The following story ran in the Daily Item on Nov. 6, 1998

 

The backpack now hangs in the garage, empty except for the memories.

The sleeping bag is stowed away, and the clothes are clean (well, as clean as they are going to get.)

Little by little, I find myself easing back into civilization. At the same time, though, I realize that leaving the Appalachian Trail after a thru-hike isn’t as simple as emptying a backpack or rolling up a tent.

As I readjust to a life of traffic, sirens and cell phones, I find myself longing for the peace and serenity I found in the woods.

Don’t get me wrong.

I enjoy taking a hot shower each day, and gobbling down a large, home-cooked meal. I like having television, and going to the grocery store whenever I want. When I see a newspaper, I no longer turn immediately to the five-day forecast. It’s going to rain? Big deal; I have a roof over my head.

For all the comforts of home, though, I miss the trail immensely.

I miss the marvelous people I met, and the complete lack of pretense. On the trail, a person’s education, bank account or social status is irrelevant. Thru-hikers are essentially equal, driven by a single goal, united in a common purpose.

I miss the rhythm of the woods, and the patient pace of life on the trail. I miss the ritual of awakening with the sunrise, packing up and following the white blazes that mark the trail’s route.

I miss drifting off to sleep with a sliver of moonlight filtering through the trees.

I miss the soft crunch of leaves and twigs under my boots, and the sound of the wind as it whistles across a valley.

I miss the silence.

And I miss eating Lipton instant pasta and powdered milk for dinner. OK, maybe not. But all the rest is true.

The other night, I dreamt I was out on the trail. I suppose part of me always will be.

For I know that whenever I hear the rumble of thunder, my mind will drift back to that terrifying night in Tennessee, when I sat praying in my tent at lightning blazed, thunder roared and branches crashed all around me.

I know that whenever I see a full moon, my mind will drift back to Kittatinny Ridge in New Jersey, where I watched a magnificent full moon rise across a valley.

And I know that each May, my mind will drift back to Springer Mountain, and I’ll recall my anxiety as I prepared to step forward toward Maine.

I’ll wonder about those at Springer this year, those about to embark on a grand adventure the twists, turns, highs and lows of which they can’t possibly predict. And part of me will wish I were in their shoes.

Ah, but it will be their turn.

For me, there are other trails, other challenges. One thing this experience has taught me is that with the right combination of ambition, perseverance and determination — and a healthy dose of stubbornness — just about anything is possible.

One woman I met summed up her thru-hike this way: “I learned that on the trail and in life, there are no problems, only challenges.”

The challenge, in fact, is what motivated me. I was driven by the idea that I was competing against the trail. If I could compete, I told myself, I could win.

That approach helped me through the most trying times. I vividly recall one day in southern Virginia when the temperature flirted with 100 degrees. I had just climbed a long hill, crossed a road, turned a corner — and stared ahead at another steep climb that extended as far as I could see. Tired, sore and drenched in sweat, I just stopped and rested my hands on my knees.

“This trail will NOT beat me!” I told myself angrily. I pushed onward, a little faster, as if to show the trail that I wasn’t fazed. By the end of the day, I was exhausted and drained, but I had reached my daily goal.

It was a defining moment.

I was still more than 1,500 miles from Katahdin, but that night, I knew I would finish.

The trail had given me its best shot — five straight days, in fact, of punishing, suffocating heat — and I was still standing. From then on, I gained confidence and momentum with each mile.

So now as I sit here, storing the gear and filing away the memories, I tell myself that I won. But I also realize something else just as important: The trail didn’t lose.

The Appalachian Trail isn’t out there to win or to lose. It is there simply to exist, in all its beauty and all its fury. From the rolling hills of Virginia to the wilds of western Maine. From sunlit waterfalls to ferocious storms. From Springer to Katahdin.

Through sun and rain and wind and snow, the Appalachian Trail endures.

Next year, and the following year, and for years after that, it will wait patiently, welcoming the next weekender, challenging the next dreamer.