“Welcome! What’re your names?” I yelled to the couple who joined me at Davenport Gap Shelter. It was pouring loud rain on the metal roof and evening was falling fast.
”On the trail, I’m Sugar Girl. But in real life, my name is Fran.” The woman sat down gratefully in the shelter and grinned up at me. I was already in my sleeping bag on the top bunk. “His name is Swamp Irish.” She pointed to her husband, “We are from Louisiana.”
”My name is Adrien.” I told her. “I don’t have a trail name, yet.”
”Why not!” Exclaimed Sugar Girl.
”Well, I’ve been section hiking over the years and no one has ever given me a trail name that seems to fit.”
”Well, we will figure out a trail name for you and then you can see if it fits.” She said, rather matter of factly and began unpacking her things. Swamp Irish was getting out the cooking equipment and their last dinner meal on the trail. They were headed into town the next day in order to wash, purchase food, and check in with family.
Sugar Girl and Swamp Irish were 68 years young and on track to finish hiking the AT before their bodies made it impossible. They were amazing human beings… not super human, just humans blessed with a common love for nature, strenuous hiking, respecting their limits, and willing to take things as they come – like rain, or closed shelters, or bears.
We chatted into the darkness about our lives, our adventures, our families, our love of trail life and especially the people we meet along the way and the community of trust and care that we build with complete strangers in no time at all. Before we closed our eyes to sleep, we had adopted each other with an embrace of respect and curiosity that felt like the most real ‘real life’ that I can imagine.
There is something about the Appalachian Trail that weeds out jerks. Or maybe, if you are usually a jerk, when you hike onto the trail, your inclination to be a jerk goes away? I have always found that the people I encounter on the trail create holy, respectful, generous, beloved community. Trail life is the kind of real life that I want to be a part of.
Even though I made a decision to hike solo for 10 days, I also knew that I would not be alone for very long. People cross my path, people gather up at shelters and campsites for the night, people stop to collect water at the same spring. The trail may be remote, but it is also a pedestrian highway for anyone who wants to commune with nature in an intimate and vulnerable way. People who choose to live on the trail for a few days or for a week are willing to offer and receive help in a way that modern life often buffers and mitigates. In our cars, using money, striving for self sufficiency and ‘winning’ at life – we miss the opportunities to show each other love.
At the end of my first day, I met up with Kelly and her dog Charlie. Kelly taught German and coached Lacrosse at a school in Virginia Beach. She had explored several careers along the way that took her to Germany and now, in her thirties, she found herself back in her hometown, teaching at her alma mater, and living a short walk from her brother. She said that life was just about perfect. Our first night together at Flint Mountain Shelter was a respectful testing of each other’s need for solitude and companionship. We discovered a happy rhythm of conversation and silence.
I hiked faster than Kelly and Charlie, so we rarely saw each other on the trail, but each night, we camped at the same location. On the second night, we were joined by two retired nurses, Sally and Jan, and a thru-hiker, Jumanji (aka Edward), who was moving very slow. Turns out Jumanji also lived in Germany for awhile, so he and Kelly chatted in German. Sally and Jan were section hiking, took lots of pictures, and had the most particular requirements for tent placement and set up. I named them both, “Hospital Corners”. We ate around the picnic table in front of the Little Laurel Shelter, shared stories, learned about each other’s hiking gear, and gave each other encouragement. The hike out the next day was going to be a long, foot punishing downhill section into a gap and then a long climb up to the top of Rich Mountain. I constantly relied on people to tell me which shelters were closed, where the bears were active, and what condition the trail was in as I set out each day. I always felt supported by others.
Often, I would run into new hikers who were both excited and intimidated by the trail. I crossed paths with five middle-aged men from Oklahoma who had decided back in February, miserable with COVID restrictions, that hiking the AT would be a great idea. Now, in July, they were sweating profusely with too heavy packs and realizing that there was a lot they needed to learn simply being out in the woods. They laughed at themselves with good natured humility and asked life-saving questions about trail markings, hanging their food at night, and how to figure out where they were on the map. I shared a shelter with two sisters on Walnut Mountain who had done tons of preparation for their first hike, but found themselves surrounded my “manly men” and were shy to expose their novice status on the trail. I walked with them down to the water source (a puddle) and helped them figure out how to use their filtration system.
Towards the end of my hike, I encountered a young man named Garrett. He was about to enter MIT for grad school, but before his academic challenge, he challenged himself to hike the AT, self supported, in the fastest time ever. He set out from Springer Mountain, GA, hiking 50+ miles a day, and he said that the rain was slowing him down. He was carrying very few supplies because before his hike, Garrett drove from Maine to Georgia hanging food bags for himself every 50 miles. He said it took him 8 days with very little sleep to set up his supply chain at road crossings. I had encountered one of Garrett’s bags earlier on my hike at Garenflo Gap.
When Garrett arrived at Tri-Corner Knob Shelter it was late for hikers, already dark and 9pm. He stumbled in as I and Tum-Tum were already in our sleeping bags. We welcomed Garrett, learned about his hiking challenge, and asked if he needed anything. He just wanted to sleep for a little bit and thought that he might even continue hiking later that night. He was frustrated and his feet were miserable from all the rain. From his tiny vest pack he pulled a Bivy sack and lay down on the shelter platform.
The next morning, Tum-Tum hit the trail early, around 6am. This is when I emerged from my sleeping bag. I got water, used the privy, packed up my sleeping bag and mat, and started making breakfast before Garrett even stirred. All my maternal instincts focused onto this crazy man-boy who was sleeping like a baby. I got out extra everything: extra oatmeal, extra coffee, extra Cliff Bar, extra lunch… I made him breakfast and set it near his head for when he woke up.
“Good morning Garrett, there is oatmeal and food by your head.”
”Oh! Thank you so much!” He sat up and began to consume all the food like a starving person. After his meal, he slid down to the ground, and walked towards the privy like a 100 year old man. His legs were visibly refusing to extend and move gracefully across the ground.
”Do you want any Advil?” I asked, still in maternal mode.
”No,” he called back. “Im trying not to use pain killers. They make it hard for me to listen to my body.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with that. I gave Garrett everything I could spare to help him with his next 50 miles to Garenflo Gap. And then I found myself wondering if Garrett is really hiking the whole AT ‘self-supported’? Maybe he only thinks he is self-supported because he hung those food bags along the way… but really, he is supported by a whole community of people hiking the trail with him. Random strangers like me who will make extra breakfast and nourish him with food for the journey.
Isn’t this the way it is in real life, too?
By the way, my trail name stuck… Sugar Girl named me “Icon” before we left Davenport Gap, and I used it the rest of the trip. Thank you for the blessing of a trail name, Sugar Girl. Yet one more thing that we cannot do alone.
