It wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be. That’s usually the first thing I tell people when they ask. I usually follow that up with something along the lines of how it was amazing and great and everything’s perfect in hindsight. Writing that out just now, I see how simpler and definite it is to say, “It wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be.” It’s clear. Anyone can understand it. I never say anything other than those words, in that order. The more positive follow-up is shifty.
Both sides of that coin are really important. The suck and the beauty. Blog title. Boom. (Seriously the first time I’ve ever thought that too. Sometimes you just have to sit and start writing.) But the beauty part is what I really want to convey, and try so hard to do, and I never (never) feel like I do it justice.
If I think people will like it, I refer them to the original recap blog post I wrote. If they ask, or if I’m feeling enthusiastic, I’ll get into details, but really it’s just this thing that, in hindsight, was amazing, and I love thinking about and remembering all the different parts of it.
What do I remember now? The exhaustion and fatigue, still, as much as I can. I try to really fix into my psyche the flashbacks of multiple rashes, seeing my back ribs, my knee aching all night, being real tired but still not sleeping. I don’t want to forget them, because they were the most real.
It was so hard. Hard enough to make me marvel at 2006 Hot Springs’s and Donkey Love’s strength, and the strength of any hiker who completes that trail.
I walk jogged my way up to and up Mt. Agamenticus in November. It’s less than 700 feet tall, which is even less than I thought, and most of the climbing is done on paved Mountain Road. Six miles of pavement isn’t my favorite, but I walked a lot and shuffled some and it’s a pretty road even with sunny Sunday Mt. Agamenticus traffic going up and down. The last mile or so, probably less, is on the Mt. Agamenticus trail system, and the last little bit of that was a boulder scramble.
My mind flashed to scrambling up a huge granite slab, on Baldpate. I was climbing that particular slab with a heavy backpack and thinking about all the other huge granite slabs in the past 24 hours/week, how incredible it was that I’d been doing this all summer. How incredible it was that I was doing it right at that moment, climbing up these endless slabs, one foot in front of the other all day long, every day, and here I was near the top of yet another one, and isn’t this amazing that we Appalachian Trail hikers do this, and isn’t it an amazing view here at the top, with the bigger mountains to the south and west and some more manageable looking ones to the north and east. And I even sat and enjoyed it for a few minutes, the physical beauty of wild Maine and the mental beauty of accomplishment and peace of mind.
I scrambled up those fifty meters on Mt. Agamenticus and the enormity of my summer flashed through my mind, and how incredibly easy this little trail was. It wouldn’t have been hard before, but now it feels like the easiest thing in the world, next to the memory of Baldpate. And that’s all neat to me.
I ran out to Long Sands another day in November. I came to the rocks, and I stared at them for a little bit. They went as far as the eye could see. There was a sidewalk 20 meters to my right.
I told myself, ‘You can turn around or take the sidewalk whenever you want. Just take the rocks, because you don’t have to.’
And I did. And it was so much fun. I flowed over rocks and remembered why I like flowing over rocks so much, and how I’m so much better at it now, and it was around that time in my train of thought that I misstepped into a tide pool. No harm done, because I wasn’t already annoyed about being exhausted and having hiked up and down mountains all day. I had wet feet but I was happy and good-tired and I was doing so good at hopping along those rocks.
I found a little beach I’d never been to before (still 20 meters from the sidewalk). And I got to a rock cliff section I’d never been to before. ‘Here I am, still gently pushing my boundaries at 39,’ I thought. And I decided to not continue, and come back later, and I turned around and hopped back along the rocks to my starting point, and then to home.
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Years ago, while out on a run or a round of golf or maybe just sitting on a lakeshore somewhere in the sunset hours, I remarked to Chris how lovely that time of day is, how much I love it.
“My sister and I called it Perfectime,” he said.
“That’s perfect,” I replied, and thought ever since.
I explained Perfectime to Hannah and she knew it right away too, only she applied it to the sunrise hours.
I counted days on the Appalachian Trail by the number from zero. Zero was the little hammock site at Springer Mt. Shelter. Kyler and I had 8 Arms meat pies for dinner, one of the few times we used that brand new Coleman two-burner stove. After dinner, we hiked to the Springer Mountain shelter and set up our hammocks and went to bed early, while we could still look out through the mesh and see dark tree branches and, through the mesh and branches, a swath of diffused orange sunset.
Perfectimes are memorable.
I’d already been moving for over an hour when morning Perfectime came on Day 1. It’s not just sunrise; it’s the whole thing, which is only wholly experienced from the exact moment before you notice, ‘It’s lighter.’ You need that ‘before’ moment. It’s a contrast thing. I was already deep in the green tunnel and it was foggy, or misty, or something like that but a little bit different. It was mostly thin forest with some fields and a deep in the middle of nowhere-feeling logging road or two. Black night gradually became dark morning, then green and gray dark morning, and then sometime later it was light.
The evening of day 1 I came across the rocks before Unicoi Gap, all thoughts of Indian Grave Gap gone for the day. Down to Unicoi and Kyler and over to our logging road campsite by way of a waterfall shower. By the time we pulled into our campsite, remembered from Spring Break with Hannah, it was sunset. Nostalgic Perfectimes are more perfect Perfectimes. Or differently perfect Perfectimes.
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Dear Georgia,
Thank you
for hosting the start
of my dream;
for ushering me through
with minimal ups and downs,
relatively minimal rocks and roots,
and perfect weather.
Thanks for being a conduit
for me, and
my amassed adrenaline.
Thank you for that first
Perfectime sunrise,
between Three Forks and Hightower Gap
foggy and quiet and full
of southern appalachian beauty,
and empty of thru-hikers.
Thank you for that second
Perfectime sunrise
on Tray Mountain,
overlooking quiet
electric Appalachian towns
underneath silent
natural morning colors.
Thank you for
smooth meetups;
those were good
for Kyler and me.
Georgia,
thank you also
for the bears.
Sincerely,
Hot Springs
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Thus began a run of 12 very full days, full enough to catch every Perfectime, most of them completely.
I can’t remember vast amounts of time in between. I remember looking down at my watch on day 6 or 7 or 8 and seeing it was 11:30 in the morning and thinking, ‘I’m already more exhausted than I’ve ever been before in my life, and it’s only 11:30. I remember what stretches of road and trail looked like, occasional vistas and fields and even maybe a particular tree in a particular field. I remember the sound of crows in empty and isolated southern Appalachian woods.
I remember stopping abruptly on a bog bench near Mt. Carter on day 60, in a very green area in the middle of trickling pools and a series of bog boards, very wet and sparkly and shades of green. I stopped there because I thought it was beautiful and wanted it to stand out in my mind later when I thought about the AT. And it does! Yay!
Those are all special sensory memories. But temporally vague. Did I see that big nut tree on that 2021 hike? Or was that in 2006? Am I remembering that stretch of woods in Georgia, or Massachusetts? It’s hard to tell with the Appalachians sometimes. No one would mistake the White Mountains for any stretch of trail in Pennsylvania, but put a couple places in southern New Hampshire next to a couple places in Tennessee? Maybe.
Perfectimes, on the other hand, are precisely placed on a timeline in my psyche. I can remember with vivid detail the places I moved through in the mornings and evenings of days 2 through 12. I won’t bore you with all of them.
But I will mention the sunrise from Winding Stair Gap, which was only a faint, dull, blurry orange that hung over the downhill curve of a wide, paved road, but was still extraordinary because of the way the orange faded in an upward progression of light purples and blues into the deep blue and then star-speckled darkness, and because the sun was rising on day 3 of the adventure, and because all of this was happening on a major highway devoid of cars and people.
And I’ll mention the sunrise on day 7. I woke up tired and quickly found myself unexpectedly climbing over jagged rocks and through rhododendron forests and spider webs and was not enjoying myself, and then I came out on an unexpected ridge, with a ledge and a viewpoint and a plaque that said “Howard’s Rock.” I scoffed at the naming of things, even for people who dedicate lifetimes to the betterment of a trail that betters others’ lifetimes. And as I scoffed, I marveled at the lights of homes and streets in the valley below, and the flaming red and pink streaks above them. And I ducked back into the spiderwebs awed and cheered.
And I’ll mention the looonnng sunrise as I traversed the ridges of the northern Smokies. I met Kyler in the misty dark and inhaled some chalky pasta (we had a talk then and there about proper meal rehydration; you can’t ‘just put water in and shake it’) and then we parted for 30 miles. On one side: thoroughly forested green slopes and valleys; on the other side: lighter greens of cultivated lands, mixed with the artificial lights of civilization. So many viewpoints of a gradually lightening sky in so many shades of sunrise. Such a long and beautiful morning.
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Dear North Carolina and Tennessee,
Thank you.
Thanks for keeping our ghosts safe:
Donkey Love and Hot Springs,
and all the others.
I joined them in Hot Springs.
I waved at Shelton Graves.
I lingered,
listening to Kyler strum,
at Beauty Spot.
Thanks for taking it easy on us:
rhododendron forests
above head level,
usually;
rain only at night
while sheltering
with snuggly bear dreams.
But thanks also for making it
hard,
for allowing us the opportunity
to make it hard.
Kyler and the cliff.
Me and my longest day: 60 miles!
(Rounded up.)
I’ve never felt such fatigue.
Thanks for those last 30 miles or so
before Damascus.
They were flat and fast,
forested, with one memorable field,
and lovely.
Sincerely,
Hot Springs
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The evening Perfectimes too, like Day 3, when I was exhausted from the hardest three day stretch of my life (only 38 more to go!), and pulled into a meetup to find Kyler on the tail end of cooking probably the single best burrito I’ve ever had, and heating water for an evening cup of coffee. I left that meetup feeling fueled and energized, and mostly maintained that feeling through the dipping and then diving sunset and darkening woods, through one more meetup for water, and even up to that last ridge before Perfectime’s natural lights were replaced by my battery powered headlamp right ahead of me and the lights of Fontana Dam far below.
The evening after that, when I said goodbye to Kyler at the top of Clingman’s Dome and immediately realized I didn’t have my headlamp. The car was eight miles away and it would be pitch black in two hours. I hadn’t done any eight miles in two hours up to that point. But it was Perfectime and perfect conditions and just the right amount of urgency – the urgency of looming misery which, if avoided, would bring deep satisfaction and relief. It only took an hour and a half, and it was fun. I came out to a mostly empty Newfound Gap and just a little bit of sunset left on the Tennessee side.
And the one after that, a far less frantic finish just south of Max Patch. Perfectime started, for me, when I met Kyler at the last meetup before camp. He filled my water and gave me properly rehydrated mac and cheese with vegetables. We sat on logs and he played the guitar and sang while I ate. It ended, for me, in my hammock, looking through the black mesh at last light. I’d done 49 miles that day, had showered and taken care of my feet. There were beautiful spots ahead, including just ahead, at Max Patch, which I passed over at Perfectime the next morning.
And maybe I’ll stop there, and not describe (in detail), coming down to the Nolichucky River and celebratory bourbon shots and pizza with Kyler; or coming over Unaka and Iron Mts. in a thunderstorm, Roan High Knob in heavy clouds broken just enough to appreciate the scale and beauty of the place, and settling into a cozy Stan Murray Shelter with rain drumming on the roof.
After those first 13 days, there was only one time (only one!) I got up near the beginning of Perfectime: the last morning. I had a lot to do that day, and a lot of rest waiting at the end. I packed up a wet camp quickly and set out with my headlamp. I passed by other quiet tents, looked about in the woods and across the ponds for moose, felt like magic and wondered why I hadn’t done it more often.
But I experienced whole evening Perfectimes all the time. Part of why I love the evenings more is because of all the hard work already put in, and the promise of rest just ahead. In the evenings, you know what you’ve done.
I try, but I can’t really convey the feelings of those times. Chalk it up partly to my lack of expression. But also those things can only be maximally appreciated when experienced. No picture, in words or ink or pixels, is as good as the being there.
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Dear Virginia,
Fuck…you.
Sincerely,
Hot Springs
Just kidding Virginia. It wasn’t you; it was me. Really, you were great.
People dis Virginia because of the green tunnel effect – no views. But with the distances I was doing, there was always at least one beautiful Virginia valley view a day. Sunnyside, the first for sure thru-hiker I met, sat at one on day 11. Several spots on day 19. Crescent Rocks on day 26, where I sat and pondered the passage of time and wondered if I’ll get married and have kids some day. ‘Doubtful,’ I thought, as I picked my nose and stared at the view and remembered camping there 15 years earlier, listening to a Perfectime post-thunderstorm cacophony of bird calls ring out across the thickly forested valley.
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Excuses to Walk
I need to warm up.
I need to cool down.
I need to go slow
and look all around.
I feel fresh and strong,
so let’s savor this now.
I feel tired and weak
and don’t know how
I could possibly run
o’er these roots and rocks
these rocks and rocks,
rocks rocks rocks rocks rocks.
That tree branch will thump me.
Head on a swivel.
That tree branch just thumped me.
Please, a moment to drivel.
A walk while I snack,
then back to it, I swear.
Caution is needed;
there might be a bear.
I know I’m just screwing
myself in the end,
but in just a little bit longer,
I’ll run round that next bend.
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