I didn’t intend to hike the entire Appalachian Trail a second time. In fact, I’m still not sure if that’s what I’m doing. But somewhat by accident. I seem to be almost done with my home state, Massachusetts, and I’m going out for an overnight this weekend. So who knows where it will end. Knowing myself, I suspect there will be an end, and it may well involve Springer or Katahdin. It’s kind of the way I roll.
Here’s what happened. My friend — I’ll call her D. because she is a social media refusenik — recently turned 60. Out of the blue, D. decided that she wanted to section hike the entire AT. She invited me to join her, so I’ve been tagging along. We won’t be able to coordinate our schedules to do the whole thing together, but so far, we’ve been in sync.
I thru-hiked the AT in 1994. (I also thru-hiked the CDT in 1990, and the PCT in 1997, making me one of the earlier Triple Crown hikers.) Since then, I’ve been doing a combination of writing books (many of them about hiking), hiking and adventuring internationally, and pursuing unrelated interests like joining a rock band, teaching classical piano, and trying to learn both cello and hammered dulcimer.
But one thing I haven’t done (until recently) is update my hiking gear. A quick trip to the attic revealed equipment that belongs in a museum of torture devices. The books I wrote about hiking skills and gear in the 1990s and early 2000’s have pictures of me hauling a backpack with a base weight (by which I mean everything except food and water) of way more than 20 pounds.
What I carried back then wasn’t just heavier; it was different. In the 90s, navigation meant map and compass and paper guidebooks. It meant knowing how to shoot a bearing and adjust for declination. The intentional GPS random error protocol (remember that?) was still in place back then: If you even had a GPS, it would give you a reading that had been intentionally distorted by the government. Cell phone apps weren’t even on the radar. To get in touch with the folks back home, you needed to find a pay phone or send a postcard.
The other thing that is totally different is my food: Just over five years ago, I switched to the low carb/ketogenic way of eating. Thru-hiking is a great way to diet — you can eat all you want and lose weight, and every time I thru-hiked a long trail, I did just that. The problem was, when I stopped, my appetite continued to rage, but my activity couldn’t match the thru-hiking calorie burn. It turned out that for me, thru-hiking was the ultimate yo-yo diet: Each time, I came home I gained back the weight I lost, and then some. Keto helped me manage that — I lost about 80 pounds and got back down to my ideal weight — and I am committed to staying low-carb on the trail.
Between the obsolete gear and the dates of my previous thru-hikes, I guess I’m aging myself, but I don’t care. I’m 62 and a cancer survivor, and if I’ve learned anything in life, it is that the time for activity and gratitude and appreciation is NOW. Sure, 20-somethings are passing me as I chug along at 2 miles per hour, and the idea of doing the 34-mile day I did back on the PCT in Oregon (when I was 38) seems impossible. But I love that I can scramble up rock ledges and walk all day. The time in nature feels restorative after the Covid year all of us have just endured. It’s like a homecoming — but with all new furniture and a new kitchen — and a whole lot of instruction manuals.
So, to the point: D. and I are hiking and/or backpacking a couple of times a week right now. We are learning and unlearning and relearning, and I plan to share what we are doing, mistakes and all. I don’t know whether it’s going to be the entire AT or not, but I’m updating all my gear, testing new equipment, and working out food. Come along!
