There is nothing normal about walking two thousand miles.  There is nothing delightfully mundane about completing a dirt trail that spans the eastern seaboard; you don't do it for kicks.  You do it because you're dying from some disease of the bowels.  You do it because you're white and you like doing painfully frivolous and overly demonstrative white things.  So why then, one could ask, did I hike the Appalachian Trail?  Frankly, I'm still not entirely sure.

 Four Little Indians

It almost sounds like a joke.  Okay, so two lanky white guys, a petite blond, and a Native American go hiking on the Appalachian Trail.  That's it.  No punchline.  They walk nearly everyday, eight hours a day, for six weeks.  Then they go home.  Sure, there are few here's and there's to flesh it all out - nonetheless, if you've ever been curious about this venture, I have just delivered to you, personally, the gist of what some have called, "The most life-altering event in history…ever." 

Wow, did you feel it? 

The stars of this cataclysm are as follows:  Myself and Andrew Johnson (two lanky white guys), Marcy Phillips (petite blonde), and Lou Logan (the Native American).  From what I could piece together, their intentions for the trip were, well, a lot like my own:  motley, skewed, ill-defined, and branded with at least a slight semblance of brazen adventurism.  Regardless, the four of us somehow found ourselves packed with over a thousand dollars worth of incredibly specialized and helplessly indulgent equipment come May 11th, 2004.  We were to become Fake Outdoorsmen.

 The Lot of a Pack Mule

For the first couple of days, you really think that you might have super powers.  The packs feel dense but more than manageable.  The fifteen mile stretches – coarse, but encouragingly doable.  Everyone gets along, your feet are still city-sweet, and the forest path seems fresh and new.  This is the cruel contradiction of the trail; it teases the day hiker with a sense of wonder and naturalism, yet punishes the "thru-hiker (the designation for anyone attempting more than, say, a couple of weeks on the trail)" with the harsh realities of "roughin' it."

The thru-hiker must be a different breed by definition of the task.  He/she must be someone who dabbles in masochism, someone who loves seeing the shock of the "status quo" when descriptions of his/her intentions reach their pudgy, urbanized ears.  This someone needs attention, and is willing to endure countless hours of near agony to get it.

Beginning just outside Atlanta, Georgia, the early stretches of the trail offer an eerily epic feel.  The challenges that would yet to beset our bodies and minds were far and away.  All that remained was a forty-pound backpack that was miles from easing; it would be a mark of things to come.

 This Little Piggy 

It's remarkable, really, when one considers just how many people embark on the Appalachian Trail for health reasons.  One could imagine a need to be previously fit in order to endure the trials of such an endeavor.  Surprisingly, this is not the case.  Due to the gradual and "take it at your own pace" nature of the trail, practically anyone of breathing capacity can do it.

The metabolism of a human animal does strange things when reentered into a constantly active state.  A diet becomes irrelevant as anything even remotely digestible is quickly consumed in order to feed a new and constantly burning engine. 

One of the mainstays of the walk is banter between hikers about the amount of weight lost in this or that timeframe.  I, myself, was surprised by just how much energy it took to complete approximately fifteen to twenty miles a day.  Thus, food becomes the one major expense of the journey.  And towns become mythological havens where nothing previously deemed "unhealthy" is off-limits.  All in all, a fatty's dream.

 Ring Around the Bible Belt

For almost the first half of the two thousand mile dirt path, the Appalachian Trail rests firmly within what is known as the "Bible Belt."  There's no polite way of describing the area.  Having grown up in this southern Ring of Fire, I feel no hesitation about tagging it. 

Basically, it's a southern nexus of socially and economically forgotten small towns throughout states like Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi, and so on where an infallible middle-aged Jew reigns supreme. 

In 1970, James Dickey published a book about the Georgian Hill People by the name of Deliverance.  The work, thanks widely to the success of the movie, has become something of a calling card for the deep South.  Although presented as a work of fiction, Dickey's depiction of the region is far from unfair.

On more than one occasion, the four of us stumbled upon what could only be labled by a select few, a "town," only to be accosted by an alarmingly range of accolytes for "his truly."  One incident in particular had us vehemently denying that Marcy was romantically involved with anyone in the group (a lie) and that spending a weekend being spiritually rehabilitated was not in the best interest of our souls.

Marcy seemed to get the worst of it.  Anytime someone over the age of, say, 35, heard that she was to be traveling with three men on a summer hike, a symphony of rolling eyes and barely audible whispers would commence.  It seems sin, to some, is inevitable in the bosom of opportunity. 

 Not One Hair

I agree; it does appear that the experience was a fiasco to be avoided.  But you've misjudged me.  My reflections on the trip are surprisingly bright, if not ladled through a murky filter.

At the end of the day, we traveled 500 miles to the border of Virginia by foot.  Not a completion, mind you, but certainly enough to warrant a notch on the proverbial belt of lifelong accomplishments.  We hiked the trail, case closed.  We saw and partook in events that few ever receive opportunity for. 

Yes, hiking the Appalachian Trail is an absurd venture.  No, it will not change the rotation of the planet.  But I did it.  And that's all I really wanted.

Photo courtesy Alex Grantham/Sun Star

Photo courtesy Alex Grantham/Sun Star

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