I chose to hike for 10 days without a watch. It was a conscious choice. I didn’t want to be focusing on how fast I was (or wasn’t) hiking. I didn’t want to worry about wake up time, or lunch time, or bed time. I wanted to enter into the woods and settle into the circadian rhythms of sunrise and sunset, of birdsong and cicadas, of the inhaling and exhaling of the mountain air.
Of course, I could always get out my phone and look at the time. But, I didn’t want to be driven by a clock on my wrist. I wanted to let go and be in the moment. So, on July 13th, I stepped out of the car at Sam’s Gap (where Interstate 26 in NC cross the AT) and stepped onto the trail, praying to be timeless and in the moment… it was 10:30am. Of course, I know this because I was anxious to get on the trail and hike the 11.2 miles to my first campsite at Flint Mountain Shelter. I was watching the clock in the car.
When we arrived at the gravel pull off parking area near the underpass of I26, you could see the white blazes of the Appalachian Trail painted on the concrete and guard rails, showing hikers where to cross the road. As I unloaded my pack from the car and debated one more time about packing my fleece (I took it, thank God) we saw 4 hikers emerge from the green tunnel on the other side of the underpass. A man pulled up in his car and hopped out with his dog to hike a while. Another man walked onto the trail going the opposite direction. It seemed that I was getting on at a popular location.
The 4 hikers got closer and I saw that they were all women, traveling more or less together. We chatted for a moment, they were headed Northbound (NoBo in AT lingo) and I was going Southbound (SoBo). “Awww. So sorry you wont be joining our party. Have a great hike!” They waved to me as they stepped back into the woods and left the pavement. Well, at least I knew which direction to hike in… the other way.
I hugged my parents goodbye, thanked them for driving me, and stepped onto the AT. The transition was abrupt. I laughed out loud as I imagined myself a troublesome animal being released into the woods far from home… only to walk 110 miles back to the house and show back up on my parent’s doorstep.
Personally, my body was adjusting to the hard work of carrying a 37 pound pack, keeping my footing going uphill and down, and discovering a pace that allowed me to breathe and keep moving. We had eaten breakfast on the road at Bojangles and, after a calorie laden breakfast of sausage and egg biscuit, I wasn’t really sure when my body needed another meal. I stopped for trail snacks along the way but I never ate a real lunch. I kept telling myself that I would soon be at camp. The last 2.7 miles were very hard without enough calories and my feet were complaining loudly. Clearly, I did not have my hiking legs, yet.
As soon as I walked far enough to silence the noise of cars on the highway, the forest and mountains took over my attention. Amazing breezes flowed through the trees and over the ridge tops. Gorgeous lush green and moist brown earth were embracing me. Every once in a while there would be an opening in the curtain of green and I could see the expansive Appalachian mountain range. I felt gratitude to be welcomed into their company. Every time my mind began to obsess about time and mileage, I would return to my prayer, “Dwell. God, may I dwell deeply in you.”
I ran into very few people on the trail while I hiked. Usually, the trail is so narrow that one hiker must step aside and make way for the other to pass. The unwritten etiquette is for the person who needs a rest to step aside and allow the other hiker to pass. Most often, this is the hiker traveling uphill. It is customary to say hello and ask how someone is doing. On the trail, people are usually pretty honest about their condition and will share important trail intelligence about what is coming up. “There’s a steep climb ahead.” Or “I just saw a bear in the last mile, you might want to make some noise while you hike.” Or “If you are staying at the next shelter, it was empty (or full) when I passed by.” Each exchange is also an opportunity to show kindness and share resources. New hikers ask experienced hikers questions about the trail and their gear. People stop and talk for a bit, sharing where they are from, what they are looking forward to, and what brought them out into the woods. Hiking community is an informal and organic network of goodwill and trust. Each time I crossed paths with someone, I felt myself being called out of myself and into relationship with another human being. It was like the soundtrack of my hike changed form the interior tempo of my own heart and breath, to a jazz composition with another person entering the ensemble.
My grandfather and my mother always talked about the mountain breathing throughout the day. In the morning, the mountain inhales, drawing the air up from the valleys to the peaks as the sun warms the air and lifts it towards the clouds. In the evening, as the sun sets, the air cools and falls from the peaks into the valleys, exhaling back down the mountain. As I stood on the ridge line my first day, I could feel the mountain inhaling through the morning.
After 11.2 miles I arrived, along with another hiker at my first campsite, Flint Mountain Shelter. Kelly (and her dog Charlie) and I discovered that a group of youth already occupied the shelter building and many of the close tent sites. We hunted around and found a fairly level patch of ground near the water source to set up our tents. That first night we spent together, respecting each other’s space and sharing each other’s company in equal measure, began a four day hiking friendship that I believe will extend beyond the trail. Our hiking pace was never in sync, but each night, we ended up at the same shelter or tent site. (More about Kelly and Charlie later.)
My first day on the trail came to a comfortable close as the sun set and I fell asleep around 8 p.m., aka “Hiker’s Midnight”. I slept as I always do on the trail, in a series of 45 minute naps. The Barred Owls hooted through the night and at 5:30 a.m. the song birds heralded the dawn.
