Anders Monsen

Lost worlds and ports of call

Category: hiking

Day four on the Appalachian Trail

May 7, 2024 /

Blood Mountain is not a bad climb going north-bound. The descent, however, is the nightmare part of the trail.

I awoke early, around 7am, feeling somewhat refreshed. I can’t say that I slept well, as I tossed and turned all night, which is usual while camping. I broke camp quickly, stuffing all the items into the backpack rather than folding them neatly as before; I would later repack properly at the hotel. I collected my bear canister, which appeared untouched. My attempt at breakfast failed, as I could not hold down even small amounts of food. I figured that with less than four miles to hike, I could make it with just water, as solid food that day didn’t seem to work. The other campers nearby were quiet, so I tried to pack up my gear quietly as well.

The final hike up Blood Mountain proved fairly easy, and I reached the stone shelter at the top in short notice. I didn’t stop there, but as I walked passed the shelter I saw the female hiker who’d passed me right before Springer. She was packing up her gear, and didn’t see or didn’t notice me as I walked passed the shelter. At this point, anyway, I was still tired and didn’t feel particularly sociable.

The view at top of Blood Mountain was obscured by trees. There were gaps here and there, but I didn’t pause or walk around the site. Instead, I followed the white blazes on rocks and trees, and eventually these led me downward. I crossed expanses of rock, paused now and then to find the trail, and then it became a matter of bouldering downhill. At times the trail became less rocky, but the descent was for the most part tricky, rife with rocks and roots, and it took me longer than I expected. At one point, where the AT intersected with some other trail, I had to pause and search for a white blaze. Shortly after that confusing moment, I encountered a trail runner. I was surprised, as he was older than myself. He mentioned that he’d just cut through a large fallen tree. We talked for a while about the trail, and how it was poorly marked. He lived nearby, and volunteered regularly to check the trail. I bid him farewell, and continued downhill.

Eventually I saw a road, and then a sign announcing the other side of the Blood Mountain Wilderness. Neel Gap lay ahead. I’ve head people refer to it as Neel’s Gap, as well as Neel Gap. A tarmac road intersects the gap, just like Woody Gap. On the other side is Mountain’s Crossing, a store that stocks food camping items. They also have a hostel. Apparently 25% of thru-hikers quit here.

I crossed the road, reaching the tree where many thru-hikers give up and toss their boots and shoes. As a section hiker, and having only brought one pair of shoes, I kept my shoes on my feet. I ascended some stairs, then I dropped my pack outside the building and walked inside. The place looked like a mix of a mini-REI and a tourist trap. There were t-shirts, hoodies, gee-gaws, food, shoes, and other camping gear. I bought two Cokes, took them outside and gulped down the first one. It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was exhausted. I drank the other Coke more slowly, then walked around the store once more. I bought some magnets for my wife, went outside. Someone offered me slice of pizza, but I didn’t think I could eat anything. However, after a while I reconsidered, and realized that I needed to eat something. I bought a small packet of chips and a Sprite. Shortly after consuming both, I threw up, which was far from my proudest moment.

I walked around the building, trying to get back to normal. I placed my slightly used gas canister in the hiker box, along with a lighter. Maybe someone would benefit from those items. Eventually, the thru-hikers who’d camped at Lance Creek showed up, one by one. I greeted the ones I knew. Then, two of the women I’d met at Springer showed up. The other two in their party had quit at Woody Gap and had returned to their starting point in Helen, Georgia. The two remaining hikers planned to continue onward to Unicoi Gap. They’d also been the ones that I’d heard arriving near my campsite at the base of Blood Mountain. Props to them for continuing. They were from Florida, a place as flat as my own home base, or maybe flatter, and had hiked relentlessly up and down each mountain.

At Neel Gap I contacted my shuttle. When I first booked the shuttle, I’d asked them to pick me up at 1pm, as I thought I would camp at Woods Hole Gap, and also that it would take me a while to hike up Blood Mountain. They were dropping off another hiker around 11am, so could get me two hours earlier than planned. I hung around Mountain’s Crossing, and thought about all the ups and downs of the trail, how I had failed to embrace the suck, and how guilty I felt for complaining along the trail. Shortly after 11am, the shuttle driver arrived. It tool an hour to drive back to Amicalola Falls State Park. My car was covered in detritus from the trees. I drove back to the visitor center, dropped off my parking pass, and headed toward the conference on Lanier Lake.

Along the way, overcome by hunger, I pulled into a strip-mall, where I found a pizza place. I ordered more than I could eat, took the rest with me, and got back on the road. At the conference center, I spread my camping gear over one bed. Over the course of a few days I slowly organized the gear into my backpack for the return flight.

Would I change anything? Yes. I should have taken longer breaks, and worked more on my food intake. I now know that the Appalachian Trail involves a lot of ups and downs. And I mean a lot. Every “gap” listed on the map means an up and down, or a down and up. This is something that reading blog, books, etc. will not teach you. Watching videos on YouTube is no substitute for the real thing. There is a lot of climbing. At least I was lucky with the weather, as it never rained nor snowed while I was on the trail. It was hot, however, which I didn’t expect for this time of year.

Will I go back? I hope so. I really want to complete Georgia. I want to hike the northern part of Virginia. When? I have no idea. Maybe in 2026, as I tend to plan out things a year or two in advance, and 2025 already has specific goals. Will I complete the entire trail? It’s 2,100 miles or more. Hiking 40 mile sections at a time will not get me there, not with the years that I have left. So, I highly doubt that I will even hike a quarter of the distance. That doesn’t bother me. The trail crosses 14 states. I might walk three or maybe four of the states. So be it.

If you hike the Appalachian Trail, either as a day hiker, a section hiker, or a thru hiker, take a moment to marvel that this trail exists. To anyone who walks the AT, where it’s a mile or the entire distance, take many moments to pause at the fact that this trail exists. I count myself lucky to have been there, even I walked less than 2% of the trail.

Day three on the Appalachian Trail

May 6, 2024 /

I awoke early, packed up, and was on the trail before the trio of thru-hikers broke camp. They were all young, maybe mid-thirties, and highly motivated, so I figured they would pass me at some point during the day. Today’s goal was Woods Hole Shelter, at the foot of Blood Mountain, just over 12 miles from Gooch Gap Shelter. It would prove a tougher day than the one before, but also a highly rewarding and emotional day.

I rejoined the AT trail in good spirits, and although the trail still went up and down, for a long while it actually followed a contour line along a mountain. I stopped at a clearing with a great view, chatted with another hiker, and we took each other’s photos with the view as a background. Familiar hikers passed me. I passed some of them. There’s a section on Blood Mountain where bear canisters are required. A quartet of thru-hikers (three from Gooch Gap Shelter and one other) planned to camp just outside the bear canister zone, at a campsite called Lance Creek. They worried that the limited number of tent sites would fill up, and considered options slightly beyond that area. I carried a bear canister, so I didn’t worry about locations.

Slightly before the halfway point, I encountered the thru-hiker who wasn’t keen on close neighbors. He mentioned a rumor of trail magic ahead on the trail. At this point I had started to flag, and in a moment of despair told him that I expected all trail magic gone by the time I arrived. I think I expected a single cooler with soda cans, nothing more. Instead, as I reached Woody Gap, a location with a paved road intersecting the trail, I saw a professional-looking sign announcing trail magic ahead.

It turned out that a pair of older women who had hiked the trail years ago each year drove down from Indiana (I think, as I can’t exactly remember their home state). They handed out hot dogs, chips, cookies, other snacks, and sodas. I was briefly overcome with emotion as I thanked them. All other hikers who reach that site thanked them and asked if they could donate money, but were refused. I ate my hot dog, a bag of chips, and drank my soda. Nothing tasted as great as that brief meal.

After lingering there an hour or so, I lifted up my pack and entered the Blood Mountain Wilderness. My goal the for day lay just over five miles away. I would prove a difficult five miles. Much of it was uphill. The heat pressed down on me. Twice I reached a creek, where I rested and poured liters of water on my head. One of the thru-hikers headed for Lance Creek passed me, as did two others.

Eventually, I reached Lance Creek, where I saw three hikers had sent up tents. I waved to them and told them I was continuing onward, as it was early afternoon. When I reached the plateau right before the last climb up Blood Mountain, I saw the sign for Woods Hole Shelter. It lay 0.4 miles downhill, away from the trail. I grimaced, then started down the trail. After around a tenth of a mile or so, I stopped. I really didn’t want to walk 0.4 extra miles each way, especially uphill the next morning. I consulted my map and saw there was a campsite up the hill. Returning to the plateau, I dropped my pack and rested for a while (a euphemism for collapsing on the ground and resting my head on the pack). Another hiker arrived, and asked about the shelter. I pointed down the hill, warning him it would be a bit of walk. He decided that was not an issue, and departed down the hill. After a while, I picked up my back, tossed out a few curses, and continued up Blood Mountain.

Shortly thereafter, I reached a creek, where I once more poured several liters of cold water on my head. Feeling invigorated, I started my ascent up the steep hill. To my surprise, only a short distance away I found the listed campsite. I dropped my pack, and made an inventory of my water. Two of the water bottles were empty. I had around four miles to hike the next day, and for the sake of hydration insurance I took those empty bottles down the hill and filled them up at the creek. Back at the campsite I put up my tent, taking many breaks. I tried to eat something, but my stomach at this point couldn’t handle any food. Two hours of sunlight remained, and that light pointed directly at my tent. I gathered up all smellables—food, toothpaste, sunscreen, etc—into the bear canister and wedged it between some branches up the hill, then crawled into my tent and tried to rest.

At some point during the evening I heard a coyote, then some female voices. Other hikers had found the same camping area. Each tent pad in that campsite was far enough away that I never saw them, but I heard them for a while talking and then greeting another late arriving hiker. My goal at this point was just to get some sleep. A couple of hikers that I’d encountered a mile or so before the start of the true ascent of Blood Mountain said it wasn’t a bad climb on fresh legs, so I thought that a night’s rest would help. It turned out that was true, at least for the climb. My fourth day consisted of less than four miles of hiking, so I knew it wouldn’t be another long day. I also had a deadline of 1pm, when my shuttle would arrive to take me back to my car. I worried about the uphill, but it was the downhill that would prove the hardest part of the day.

To be continued…

Day two on the Appalachian Trail

May 5, 2024 /

After the “approach trail,” which apparently not all thru-hikers take, I went another three or so miles to Stover Creek Shelter. My total distance hiked for the first day was ca. 12 miles. At Stover Creek, I set up my tent, then made my major mistake of the hike, one I would repeat one more time: I failed to eat dinner. Instead, I crawled into my tent around 6pm and just tried to sleep, despite sundown still two hours away. Even though I wasn’t tired, I felt that I needed the rest, and also I didn’t feel hungry enough to heat a freeze-dried meal. Nor did I think of a snack at this point.

One of the things I learned in my over 500 miles of hiking along various trails is that consistently I fail to properly fuel while hiking. I lose my appetite somewhere along the trail, and I struggle to eat solid foods, either power bars nor rehydrated food. I eat sparingly, and pay the price near the end of the day. This is far from ideal, as hiking multiple miles in one day meals that calories are burned, and the body needs to be replenished. I probably also do not drink enough water, although I made an effort on this trail. I carrier three liters of water, and refilled my water bottles often along the way, using both a filter and purifying tablets. The days were hot, and I made myself drink fairly often as I walked. Still, I probably didn’t drink enough.

First day, not so bad, I thought. I camped where I planned to camp. The next day, I planned to hike to Gooch Gap Shelter, another 12 or so miles from the Stover Creek Shelter. I woke up early, packed up my tent and gear, ate a breakfast bar, and set out on the trail around 8am. At first, I took it slow, enjoying the green tunnel and silence, until I was passed by another hiker. Then I re-evaluated my pace and went from a stroll to something faster. Another mistake. Hike your own pace is the key. However, from now on I measured myself against this hiker’s pace, as we would leapfrog each other time and time again in my days on the trail. This shadow of mine was a thru-hiker, around twenty years younger, and quite motivated. Along the trail I’d encounter at least five other thru-hikers, plus some section-hikers like myself. They each had amazing stories behind the reason for hiking the AT. Had I known about the AT in my early thirties, maybe my life would have been different.

Nothing prepares you for the AT (or probably any long distance trail). Not watching multiple YouTube videos. Not reading blogs and hiker diaries. Not reading many books about thru-hikes and attempted thru-hikes (I’m looking at you, Bill Bryson). I’ve hiked in Big Bend, Bryce Canyon, northern New Mexico, in Nevada, plus various locations in Norway. Most of the trails in these location have moderate hills, or one big climb. Not the AT. The AT is an almost constant up and down trail, at least in northern Georgia, with each mountain interspersed with “gaps.” After while, when I saw a sign announcing a gap a few miles ahead I groaned, for I knew this meant a big downhill and then a big uphill, again and again.

After Three Forks there was a waterfall. I plowed onward and uphill, bypassing the Hawk Mountain Shelter and campsite, then Hightower Gap, Horse Gap. Somewhere along here I took a break by a creek, where the four women I’d met on Springer also were taking a break. They’d hiked from Springer to Hawk Mountain their first day, and were planning to hike as far as they could over the span of five days. We chatted for a while before I headed back on the trail. And then, Sassafras Mountain. This was a brutal climb.

After resting at the top of Sassafras, it was downhill to Cooper Gap, where I took a long break to eat and recuperate. Next, I crossed a creek, with a sign pointing to a campsite just north of the creek. My goal was Gooch Gap Shelter, so I kept walking. The last mile was tough, and I started asking out loud, “Gooch Gap, where are you?” I crossed another creek, where two older hikers were filling up on water, and then, finally, Gooch Gap Shelter.

I found a vacant tent pad, set up my tent, and worked on making dinner and filtering water. After another 12 mile day I was exhausted, but I forced myself to eat a freeze-dried meal that I heated up. I’m not sure what it is with these freeze-dried meal packets, but they tend to overstate the amount of water needed. They’re also designed for two portions. Instead of a nice meal, it was more like semi-soup, but I ate half before I gave up. The day had been hot, 85 degrees F. Where I’d pitched my tent the sun shone directly on it, and I had more than two hours until sunset. I tried to sleep, then took a break to visit the privy. I’m not sure if people just can’t handle public toilets, but it looked gross, and I had to close my eyes to do my business. Then, back to the tent and solitude. The thru-hiker I’d camped next to at Stover Creek was there, but he strongly hinted that he didn’t want a close neighbor, so I’d set up my two pads below his tent. Another thru-hiker camped between us, and they chatted a long time. I found my noise-canceling headphones and enjoyed a brief moment of silence. Finally the neighbors stopped talking, and I managed to fall asleep. At some point during the night, a third thru-hiker had pitched his tent next to the first one, so he ended up with a close neighbor anyway. As for the night, I woke up multiple times to snoring from the nearest neighbor. Good times.

To be continued….

The Steep Approach to Springer

May 4, 2024 /

On April 14, 2024 I took my real first steps on the Appalachian Trail (aka the AT).

Well, ok, I’d walked a few yards on the AT in the past—in the same location—once in ignorance and once deliberately. This was at Harper’s Ferry, in 1998 and 2023, the former before I knew anything about the AT, and the latter just to tell myself that yes, I had trod on that path. I never expected to be on that trail again for many years, if ever, due to work commitments.

I learned about the Appalachian Trail around 2017 or 2018, and then almost by accident. My son was in Boy Scouts, and I was planning some hiking trips with a goal to hike some trails in Philmont, one of the high adventure locations in New Mexico. I read a great deal about hiking and proper gear, and in that reading I came across a blog by an Australian who’d completed the Triple Crown, a feat of long-distance hiking in the USA that included the Continental Divide, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the Appalachian Trail. At almost the same time, my company had a couple of off-site meetings north of Atlanta. Right after the second meeting, I learned that the southern terminus of the AT was around an hour’s drive from that location, and vowed if I ever had the opportunity to return that I would at least visit that location.

In the meantime I watched lots of videos from people who hiked the AT, read books about the AT, and the trail at that point became almost a personal holy grail. I didn’t think I’d ever complete a “thru-hike,” as that required five to six months, but I wanted to at least hike part of the trail. Also, in the meantime I hiked a lot (over 500 miles in five years), but always with a group. My son and I hiked part of the Colorado Trail (only 29 miles). We hiked around Lake Georgetown (north of Austin), several locations in Big Bend (the state park and national park), a few places in Norway, Utah, Nevada, and even a long trek in Philmont. Yet, never had I hiked alone.

That all changed in April, 2024. When my company announced the 2024 off-site would take place back in Georgia, I made my plans. I would take four days to hike 40 miles, from Amicalola Falls to Neel Gap. Then, a shuttle company would take me back to Amicalola State Park, from which I would drive the hour to the off-site meeting. A perfect plan. Or so I thought.

I arrived in Atlanta two days prior to the hike, drove through heavy traffic from their airport to REI—an outfitter store—where I picked up a gas canister and some water purification tablets. The next day I bought some food the at a couple of grocery stores (Aldi and Lidl, which don’t exist in central Texas). Then, the day before the hike, I drove to Amicalola State Park. This is the location where hikers who are planning to go the whole way pick up tags marking them as thru-hikers. It’s also the start of the “approach trail” to the souther terminus, which is Springer Mountain, over eight miles away. I sorted out a long-term parking pass with the staff, walked up the trail to the top of the falls, and checked into the Lodge, and hotel up the hill from the park. The weather looked great, according to my map the trail didn’t seem difficult, and I looked forward to the next few days.

Little did I know that things are different on the AT, especially when carrying 30 plus pounds of gear, food, and water on your back. Little did I know how much the trail goes up and down, vs. up to stay there before a final descent.

The “approach trail” stretches for over eight miles, and much of it involves going uphill. I learned that much of the AT itself involves a lot of uphill, and a lot of downhill. I’m not sure which part is worse. I started out early in the morning, after a quick breakfast at the lodge. Here I grabbed some lightweight jam packets to use with my peanut butter packets and pita break for lunches. Then I drove down the steep hills to the visitor’s lodge, parked my car, and headed to the visitor center buildings.

I was delayed slightly while i debated whether or not to attend a session from one of the park rangers. Since they were busy with thru-hikers, I gave up after half an hour of waiting and started up the trail. I didn’t need to register, since I was only hiking 40 miles. I also had the 10 essentials, as well as filters, water purifiers, and a bear canister. No “noob” on the trail here…. The approach trail usually goes along the river toward the falls, but part of that trail was closed, so I took an alternate route. I’d climbed many of the stairs near the falls the prior day, so it didn’t bother me to skip that part.

The sign indicating the trail to Springer warns hikers that it’s a long trek, an average of six hours. I did it in far less, but the finally climb up Springer almost did me in. At one point I paused at a rock a few hundred meters near the top, next to another hiker. For a moment, I felt like I blacked out, as I heard nothing of his comments. Meanwhile, a young woman with an accent that sounded German passed me, with perhaps a scornful glance. To her this hike was nothing, but I had at least thirty years on her, and I hate cycling/walking/running uphill anyway. Scorn mean nothing at that point. Still, after a while resting on a rock, I gathered myself and walked up the remaining short distance to the official start of the AT.

At the top of Springer I encountered some other people, a mix of thru-hikers, day-hikers, and section-hikers like myself. People took photos, marveled at the location; to some it was the start of a major adventure. I ate snacks, including maybe the first Kwik-Lunsj on the AT—a Norwegian chocolate that I’d brought with me for this occasion. Then, it was a matter of a short hike down to the parking lot, and continuing onward along the actual Appalachian Trail

To be continued…

Hiking Pikes Peak

February 3, 2023 /

Pikes Peak is a mountain in Colorado, near the town of Colorado Springs. It’s a Fourteener, meaning the peak is above 14,000 feet, or 4,267 meters. This is a curious American affectation, perhaps a 14er sounds more impressive than a 4.267er. There are 96 peaks known as 14er in the US, 53 of them in Colorado. The state with the next biggest number is Alaska, with 29. Some of the 14ers in Colorado have high difficulty ratings. Not so Pikes Peak. In fact, you can drive to the top in the comfort of your car, or take a cog railway from Manitou Springs, just outside Colorado Springs.

If you hike, there are two routes: Barr Trail and Crags Trail. These take slightly longer than a car ride. Barr approaches from the town of Manitou Springs, Crags from the other side, requiring drive to the trailhead from Colorado Springs where we’d rented a house for a few days.

In May 2022, I hiked up Crags Trail to Pikes Peak with three friends. It was one of the toughest hikes in my life so far. Each time I push myself to a new hiking challenge, I learn things about myself—some good, some bad. Still, each other new challenge brings newer unknowns, and while you can prepare somewhat in theory, the actual practice of the hike is far, far different from what you read or hear from others.

Our hike took place in May, only a few days before the Crags campground opened to the public. This meant parking about a mile before the actual trailhead, walking around the barrier, and hiking up the dirt road. We left our rented house at 4:15am, arrived at the parking lot at 5am and started the hike 15 minutes later, before the break of dawn. At this point, we’re already above 9,000 feet, so the ascent means we’re only gaining just over 5,000 feet. Hiking Barr Trail means starting at around 6,500 feet, so a much bigger elevation gain. Still, it’s easy to forget you still have eight or so miles to walk from the car to the peak. You think at the start that you can cover three miles in an hour. You are quickly proven wrong.

The first part until the tree-line is relatively easy. You follow a trail that winds through forest and continually climbs, but at a manageable pace. Once we reached the tree-line, which is around 11,000 to 12,000 feet, we started to feel the wind. There were two short windbreaks around the area known as Devil’s Playground, so named for how the lighting jumps from rock to rock in that area when there are thunderstorms. Luckily, for us, the skies were clear.

Once we left those windbreaks, we were exposed to the elements, or rather the wind, as the skies were clear. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so. At this point, we’re hiking near the road that leads to the peak, although we’re on thinly worn trails, not along the road itself. There were some patches of snow that we were forced to navigate. At times we were knee deep in soft snow, but these were fairly short patches. The last mile or so took over an hour. The “trail” here ascended a boulder field, and consisted mostly of stepping from rock to rock, following the guidelines of tiny rock cairns placed by previous hikers. At one point I caught my foot in between two rocks and went down hard. Fortunately this didn’t result in any injury, aside from some minor abrasions and wounded pride.

Once we reached the summit, we sought a long break in the visitor center. This place has all the amenities tourists might expect: a restaurant, bathrooms, museum, gift shop, and more. We lingered here perhaps longer than planned. We tried the unique donuts, browsed the gift shop. I felt gassed, out of breath, and wondered if the fatigue I felt was just fatigue, or the hint of altitude sickness. Reaching 14,115 feet above sea level is no mean feat, especially if you’ve walked up each step (well, not from zero to the top, but still). We had no transportation reserved back down to the car, so after a long break (probably too long), we strapped on our gear once more, and headed back down to the Crags trailhead. I’m sure the people who drove up or took the railway were amused by our attire and backpacks, and the hiking poles we all carried, not to mention the glazed look in our eyes. Downhill should be easier, right?

By the time we exited the boulder field, the wind had picked up significantly. It was now early afternoon. Had this been summer, we would have faced the danger of storms and summer monsoon weather. Still, the winds appeared to reach speeds of 30-50 miles per hour, and we struggled all the way until the tree-line. We sought occasional shelter behind any rock big enough. I’m generally a fast hiker, but unforeseen circumstances (a busted hiking boot among the party), kept the pace slow.

Finally. Tree-line meant silence, a break from the constant buffeting of the wind. The wind above the trees never stopped, hitting us from the side, rear, and sometimes the front. Once sheltered by trees, there remained the sound of wind through the trees, but much calmer. Here we no longer felt the physical strain of the wind. Along the way, both up and down, we’d paused many times. We now faced the prospect of arriving back at the car after dark, much as we’d left the car while it still was dark.

It’s a curious feature of hiking mountains. Going uphill you’re focused on what’s immediately in front of you. You don’t see the big picture, unless you pause and look around. Going downhill the trail seemed to go on forever; you saw far more of it, and thus it seemed to take longer down the trail. In the end, we did arrive after dark, ordered pizza on the drive back the house, and considered the day a success. A hard-fought success, but a success nonetheless. I’d hike Pikes Peak again, but this time via Barr Trail, just to be different.

A trail too far

January 1, 2020 /

I may never set foot on the Appalachian Trail, but this 2,000 plus mile trail across the Eastern states has fascinated me since I heard about it a few years ago. Like millions of Americans I had no idea this trail or others like the PCT or CDT even existed; I knew of Appalachia, but thought this was only part of West Virginia, not that it rain from Georgia to Maine. The closest I’ve been to the AT is when I visited Harper’s Ferry in 1998. I didn’t know about the AT back then, and I have no idea where the trail went, or even if I touched part of it as I hiked along the river just outside the town.

After I herd about the AT, I knew the trail existed, somewhere. The exact location was one I never looked into, as it’s so far away from Texas. Even two and three years ago, while in Georgia for a company retreat, I didn’t know that an hour drive from where we were staying, was the southernmost end of the Appalachian Trail: Springer Mountain. The approach to Springer Mountain, from Amicalola Falls, might even be a day trip, even in February, if the weather cooperated.

When I read some hiker blogs in 2019 and learned how close I had been to Springer Mountain, I wondered if I’d ever get a chance to return to that area. Having started hiking and backpacking again in 2018, a new world was opening up to me, one where I slowly started to realize how far away Texas is from legendary hiking paths. By car, Springer Mountain is around 1,066 miles, and Mount Katahdin over 2,000 miles, nearly the same length as the entire AT. Even planning any section hike would require coordination with airline flights, shuttle services, and locating outfitters where I could buy at the very least gas canisters for a backpacking stove. Not to mention the cost. Both time and money are hard currencies required to get the trail.

Instead of planning any trips, I’ve started accumulating a small and random library of books about the AT. There’s the humorous entry of Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods. Mostly funny, there are occasional illuminating moments. Bryson only hiked a third of the AT, but then the vast majority of thru-hikers tend to drop out anyway. For inspiration, Jennifer Pharr Davis’ Becoming Odyssa is invaluable. Here’s a young woman, just out of college, setting out across a vast stretch of America all on her own. For harsh reality, David Miller’s Awol on the Appalachian Trail reads like a depressing catalog of woes and pains, yet despite all his troubles, his still made it all the way. His book reads more like a warning than an inspiration. Miller also stayed mostly in shelters, huts, hostels, and motels, and I’d be tempted to tent, at least until the first experience of having to set up the tent in a rainstorm.

It’s a wonder to read about the blisters, lost toenails, sprained ankles, dehydration, nasty people, snakes on the trail, the threats of bear and moose encounters, the chances of tumbling down rocks and mountainsides, the heat, the cold, the bugs, the chance of drowning when fording rivers, the possibility of violence, the chance of getting lost, and more. And yet, ever year more and more people attempt to thru-hike or section hike this trail. On the flip side, the hikers who wear rose-colored glasses talk about trail-magic, friendly drivers, and how the trail becomes a part of you (inevitable, I suppose, if you spend half a year on it).

Would I hike it if I could? You bet. But I’m not the kind of person who throws himself into things without planning. I think it would take me at least two years to accumulate hiking knowledge before I’d make any such attempt. And I’d likely not attempt a thru-hike. For one, I cannot envision spending five to six months on the trail. At most, I’d split the hike into two, starting from the south each time. Even better might be to take four years, carving the trail into manageable sections.

Having read these books as well as a few online hiker diaries, I have nothing but the utmost respect for the people who attempt the AT. I’ll continue to read about the trail, but now look more for tips and ideas, not stories about daily miles and struggles. If I ever get a chance to visit Atlanta again, maybe I’ll bring a daypack and try to walk from Amicalola Falls to Springer Mountain. I suspect that if I ever set foot on the AT, I’ll want to keep walking.

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