Illustration by Ali White
At 7 a.m. on July 26, 2021, I found myself in northern Maine, huddled underneath a boulder with strangers telling jokes as thunder crashed and hail pelted the steep mountain slope around us. It was a fitting end to the journey that led me here, one that had begun five months before at Amicalola Falls State Park in Georgia, nearly 2,200 miles south of where I now crouched. I’d taken my first steps on the Appalachian Trail in February knowing that only one in four who touch the southern terminus at Springer Mountain hike all the way to the summit of Mount Katahdin. While sheltering on the treeless Katahdin cliff face, the cold rain lashing, with only 2 miles standing between me and the trail’s northern terminus, I thought, “This is the final test? Good one, Mama K.”
My journey had taken me on foot through 14 states along the ancient Appalachian Mountain range, through winter snow and summer sun, through farmland and suburban streets, over endless mountains and deciduous forest, all within the constraints of a pandemic, and through it all, some patterns began to emerge. I’ve highlighted four important lessons I learned on my Appalachian Trail thru-hike.
Accept kindness from strangers.
“Are you going … alone?”
The weight of an implied bear attack or murder settled heavily on that last word as each concerned family member asked about my plans. Yes, I started the trail without a buddy, but I did not travel alone. Ride-offering “angels,” hostel owners, maintenance crews, hikers and others form a vast network that keeps the trail running while making bold acts of kindness commonplace.
On day five of my hike, shivering in the February dusk, I rolled up to the Tray Mountain shelter in Georgia to see other hikers chatting warmly, their legs dangling off the edge of the three-walled wooden structure. A girl about my age in black rain gear introduced herself as “Skippy,” a recently acquired trail name, and the large man next to her introduced himself as “Cool Enough” in a distinctive Alabaman drawl. Over the miles to come, these new friends would become my trail family, or “tramily.” Together we learned not only to rely on each other, but also to give and receive kindness from strangers by accepting rides into town, encouragement and free beer.
Leave room for spontaneity.
On the trail, dropping everything was as easy as slipping off my backpack. I found that my most treasured experiences sprung from the twist of a single moment in which I was free to say yes.
One morning in June, I awoke in the bed of a family friend in Connecticut, and two hours later, instead of being back on the trail, I found myself on a train into New York City with Skippy for her college graduation. In April, I shared an Easter dinner of pizza with 12 friendly strangers at a shelter in Virginia. On July Fourth, Cool Enough and I caught a fireworks display to end an unexpected stopover in Gorham, New Hampshire. All of these moments materialized when I opened myself to the unknown.
It’s a marathon, not a sprint.
Since the first mountains of Virginia had fallen behind us at 500 miles, our tramily had kept a standard pace of 15-20 miles per day. The trail’s most challenging terrain gradually became mental, not physical, as 1,700 miles of the same numbing, viewless climbs stretched on. Overcoming boredom separates the thru-hiker from the quitter: a feat not of the body, but of the mind. Hiking became an act of diligence, routine and mental trickery.
Balancing the effects of long days of hiking on my body became a mental exercise: How much mind should I pay to fatigue? A popular strategy suggested finishing 10 miles by 10 a.m., then erasing the memory by saying aloud, “Wow, it’s a bit late, but I’m excited to start my normal 20-mile day!” Suffering diligently and exerting control over the mind emerged as vital keys to success in the 2,200-mile journey.
‘Undulations of suffering and joy’
This phrase rose in my brain several times while hiking. My thru-hike, I noticed, much the same as my life, had been composed of rolling waves of pain and joy. When my wet socks froze solid in the night, I simply waited for the rising sun to thaw them. When the rain poured, I knew eventually it would stop. Moments of elation peaked and faded as well. Cries of triumph rang sweetly into the blue sky as we raced on broken-down bikes in Tennessee; Skippy beamed, dancing in a New Jersey parking lot at her cherished Mount Tammany; we all laughed ourselves to tears at hostel karaoke after a harrowing day in a mountain thunderstorm. These highs all eventually faded again to the mundane. And thus, I’d found myself at a dip in this wave on the face of Katahdin, only 2 miles from the summit, shivering, my heart thudding, but knowing firmly that if I simply lived each moment through to the next, the danger would pass.
When the storm had eased enough, my fellow thru-hikers and I pressed on and up, through the rain, then through the mist. Softly, like a whisper, the clouds slipped away to reveal the final half-mile to the summit. I had set out on the trail to shape myself into the person I decided I’d like to be: someone who takes on challenges and, through discomfort, finds growth. When I arrived at the top, I dropped my pack and wrapped Skippy in an embrace, and we soaked in the moment, whooping and laughing into the vast open sky.
Ali White is a native of Richmond and a 2020 graduate of Washington University in St. Louis. When not long-distance backpacking, she enjoys illustration, language learning and thought-provoking questions about chairs. Trail friends may know her as “Hatback.”
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