A year ago, I was just returning to the AT after a week off trail, ready to set forth completely alone, with only new faces around. It only got better from there. The time flies so quickly on this side of the trail. It may feel like so long ago, but the memories I have of this time are so vivid and wonderful. I love to revisit them. Here are some reflections about my hike at large, thoughts I had both while I was still in the midst of hiking and in the months since.

On Difficulty

As I neared Katahdin and started thinking about my thru-hike as a whole, I came to the estimation that thru-hiking the AT was just about as hard as graduating from MIT. The challenge was incredibly different, of course, but I stand by it! Obviously, the AT was a lot more physically demanding (although that MIT swim test will get ya), and it was a different sort of mental grind.

The trail was simultaneously easier and more difficult than I expected. On a physical level, I had quite skewed expectations about how fast I’d be able to ramp up mileage. It feels almost embarrassing to admit: I expected the first few days to go something like 8 miles, then 10, then 12, and we’d be doing consistent 15-mile days soon after. Instead, it took WEEKS to do even a single 15-mile day, and I didn’t hit 20 until the cusp of Virginia! It was absolutely the right call to be cautious and ramp up slowly, but it was a lot harder to increase and maintain mileage than I thought it would be.

On the flip side, on a day-to-day level, the physicality of the trail was a lot easier than I envisioned at the start. All of my training and experience in the Whites helped immensely here – those mountains truly are tough! As such, nothing in the southern part of the trail – really, nothing until I made it back to New Hampshire – truly felt like the intense climbs I was expecting. Even the harder, more infamous climbs (I’m thinking of Albert Mt., Lehigh Gap, etc…) just felt like a fun treat for me! But the cumulative toll of the AT, getting out there and pushing my body every day, definitely took its toll. Dealing with basically constant pain for months – aches in the hips, waking up with back pain, and always, always aches in the knees – was difficult, but on a mental level, I was amazed at how much I got used to that.

Mentally, the experience averaged out to be about as tough as I expected. There were a ton of mental challenges, from many hours of isolation and monotonous repetition of every step, to the determination it took to put on still-wet clothes in the morning and keep going. I found benefits in all this, too, learning to find solace in solitude and appreciate the unique beauty of every step and every mile. None of the mental challenges truly felt like a surprise; I felt that I had prepared very well mentally. Appalachian Trials was a hugely helpful resource for me, and the mindset and strategies I adopted served me really well the whole way through. There were a handful of bad days along the way, but on the whole I kept a very positive attitude. This was not only my own perception, but something that several people remarked on over the course of the trail, such as Hucklebuck, Nom Nom, and even my Uncle Brian. I was really pleased to be perceived as such a positive person on the trail, and it meant a lot to hear that. On the other hand, I can only take partial credit for this, because…

On Luck

I can’t help but feel very, very lucky about how my thru-hike went. On so many levels, it felt like the cards fell in my favor. First, injury. While I experienced plenty of the aches and pains that are a given for a thru-hiker, I never had anything close to a serious injury. It can truly happen to anyone, as I learned all too well. It was very sad to me to see so many people have to leave trail with injuries – mostly in the early stages, but there were some people who I knew who hiked thousands of miles before having to get off in Maine. I definitely underestimated that risk. I was lucky to remain in good enough health to make it from Georgia to Maine without any real hiccups.

That goes for illness, too. I dodged giardia (always filter your water!), anything tick-borne (check yourself for ticks!), and everything else to my knowledge. Somehow, someway, I even avoided catching norovirus, even when probably 90% of the people that I met had it at some point. This certainly made my experience easier and more pleasant.

I even managed not to get sick of any trail foods along the way, which is a classic complaint that it seems every thru-hiker deals with. I maintained a remarkably consistent diet the whole way through, after quickly settling into the meals and snacks that worked for me. I never had any issues with nausea, either. That was one of the most heart-wrenching things to hear, when several hikers described wanting and needing to eat a ton to fuel their hikes, of course, but having serious problems eating enough or keeping things down. This seriously derailed peoples’ hikes and even took people off trail in some cases.

Another big one was the weather. I had so many people in my life express sympathies that I was hiking through the rainiest year on record, but I felt like that did not reflect my experience at all! I got so lucky. I sure heard some horror stories, like how it was to go through Maine in June or the people in the midst of Vermont during the great flood in mid-July, but I absolutely dodged the worst of it. I had one very memorable watery day in Massachusetts during the flood, but outside of a single day of hiking it did not feel like the historic rains affected my hike at all. Obviously, I don’t have anything to compare it to, but I was perfectly satisfied with the rain and the weather in general over the course of my hike.

And as for the weather specifically – oh my goodness. I made out like a bandit. For so, so many of the most beautiful, iconic spots on the trail, I had amazing conditions to take it all in. Starting out at Springer Mountain. A gorgeous weather window for a week to go through the Smokies. Roan Highlands, Grayson Highlands, the Virginia Triple Crown. A ridiculous, improbable week of perfect weather to go through the Whites. Remember that one “bad weather day” that I did Webster Cliffs?? The Bigelows. An unexpectedly warm and beautiful week to go through the Hundred Mile. And of course, Katahdin herself, granting me amazing conditions to finish my trek. I felt so fortunate to have such excellent weather for so many gorgeous places. Now, I understand there’s some confirmation bias at play here – I’m sure I missed some more great views from socked-in summits along the way. Maybe Cheoah Bald and Stratton Mountain were even more spectacular and would put all these other places to shame. But once again, I am more than content with what I got.

Hearing trail friends talk about their worst trail experiences only reaffirms that I got a really good deal. All these lucky aspects made it all the easier to have such a good time on the AT.

On Tramily

I did not go into the trail intending to find a tramily. As I told Sophie, she was my tramily! Of course, that ended up not lasting as long as either of us wanted. I had so much fun hiking with Sophie, and there were many times later when I especially missed the goofy times together we’d have at camp, particularly in the moments where I’d spend an evening stealth camping by myself. There were definitely times that I wish I had found a tramily. Seeing some people I knew in tight-knit groups for hundreds and even thousands of miles, seemingly having an amazing time together, made me envious occasionally. But most of the time, I was very happy to be doing my own thing and hiking my own hike.

I was still surprised when, after the trail, a trail friend of mine said “you were kinda a lone wolf, huh?” I didn’t see myself this way at all, considering how social I felt on the trail, but I understood where they were coming from. The closest thing I had to a tramily was the group that Sophie and I hiked with in NC and through the Smokies, with Tacos, Malka, Dex, S’mores, etc. There was exactly once where I referred to them as “tramily (:O)” in my journal. But that didn’t last too long, as I got separated from them with my week off trail. The other closest thing I had to a tramily was Victory and Meadow. I loved hiking with them, but even so we only spent a total of about 2 weeks together!

On my first night in Vermont, I spied a very interesting entry in the shelter logbook. It was by a member of that Smokies tramily, and it went something along the lines of: “Checking in for the first time in a while. It’s awesome to meet some Long Trail hikers and finally see some new folks after being around the same 20 people for so long!” This blew my mind. I couldn’t imagine having such consistency in the people I was hiking around, and needing the presence of LT hikers to meet new people. It felt like a glimpse into an alternate reality for me. That could’ve been me, if I had stuck with that group, which I hoped to had I not had to take a week off. I was very glad to get to meet so many interesting people in every section of the trail.

I grew to mistrust tramilies. Especially as time went on and tramilies got more established, being around one you weren’t a part of could be annoying. Several time, they came across as cliquey. On at least two occasions in NH, including one particularly memorable encounter, a group really rubbed me the wrong way. I think that tramilies often fell into some sort of groupthink; I had perfectly pleasant interactions with members of tramilies individually, but when you put people together it often changed the vibes. It’s important to note that this was not always the case, and I had some great interactions with tramilies even late in the trail. My day with the Nude Dudes in Maine stands out as a positive memory; they were very friendly and inclusive. It was great to see tramilies like that continuing to make the AT a positive environment for everyone around. That’s something for all hikers to aspire to, on the AT and elsewhere.

On the whole, I felt very fortunate when it came to the social experience of the AT, from hiking with a wonderful hiking partner, to going solo, to traveling as a group of friends from time to time. I got the best of all worlds.

On Sportdeath

“Sport Death – Only Life Can Kill You.” The legendary, infamous motto of MIT’s Senior House (RIP) roughly means “don’t settle for mediocracy; live life to extremes,” or even more simply, “carpe diem.” I’ve always held an affinity for the phrase, even though I never lived there or really interacted with the Senior Haus community. While many adherents of sportdeath traditionally live the idea through heavy drug use, wild parties, and liberating sexual adventures, I chose to express it in a different way, by going into the woods, braving the elements, and clambering up mountains for months on end.

One evening shortly before I left for Georgia, I tearily confessed to Macy that one of the reasons I made a concerted effort to see and/or talk to all my close friends and family in the months leading up to my hike was that there was a non-zero chance that I wouldn’t come back. I was keenly aware of the inherent risk the AT represented, and the risks I was taking by hiking it. I went in prepared, but every day I went out there knowing that I was putting myself at risk. It was all too stark a reminder of this when I learned of the tragic death of an AT hiker in the July flood in Vermont. Rest in peace, Steady Eddie. Still, I put myself out there. Because the AT was worth doing. Because this was living.

There was a strange sort of power, of freedom, in recognizing the danger the trail posed, and choosing to face it head-on day after day. As Legion from Hikers Welcome put it bluntly, “If you fear the mountains, you’re already dead. You have to respect the mountains.” I felt that in the reverence I felt for nature on the trail, in the heightened awareness and respect I felt for the sun, the rain, and everything in between. Later on, when I was already into Maine and starting to be pretty sure I’d make it to Katahdin, I voiced my feelings to friends at a shelter. Did we all feel the same pull, the cognizance of the risk and the courage to face it anyway? Sportdeath?!

My friends had no idea what I was talking about. Oh well 🙂

I want to be very clear that I never actively feared for my life on the AT. I’m glad to be home safely and glad for the adventure I had along the way.

“See You Up Trail”

There were a lot of goodbyes on the AT. The trail was, of course, a rich social experience, but I still spent probably 80+% of my hiking time hiking alone. That meant saying goodbye to shelter mates in the morning, saying goodbye to hikers passing you on the trail in either direction, and saying goodbye to the trail angels and people in all the trail communities along the way.

“See you up trail” was a common farewell, especially among fellow NOBOs. I think it neatly captures the unique experience of the many AT goodbyes, and the thru-hiking experience in general. We were all moving in the same direction (NOBOs, at least) towards the same goal, and although the road was metaphorically very different, in a real sense we all walked the same path. It was entirely plausible, even likely, that when you said goodbye to someone along the trail, or at a shelter, you’d see them again within a few days, if not a few hours. When this happened, it made the casual goodbyes we shared feel like just that: casual.

However, it was also highly possible that you’d say a casual goodbye to a hiker and never see them again. Everyone moved at different paces, and without really meaning to, it was easy to lose track of people, leave them behind, or be left in the dust of other speedsters. There was no way of knowing if someone would fall into the former or the latter camp, if you’d seem them an hour from now or never again.

I ended up thinking a lot about this dynamic. Especially when I spent time with someone I really connected with, when we had to part I would naturally wonder about when we’d see each other next. I felt sad when I thought this wouldn’t happen (which happened quite a bit as I felt slower than hikers around me most of the time). A handful of times, I did break the illusion of a casual goodbye and make an effort when I truly thought I wouldn’t see someone again, like saying goodbye to Meadow and Victory in the High Peaks region of Maine. Of course, I was often wrong! I ended up seeing Mead&Vic twice more after that, which was a happy surprise. Another memorable instance of this was leaving Woods Hole, feeling so wistful after meeting all those wonderful people – Scoops, Bagel, and more – at the wedding and thinking that they were so fast that I’d immediately lose track of them. As it turned out, I met up with them again that very night in Pearisburg, and even spent more time with them later in Daleville! That made it easier to say goodbye in Daleville, and this time I was correct that it was the last time I’d see them. The other time that I said a true goodbye to a lot of folks, and knew it, was the day Gramma died, when I knew I’d be taking a week off trail. I was so glad to have the chance to see Tacos, Dex, Malka, and others one last time as I slackpacked south on that day.

I like to think that this experience can apply to the wider world, too. True, we are not collectively walking the same path in as literal a sense, but in at least one way, we’re all moving in the same direction, through time. Even though we might think we can predict it better, we never truly know if or when we’ll see someone again. So make the most of all the time you have together. It’s just one more lesson the AT can teach us.

See you up trail!