometimes it stops you, makes you listen to your body and accept that rest is as important as kilometers. This is just another chapter of this story. While I have my internal struggle about it, I know this is what it was meant to be. I’m glad the section I missed was lovely, because I’ll be heading back to Virginia after I get to Katahdin to do it.