Hiking Through: One Man's Journey to Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail

by Paul V. Stutzman

  I checked my phone and found I had not only service but also a message. My youngest daughter had been busy herself the previous day. While I was laboring over the Virginia mountains, she was laboring to give birth to a son named Isaac.

  “I’m a grandfather!” I yelled to Sailor.

  “Congratulations!”

  I’m an absentee grandfather, I thought to myself. Should I have been with my daughter instead of trekking through the mountains? Her mother never would have missed this event. I called my daughter and she was very clear: yes, she wanted me at home.

  By the next evening, Sailor and I would be in Daleville, Virginia, where my friend Ina would meet me and drive me back to Damascus for Trail Days. I had scheduled two zero days to attend the event; Ina would then bring me back to Daleville, and I would continue my hike. But after talking with my daughter, I considered riding back home with my friend, spending several days there, and then coming back to the trail.

  A big question mark was written on that plan: If I took a break now, would I ever get back to the hike? My imagination put me at home with my family, relaxing on my front porch. The picture was so enticing that I knew if I left the trail, I would probably never come back. And yet—I had a new grandson to hold and a daughter who wanted me to come home. I still had a few days to mull it over.

  I dangled at the edge of the cliff, peering cautiously over the edge. McAfee Knob, one of the most photographed spots on the AT, juts out over a long valley; and from my perch I could see tomorrow’s challenge, Tinker Cliffs.

  On my hikes in the Grand Canyon, I’d developed my own system to rate “survivability levels” of falls from precarious perches. The scale of danger ran from broken bones to hospital stays to extended hospital stays to certain death. McAfee Knob registered somewhere between “extended hospital stay” and “certain death.” Trees below might snag a plummeting hiker and prevent instant death, but death might be the more favorable ending. Still, I couldn’t resist the photo op, standing at the tip of the rock with nothing but sky behind me, and then sitting, reclining casually with my legs dangling over the edge.

  As I lounged at the edge of the high rock, I was still mulling over my dilemma. This spot was seven hundred miles into my hike, almost one-third of the distance to that sign on Mt. Katahdin. Every mile brought new people and experiences into my life. I was leaving behind the old and becoming new. And I liked what I was becoming. What adventure and transformations lay ahead? What might I miss if I went home now? What things did God still want to show me?

  ———

  Another ending. This was my last night in Sailor’s company. Tomorrow we would arrive in Daleville. From there, I would head back to Trail Days in Damascus and Sailor and his son would continue the hike together.

  We stopped at Campbell Shelter for the night. Situated on a slight incline set back from the trail, it was a peaceful spot. Deer ventured close to the shelter throughout the evening, unalarmed by our presence. The quiet spring evening in the woods was a perfect ending to a perfect day.

  Tinker Cliffs were beautiful . . . and challenging. The trail threaded through, around, and over massive boulders, and we scrambled over formations with unusual names like Snack Bar Rock, Lunch Box Rock, and Hay Rock.

  I could not ignore the stabbing pains in my left leg. I’d altered my hiking gait after pulling a muscle on that incline outside the restaurant, and the change had possibly put more strain on my left leg. Or maybe, after seven hundred miles, my legs just decided they were tired. I limped toward Daleville, and the only thing that kept me walking was the promise that once I reached town, I would have two zero days to recover.

  We left the woods abruptly. Emerging from the safety of the forest and finding ourselves at the edge of a major highway always astounded us. We stood on Rt. 220, where thousands of cars passing daily probably never noticed the small path through the trees, leading 717 miles south to Springer Mountain, Georgia.

  A short walk down the highway brought us to a Howard Johnson, where Sailor would stay for the night and meet his son in the morning. I had a four-hour wait for my trail boss Ina to arrive and take me back to Trail Days. Hikers on many roads in all directions were finding their way to the reunion. During the time I waited, several cars pulled into the parking lot, and the occupants rolled down windows and asked if anyone needed a ride to Trail Days.

  Ina arrived at six o’clock. Seeing me for the first time since Springer Mountain, she burst into tears. Turns out, though, these were not tears of joy at seeing me again; rather, she was shocked by the pathetic figure I presented. I could barely walk, had lost almost forty pounds, and was undernourished and undergroomed.

  For the next two days, Ina pumped me full of anti-inflammatory drugs and huge quantities of high-calorie foods. In retrospect, my trail boss probably saved my hike.

  ———

  Trail Days, begun in 1987 as part of the Appalachian Trail’s 50th anniversary, is a gathering and reunion, a chance for hikers to share stories and knowledge, to meet old trail friends, and to take a few days of rest. Vendors set up booths hawking equipment and food, and music and activities fill two days. A city of tents springs up, and everything quirky and timeless about the trail permeates this celebration of the AT family.

  In my pre-hike life, my judgmental spirit would have stifled any enjoyment of this event. I would have looked askance at this odd assortment of humanity. Now I was a part of it. I had lived on the trail for almost two months, and I knew the character of many of these hikers. In Damascus, I looked at the crowds and knew these were some of the most genuine and honest folks I would ever meet. Time and again, I had witnessed hikers young and old come to the aid of another. It seems like the less a person has, the more willing he is to give it away.

  Two days passed quickly, and I was still in considerable pain. My leg ached and my decision to continue my hike also left an ache; I knew my choice was selfish and this hike was taking priority over my family. Ever since I’d heard the news of my grandson’s birth, I had been arguing with myself. If I went home to see him now, the risk was great that I would never return and finish the hike. Little Isaac would not even know Grandpa had been missing, but I knew I was disappointing my daughter.

  Her sad “I need you here” lingered in my mind when Ina dropped me off back in Daleville. I limped across Rt. 220 to the trail, a pathetic figure who had just put his own agenda above his family. For the first time since my first hours on the trail, I was hiking alone, and thoughts of family and home intensified my loneliness.

  Dear God, I hope You’re out here today, because I haven’t felt this alone in a long time.

  For eleven miles I struggled to keep moving; every step sent sharp pains through my shin. At Wilson Creek Shelter, I found six other hikers already settled in. I set up my tent outside, both to avoid the snores and to have my own space while I felt sorry for myself. I had disappointed my daughter. I was homesick. My body ached. And I realized I was starting over—I recognized no one inside the shelter. A rainy night matched my mood, but the morning brought sunshine, and I started a new day.

  The trail crossed the Blue Ridge Parkway several times in the twenty miles I hiked that day. Those twenty miles were made possible by more drugs than I take in most years. Twelve Advil taken throughout the morning did nothing to curb the pain. In the afternoon, while on a break at Cove Mountain Shelter, I met Cheech, a hiker who had also been at the Wilson Creek Shelter the previous night. Cheech had just returned to the trail after a hiking injury and subsequent emergency surgery. He carried prescription pain pills and generously shared them with me. After taking the big blue wonder pill, I went floating over the blue ridges, which soon became the Blur Ridge Mountains. I no longer felt pain in my leg; I didn’t feel much of anything. All I was aware of, on that dreamy afternoon, was a little stomach discomfort from my pharmaceutical diet.

  At the Bryant Ridge Shelter that night, I reflected on my two solitary days. I’d been worried about the prospect of hiki
ng alone, but I realized the loneliness I felt at times was now superseded by another feeling: confidence. I was confident hiking alone. I was going to be all right out here, after all. I had survived losing my wife, I had survived leaving my job, and now I was passing another test. I could survive by myself. I am on the adventure of a lifetime, and I will enjoy what each day brings, whether I’m alone or in the company of others.

  Cheech also stopped at Bryant Ridge, and I thanked him for sharing his painkillers. He reached into his medicine bag and gave me four more for the next day. Trail magic!

  I needed those painkillers for several big climbs. Apple Orchard Mountain loomed ahead. But I never saw Apple Orchard. A thick fog bank parked on the mountain and refused to move. Bare tree limbs reached out of the fog as I passed, and trail signs were barely visible until I stood in front of them. The fog and blue pill combined to make my memories of that morning vague and dreamlike.

  Later in the day, visibility improved and I hiked along a ridge where the elements were gearing up for battle. On one side of the ridge the sun shone brilliantly; on the other side storm clouds threatened. I hoped the sun would prevail.

  I smiled a lot that day too, and I’m fairly certain that was not an effect of the drugs. It was impossible to look at spring wildflowers and not smile. Those bursts of color that I had rushed past and never seen in my old life now brought little surges of joy. On that day, pink and white azaleas bloomed in profusion along my path, an absolute gift from God.

  My solitary plod ended at seven that evening; I had hiked 22.7 miles. Arriving at Matts Creek Shelter, I found it empty. Tents were pitched within sight of the building, but the shelter itself was unoccupied. I dropped my pack inside and anticipated a quiet night, having the shelter to myself.

  Before unpacking, I checked the register to read the daily trail news. There was a reason I had the building to myself. Recent entries complained of an infestation of fleas. Hikers recorded horror stories about waking up at night to find bites all over their bodies, and so I camped outside that night along with everyone else.

  As I signed my entry in the register, another name caught my eye. For weeks, I had followed Sir Enity and his journal posts. His entries always spoke about peace and love and often ended with “If you can’t carry it in your heart or on your back, you probably don’t need it.” Since I marched to the beat of a faster drummer, I often caught up with hikers ahead of me. And the entry tonight told me I had finally caught up with Sir Enity.

  There were others whom I hoped to overtake on the trail too. A priest on sabbatical was on a pilgrimage somewhere ahead of me. A young man was hiking along the AT as part of a trek around the world. I hoped to meet them and hear their stories.

  I set up Big Agnes and went to the creek to filter water. A lone figure emerged from a tent at the edge of the creek and joined me. Sir Enity had entered my world. We introduced ourselves, and in the ensuing conversation I found that his wife had also passed away, after a short illness just eight months before. He told me his story.

  “After she passed away, I took a good look at my situation, took stock of what was important to me, and decided I didn’t need anything that I couldn’t carry in my heart or on my back. I gave away 90 percent of my accumulated stuff and came to the trail.”

  His wife’s body had been cremated, and Sir Enity carried a vial of her ashes with him to scatter at the base of the Mt. Katahdin sign. “I cannot tell you how much I miss her,” he said. He didn’t have to try; I already knew.

  “You know, Apostle, there just isn’t any way to make sense of it. It is what it is,” he added sadly.

  Of all the moving words that have been written about loss, this phrase puts it most succinctly. I lay in my tent that night and kept returning to his words and the image of a man carrying a vial of his wife’s ashes with him on the long, hard path to Maine. His grief was so familiar to me.

  It is what it is.

  __________________

  [1]. Jim Schmid, ed.,“Trail Quotations part 3,” American Trails, http://www.americantrails.org/quotes2.html.

  On the trail, I was shedding not only the stresses of my business life, but also all the distractions that had kept me from truly seeing myself, others, and this hike we call Life. I was learning to see what I saw. God had said He would meet me on the trail. Experiences and people that in my everyday world would have passed unnoticed now carried messages I was able to hear. I finally had time to listen and learn.

  Take the footbridge over the James River, for example. For many years, hikers had only one route across this river, a narrow two-lane highway that made the crossing dangerous. A local man’s vision and determination changed that for me and for every other hiker on the trail today.

  Bill and Laurie were a local couple who thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail and found themselves transformed into believers in the mission and vision of the AT. They became active in the Appalachian Trail Conservancy and worked as trail maintainers with their local club. Their stretch of trail included that bridge crossing the James River, and for over a decade Bill single-mindedly pursued the dream of a separate hiker bridge spanning the waters. Many times throughout those years, the new bridge seemed an impossibility. But today it reaches 625 feet across the river, a testament to Bill’s hard work and a series of serendipitous events.

  Bill saw possibilities in five railroad piers in the river, no longer in use, owned by a local businessman. He visited the owner and explained his dream. The owner agreed to sell. Not only did he agree to sell, the asking price was only $1.00. Bill had the solid beginnings of his bridge.

  Nine years of clearing obstacles, both financial and legal, finally resulted in the dedication of the James River Foot Bridge in 2000. The dedication of the bridge was also a memorial to Bill, who had died of cancer just months before and never walked across his own dream.

  I stood by the bridge and read the memorial plaque: “Bill pursued his passions, honored his dreams, and cherished those around him.” This man had not just raced thoughtlessly through his life. I compared my own life. Did I even know what my passions were? Had I let my dreams die? Would I cherish the people in my life and appreciate what they brought to me?

  I climbed all morning, arriving at the top of Bluff Mountain just before noon. It was my highest elevation of the day. The view was grand, but the company was even grander: at the peak, I found Sailor and his son also enjoying the view.

  That afternoon I walked a section of the trail where rhododendron blossoms drifted down and lined the path with pink petals. I felt like royalty parading along a path of homage, or a bride floating down a petal-strewn aisle. Either notion seemed a bit ridiculous. I was just a solitary hiker wandering down God’s trail through His great outdoor cathedral.

  Euphoria cranked up my courage. Now was the time to sample rhododendron. I plucked a nice specimen and hesitated only a few seconds before popping it into my mouth. They sure look a lot better than they taste, I thought as I chewed and chewed and chewed.

  A twenty-two-mile jaunt through the mountains ended at Brown Mountain Creek Shelter where I stopped for the night, happy to see that Sailor and his son were also there. Sir Enity, though, was low on food and needed to resupply. He hiked two more miles to U.S. 60, where he hoped to hitch a ride into Buena Vista. There he would find a motel, buy food, and head back to the trail in the morning.

  ———

  The next day, I arrived at U.S. 60 just as a truck dropped off Sir Enity, who brought an extra Burger King breakfast sandwich he had decided to gift to the first hiker he met. And luckily, that was me.

  It was a good beginning to another hard day of climbing. Bald Knob and Cold Mountain both demanded strenuous effort from legs and lungs. I thought back to the day Sailor, Marathon Man, and I had entered Virginia. We had anticipated easier hiking. And the springtime Blue Ridge Mountains were easier than the frozen, snow-covered Smokies, but this entire hike was far more difficult than I had ever imagined.

  Sir Enity an
d I set our sights on Rockfish Gap, which we hoped to reach in two days. The Gap marks the entrance to Shenandoah National Park and is only a short distance from Waynesboro, Virginia, where we planned to make a town stop. On the top of Cold Mountain, I had cell service and called ahead to make a motel reservation.

  Toward evening, we crossed the small, rutted Crabtree Farm Road that cuts through the forest. A four-wheel drive vehicle was parked near the trail, and a young couple had spread a private picnic. Sir Enity hesitated to crash their party, but I insisted that we at least attempt to mooch some food. It was one of the best trail magic moments of my entire trek. The couple offered bananas, carrots, tortilla chips, drinks, bread, and a complete Mountain House meal that I stashed away for later consumption. The young picnickers had already given us most of their supplies, but they asked if we needed anything more.

  “How about Aleve? Would you have any of those?” I asked. My shin splints were almost gone, but so was my Vitamin I.

  “Sure do,” the young man replied, and he poured out a handful for me.

  The trail magic energized us for the last climb of the day, Priest Mountain. Several hundred feet below the summit, we stopped at the Priest Shelter. A church group had commandeered the building, so Sir Enity and I set up our tents nearby. We found entertaining reading material that night; hikers were using the Priest register as a confessional. Records of transgressions filled the pages; the most frequent sin reported was the theft of toilet paper. During town stops, hikers often unroll a liberal amount of toilet paper to take with them for later use.

  ———

  Sir Enity and I crossed Priest Mountain in the early morning light. The day was difficult but rewarding; twenty-four miles took us to heights and depths. From 4,063-foot Priest Mountain, we dropped to just 997 feet at the banks of the Tye River, where we wobbled across a wooden suspension bridge that swayed like a pendulum. Then it was back uphill as we headed into the Three Ridges Wilderness area to a height of over 4,000 feet that gave us splendid views over the valleys and mountain ranges. White mountain laurel bloomed around us, and purple and white flowers flaunted their wild beauty along the path. Several graceful waterfalls coursed over rocky drops.