Sweat covers your entire body — so much so, that drops have begun to accumulate on your arms and are beginning to creep down toward your fingertips. They splash onto the dirt.
Every joint, every muscle, every inch of your body has screamed out at some point — sometimes all at once — begging you to stop and take a break, to just sit down and rest awhile.
Bedtime consists of sleeping bags and inch-thick mats in wooden shelters, which are riddled with mouse droppings. You lie awake, unable to sleep because the pain makes getting comfortable impossible.
Welcome to your life for the next six months, thru-hiker.
The Appalachian Trail is not for the faint-of-heart, -mind or -body. It is 2,000-plus miles of rugged trail in the heart of dense foliage. It is known by many as the green tunnel.
It is the biggest adventure of your life. You are on a pilgrimage. You are walking where thousands of others have walked, but it is a journey all your own.
You will cry, you will scream and you will laugh. But not once will you regret your decision to walk.
I had the pleasure of backpacking about 500 miles this summer. It was the best decision I have ever made. Through the rain and the pain, I found in myself a love for nature and backpacking that I never knew existed.
A stranger invited me into the great unknown. After a month getting to know each other, we set off with 65 pounds on our backs and no experience.
Our first day consisted of a whopping four miles on the approach trail. And boy, did we feel accomplished. We slept in a small clearing on top of Frosty Mountain, not even making it to Springer Mountain, the actual start of the trail.
Within the first week, my legs were covered in bug bites, and my nails were laden with dirt. My trail name was “Bellows,” as I was successful at bringing fire to life. We’d sent home boxes of things we realized we would never use, lightening our load tremendously.
Our first official trail town was Hiawassee, Ga. We successfully hitchhiked into town and received the most ridiculous trail magic any backpacker could hope for: a roof over our heads, a barbecue salmon dinner, a boat ride on a lake, the house to ourselves and the keys to a car — all from complete strangers.
The mountains are full of magic.
We embarked on our first night-hike as we departed from the Great Smoky Mountains. We found ourselves hiking not only in the wee hours of the morning but also through a lightning storm.
Steam fogged up our headlamps, and weariness had set in miles earlier. After a 23.4-mile day, we found ourselves setting up camp in the rain at 1 a.m. without any dinner. Sleep was trying to set in, only to be
eluded by a bear crashing down the mountain and finding itself outside our tent — Nothing some heavy hand clapping couldn’t handle.
We slept next to, beneath and even inside fire towers and were able to look out onto the Appalachians and see the mountains from where we had come. On one such tower, we were so high up, a propeller plane flew below us. We had a sense of accomplishment in that moment.
We stopped at ponds and caught fish with poles made from sticks, using flower petals as makeshift lures.
We whitewater rafted on the Nantahala River and dove into the icy water below. I lost my sunglasses when my trail partner pushed me out of our raft.
We fought rattlesnakes that blocked our paths. We made fires and read by the light of the flickering flames.
We lived without a care. Time wasn’t important. Mileage wasn’t an issue. We were simply living for the moment and embracing every second of it.
Every mile was filled with emotion. Every step was filled with accomplishment. Every day we became more human and less affected by the pains of modern life. Every day we got closer to living, and we will never be the same.
Getting off-trail was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. The woods had become my home. The ground was a welcome bed and the moonlight was my night light. Our last day was unexpected. My new reality ended and it hit me like a ton of bricks.
I slept on the floor of my room for days, not used to the softness of a bed. I craved cold mountain water and its crisp, pure taste. I had to sleep with a pillow over my eyes, as nothing is quite like the darkness of the woods.
And I cried. I cried for the woods I had left behind, for the simplicity I knew was now over, and for an experience I knew would one day seem merely like a dream.
Getting back into the swing of things happened quickly. Social media has a way of pulling you in, even if you don’t want it to. It has helped me keep in touch with trail friends and share photos of memories now long over. But the trail is ever-present and continually calling me back. It is a place, it is a love, it is a passion, it is a hurdle and it is a home to which you can always return.
Sometimes while walking on the Plaza of the Americas or moseying around Turlington, I’ll close my eyes, and for a second, I’m back in the woods.
I’m surrounded by the sounds and smells of the trail. I’m sweating and exhausted. My heart is pounding and my breathing is heavy. But I’m focused, and I am calm because I’m where I’m supposed to be. I’m, once again, deep inside the heart of the green tunnel.
A look into a tunnel of trees while hiking through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park during the summer months.
