August 13, 2008, was my someday. Even as recently as the last day of March, less than five months ago, when I walked the first mile on the Appalachian Trail, this someday seemed impossible. But now it had arrived; someday was today.
At 5:00 a.m., Ina and I left for the final 5.2 miles of my thru-hike, the climb up the mighty Mt. Katahdin. The storm clouds had passed, and stars sparkled in the night sky. Those stars faded and faint morning light grew as we made our way up the mountain. We crossed Katahdin Stream over a footbridge; a waterfall roared nearby. For several miles, the trail was much like Mahoosuc Notch, except these house-sized boulders were vertical. We slowly pulled ourselves upward with the assistance of rebar rods jutting from the rocks. On one precarious slope, a rope dangled to assist hikers up the slick surface.
I had advised Ina to get in shape for this hike, but she had not understood how strenuous this climb would be. Now she was breathless, trying to keep up with me. Einstein passed us, then Fargo and Franklin. “We’ll wait for you up there,” they promised. Ina apologized for slowing me down and encouraged me to keep pace with my friends.
“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she admitted. I didn’t confess to her that even after climbing 299 other mountains, I also found The Greatest Mountain extremely difficult.
We climbed above tree level and the sun shone on the panorama of Maine’s beauty rolled out below us: green mountain ranges and hundreds of ponds and lakes. We looked down on soft, fluffy clouds that sometimes drifted between us and the views.
At last we reached the tableland, a level plateau. The trail threaded its way between slabs of broken rocks and passed Thoreau Spring, named for Henry David Thoreau, who explored Mt. Katahdin in 1846 and wrote a book called The Maine Woods. Thoreau Spring was exactly one mile from that sign at the summit. Occasionally, we heard a shout of exhilaration from the mountaintop, as another hiker realized his dream.
I could see the famous sign in the distance. It jutted upward from the rocks, marking the end of my hike. Then a cloud descended and enshrouded both the sign and a group of hikers already assembled there.
I had only a few hundred feet to go.
———
Back in Damascus, Virginia, I’d met Pathfinder, who told the story of his own hike after his wife’s death. “I got within ten feet of the sign and couldn’t finish. I broke down and cried,” he’d told me. In Damascus, his statement had puzzled me; I just wanted to finish my hike and go home.
Now I stood in sight of that sign, and I understood what had happened to Pathfinder. I understood, because I felt it myself. Our lives had both experienced brutal endings. We found peace and healing here, and the trail became reality and family. Now this too was about to end. We stood at the brink of another good-bye. The very thing that I had so wanted to finish was now done . . . and I did not want it to end.
———
Fargo, Franklin, and Einstein had finished and stood off to one side, waiting for me. A group of day hikers had gathered around the sign. I hung back, waiting. I had earned the right to have that sign to myself, and I waited for the other hikers to move away. Franklin noticed and understood.
“Guys,” he said, addressing the day hikers, “that hiker over there has walked close to 2,200 miles from Georgia to finish here. Let’s let him have the sign to himself for a few minutes.”
The other hikers stepped aside, making way for me, applauding as I approached. I dropped my backpack and laid my poles across it, then grabbed the sign and sobbed. I fell to my knees, still holding the base of the sign, tears falling, and thanked God for safety and healing.
After a few moments, I regained enough composure to pull out a Hershey bar and a Coke. I celebrated the only way a thru-hiker knows to celebrate—with calories. My trail friends and I took a group photo at the sign.
And just like that . . . it was over.
100-mile wilderness sign
Trail up Katahdin
Apostle at sign
Epilogue
One by one, each leaving in his own time, we drifted away from that sign on the mountaintop and slowly made our way back down Katahdin. I was reminded of high school graduation, when I walked out of that school and thought, It’s over. Now what do I do? Once again, I had no job and no idea what to do. In my prayer at the sign, I’d also asked God for wisdom as I sought new beginnings. I wondered if I’d be able to put into practice all that I’d learned in the wilderness.
Back at Katahdin Stream Campground, I found myself behind the wheel of a car for the first time in many months. Franklin and Einstein had already left, but as I passed a small pavilion, I noticed Fargo sitting there, waiting for his ride. I stopped the car, and we exchanged addresses and said good-bye.
As I climbed back into the car, Ina said, “Fargo had tears running down his cheeks when he walked away.”
There were two of us with tears in our eyes. I got back out of the car and called my friend’s name. He turned around, and I said, “Hey, Fargo, give me a hug.” With tears streaming down both our faces, we embraced.
We were just two average men who had shared life on a difficult, 2,176-mile hike from Georgia to Maine. We’d met and become like brothers. We were family.
———
As the car bounced down the rutted dirt road leading out of Baxter State Park, I was caught in a swirl of emotion. What had kept me working so hard had now ended. Back in March, I’d driven the dirt road up Springer Mountain, dodging potholes on my way to the unknown. That unknown became the rhythm of waking up early, hiking long miles, struggling over mountains—always striving toward my goal. Now here I was again, on another rutted road leading into another unknown. I was unemployed. Katahdin was behind me. I needed new goals.
Several hours later, I was speeding down the Massachusetts turnpike when I spotted the overpass carrying the Appalachian Trail over the highway. I had crossed that overpass and watched the traffic, thinking ahead to the day when I’d be in one of those cars, finally heading home. Now I looked at the walkway and thought back to my days on the trail. That narrow pathway had been my path to freedom; it had taught me and changed me.
God had honored His promise to be with me, and now I needed to honor my promise and give folks the message He had asked me to deliver.
Back in Holmes County, my first stop was at the hillside cemetery where Mary was buried. With tears running down my face, I knelt in front of her memorial stone.
“I did it, Mary. I thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail. It was so much harder than I ever imagined, but I did it!”
I told Mary how much she had meant to me and how much our family missed her. My children had been without both a mother and a father these past five months.
“Mary, I’ll tell you all about my hike when we meet again. Now I’m going home to see our new grandson.”
A number of people had followed my hike, reading my entries on the Trail Journals website. I soon received invitations to speak about my adventure. The first meeting was at a local restaurant with a group of area seniors. Following my presentation, a lady sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I knew the gentleman beside her. He was stooped with age, with two canes lying across his lap. He looked familiar, but I could not put a name to the face. My jaw dropped when the lady told me he was a retired evangelist from Nebraska.
He was the same man who had scared me half to death many years ago with rapping knuckles and shouting about Jesus’s imminent return. I reached out and took his feeble hands in mine . . . and examined his knuckles. To his bewilderment, I replied, “I’m checking your knuckles for calluses. Do you have any idea how badly you scared me that night so many years ago?”
I smile even now, realizing the incredibility of our meeting. God sure does move in mysterious ways. God was reminding me that the message He gave me is real, and I needed to get to work and get it written for other folks.
My hike had to be about more than just walking two thousand miles. When I decided to do the hike, I
needed a greater purpose for quitting my job and changing my life so drastically. One of my goals was to remind men to appreciate what they have today—don’t take your family and your wife for granted. It really is true; we never realize what we have until we no longer have it. How it would change our lives if we could fully see what we see in our families and marriages, be grateful for what we have, and make gratitude part of our daily living!
Using my story on the trail as a vehicle, I also wanted to write a book that shows readers that the Christian life doesn’t have to be boring. To my Christian friends: If people observe your daily life, would they say, “I want what he has”? We Christians should be the happiest folks in the world, with what we know about life in the hereafter. Why are we often seen as the most downtrodden, dismal, and judgmental people around? It’s no wonder the world doesn’t want what we offer. Maybe we need to remind ourselves of what we really do have.
When I started this hike, I never imagined how difficult it would be. Had I known, I would never have attempted it. The trail is much like our lives. We never know what difficulties we’ll encounter on this earthly pilgrimage. What we are assured of, however, is a finish line.
That does sound rather strange, doesn’t it? The biggest event of our lives will be the finish line, when we end life’s journey. Yet we don’t like to think about the end. We don’t want to be reminded that we will die, because we often are afraid of what lies beyond death. Fear of that great unknown prompts us to try to ignore the matter.
———
Remember the free meal in a log home in Virginia? The owner spoke about salvation and offered us books if we wanted to read more. That night, he handed me a small piece of paper with a short message. That message spoke to my spirit, and I want to share it with you. Here’s my paraphrase of that message:
Supposing that we’ve traveled all these miles together, and I’ve never told you about God and the reality of a future judgment. If we meet someday at that final judgment, I don’t want you to say to me, “You knew about this, and you didn’t tell me?”
Here’s what the Apostle Paul—the real one—says about the importance of this choice. He sums it up clearly in Romans, a letter he wrote to the church in Rome. These may be the most important words you’ll ever read. You can take this message and never open it, and figuratively hang it from a nail on a board fence, just as Motormouth did with his spiritual book that night in Virginia. Or you can hang your eternal existence on these words, if you choose.
For some reason, God wants to have a relationship with us. I don’t pretend to know why, but I suspect it has something to do with love. However, there’s a problem between God and us. The problem is sin. God just absolutely cannot tolerate sin.
In Romans 3:23, the Apostle Paul tells us that everyone has sinned. Romans 6:23 says the price we pay for a life of sin is death. So there you have it: everyone has sinned, and the punishment for sin is death.
But our friend the apostle also has some good news for us. Romans 5:8 says that God demonstrated how much He loved us by allowing His Son Jesus to die for us on the cross. That death on the cross paid the price for our sins.
The defining question is this: What must we do to be saved from death? Once again, the real Apostle Paul gives us the answer. Romans 10:9 says that if we speak with our mouths that Jesus is Lord and we believe that God raised Jesus from the dead after He was crucified, then we’ll be saved.
It can’t be that easy, you might be thinking. I thought I had to jump through all kinds of hoops and follow all kinds of rituals to be assured of eternal life. My friend, it is indeed that simple. Paul says in Romans 10:13 that everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.
You see, there truly are two pathways in this life. One is the path to destruction and everlasting death. The other is the path that leads to an eternal life with God in a place called heaven. These paths run somewhat parallel to each other in our earthly life; however, there is the problem of crossing from one path to the other. Don’t look back. You cannot change what is behind you. To change your path and change your life, you’ll need a bridge. You’re at that bridge now. The cross of Jesus can take you from the path of death to the path of life. The cross, that great symbol of Christianity, beckons you to give up whatever is keeping you on the wrong path. Cross the bridge, and find a peace you’ve never imagined and a journey with God that is indescribable.
Nailed to a cross, Jesus paid a great price for your life. Choose wisely, my friend. You can mock that cross if you wish, or you can say, God, forgive me. Words do have meaning.
———
It’s time to finish this adventure. What a journey it’s been! From the highest mountain to the lowest valley on the Appalachian Trail, my summer of 2008 is a story of peace and healing. I hiked with a partner, God, who is the originator of love. God’s love will comfort you too through valleys of despair and will lead you to your own mountaintop of peace and freedom.
Acknowledgments
Although it may seem idyllic and liberating to quit a job, sling on a backpack, and leave all worries behind, my story was not quite that simple. The journey I undertook, the adventures I lived, and this book were all made possible by many wonderful people in my life.
My family has anchored me through the years. Mom and Dad have always given us a quiet Christian example. Although I joke about my many sisters, I would not want to give up any of them. My mother-in-law, who has traveled the path of grief many times herself, has a strong trust in God and a positive attitude that have been an inspiration to me.
My children not only lost Mom, but Dad was also unavailable for a season. Melissa and Tom, Rodrick and Jill, Kristin and Trevor, a great big thank-you for the things you did and sacrifices you made to make my hike possible.
Thanks to Dutchman Hospitality in Walnut Creek, Ohio, the parent company of my restaurant, and the owners who made it possible for me to spend all the time I needed with Mary during her illness and the last months of her life. Thanks also to my friends and co-workers at Dutch Valley in Sugarcreek, Ohio, for their support, not only during Mary’s illness, but for the seventeen years I managed the restaurant. Thank you to my co-worker and friend Ina for coordinating food drops, driving me to Springer Mountain, and picking me up at the end of the trail.
Elaine Starner organized my thoughts and ramblings and helped make possible my dream of a published book. Her insights and her belief that God spoke with me on the trail were much appreciated as this book took shape.
A special thanks to my editor Vicki Crumpton and the team at Revell for their dedication to publishing Hiking Through. God promised to get this book were He wanted it, and with your efforts that will now happen.
A special thank you to all my friends and hiking partners I met along the AT. It’s impossible to name everyone, but you are also family.
God was with me every step of the way, just as He had promised. I am humbled that He knows me well and still loves me.
Finally, to all my readers, thank you for reading this book. I am honored that you took the time to read my story. My prayer is that you have been blessed in some small way by the journey we’ve taken together. I would be delighted to hear your response to anything you’ve read in these pages. You may post your comments on my website at www.hikingthrough.com.
God bless you all.
Paul Stutzman
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