The First Seven Days

On April 2nd, I posted my first blog entry from the trail. It took seven days to post that first entry, partly because I’d suffered a lack of signal, and partly because my hands were full. After spending a week with my girlfriend, Pax, and her family in nearby Atlanta, my departure became imminent on Sunday, March 27th. I intended to begin with a stop to the visitor’s center at Amicalola State Park. There, we could ask for specific directions to the US Forest Service road that leads nearest to Springer Mountain. Unfortunately, by the time I’d grabbed last minute supplies and eaten a good, hearty meal at Waffle House, the visitor’s center was closed. I was without directions, and didn’t want to get dropped off in the wrong spot and end up going the wrong way. I might as well do the 8.8 mile approach trail, which leads to the official start of the Appalachian Trail.

Already it was about 7:30 PM and extremely foggy out, but I set off, and almost immediately came to a free shelter for thru-hikers. As I approached, I heard three voices vociferously arguing politics, which was not what I wanted to have to deal with, so I continued on. I climbed 175 steps (according to a sign along the trail), and apparently made a wrong turn to end up in a parking lot. Spotting a road, I turned onto it, and, assuming that I should just keep going up, continued ascending. Eventually, I came to a sign that advertised cabins and tent sites. The next sign told me to “check in at lodge”, and that “registered campers only” were allowed past that point. By now, it was fully dark and so foggy that I couldn’t see the lodge, let alone get to it in order to register so that I could continue. I encountered a couple at a tent site that suggested I find an empty one and settle up with the lodge in the morning. So I did. Unfortunately, after I set my tent up on the loosely packed gravel, it started raining. Hard. So hard, in fact, that my tent collapsed twice over the course of the evening, forcing me to go out into the rain and re-seat the stakes that kept pulling out of the gravel. My first night, and I was already in a bad campsite, worried about a violation- and soaking wet.

The next morning, after two attempts to find correct directions, I finally located the approach trail and continued on. I’d had a little bit of trouble with my stove, and getting water to boil (as most of my food stuffs required) was taking a very long time. I worried that my equipment was malfunctioning. After deciding that reading the directions might not be a bad idea, I discovered that I’d not turned it up all the way!

Glad to be on my way, but tired from the previous night’s uncomfortable sleep, I stopped after about 4 miles or so and decided to spend my second night in a nice little campsite. Again that night, more gloom and another thunderstorm. Again complete with lightning and immediate thunder right above me- the whole works. But the next day I hiked the remaining 4.8 miles to Springer Mountain, and the start of the Appalachian Trail. I met Swampbear at a plaque commemorating the official start. He and I left and hiked together to the Stover Creek shelter, 2.8 miles from the first white AT blaze. When we arrived it was dark, and there were already 3 people there, playing cards. We chatted for a while, and then went to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, I discovered that I’d managed to break my glasses. Having only one pair, I was frustrated and trying to think of a way to make them work until a replacement pair could be sent in a mail drop. More importantly, when I stood up I was overwhelmed with vertigo, and felt an immediate need to sit back down. Several people asked me if I was all right, and while sitting I said that I felt ok. Again, I stood up, only to have to sit down immediately once more. I began taking notice of other symptoms. No matter how badly I wanted to feel ok, I shook uncontrollably- and the others noticed that I was slurring my speech. One of the others at the shelter suggested that I’d had a stroke. A terrifying idea at the best of times, but while hiking, medical emergencies are that much more risky.

After some discussion with my fellow hikers, one hiker (whose name I wish I could remember) noticed that my down sleeping bag was soaked through. The rain that had fallen the two nights prior had come down so hard that it had apparently bounced up off the ground and into the air vents onto my tent. Since there had been no chance to dry it, the dampness remained there for me to sleep in, surrounded by cold mountain air. I’d noticed that the outside was pretty damp, but since I was wearing long underwear, a hat, wool socks, and gloves to sleep, I hadn’t noticed that the inside was wet as well. Now, though, I seemed to be suffering from hypothermia. Fortunately, he’d had some fairly extensive training in wilderness medicine, and put an additional hat, jacket, and gloves on me in an effort to bring my core temperature up. The others set about making me some hot tea and oatmeal to warm me from the inside.

All this time, I simply could not feel myself getting warmer. My clothes remained wet, my hair and skin had been damp for well over 48 hours. My body shook with no control. Although there was a break in the rain, I clung to the warmth provided by the tea and the extra garments so that eventually, I warmed up enough that my caregivers believed I was out of the danger zone and could be left on my own. Despite improvement, and wearing every piece of clothing I had, I continued to be uncomfortable and wary of moving too much. The other hikers kindly hung my sleeping bag from the bear cable next to the shelter. Now, out of my pack and the tight stuff sack I carried it in, and away from the lingering moisture on the ground, it could dry in time. Needing shelter from the wind, but happy it was drying my bag, I lay on the floor of the shelter, covered by my raingear. This is when the nausea began. Nausea that would keep me from hiking any further. Being in “No Hurry” was one thing, but this was horrible.

For the next 24 hours, I could not keep so much as a sip of water down. Every hour or so, regardless of whether or not my stomach actually contained anything, I’d be forced to jump up, run around to the back of the shelter, and double over, heaving. According to Milkman, who showed up that evening with Griz, nausea and hypothermia go hand-in-hand. I’d had no experience with hypothermia prior to this, and thought it was something that happened to people generally above the Arctic Circle, not in northern Georgia!

Certain rules of the wild were not new to me, especially regarding cold weather. I grew up in Connecticut, lived in northern states most of my life, and had been an avid hiker for many years. Had I been too confident that spring in Georgia would be warmer? During that first illness, I considered that my goal of a Georgia to Maine thru-hike could have already been ruined. It was a hard lesson to learn, but with a dried-out sleeping bag and feeling much, much better, I was able to continue on once more. I really hoped it would get warmer soon!

Although I hung out with a lot of hikers when I stopped, I hiked mostly alone on and off for about 5 miles, and stopped for the night at the Hawk Mountain shelter, 7.8 miles from the start of the trail. I tried not to berate myself for not hiking further on what was my 6th night sleeping outdoors. Milkman cheerily pointed out that I should see a fairly good excuse, what with the almost dying and all. I’m not prone to melodrama and didn’t want to believe it had been that serious- although by that point, four people had said that I was lucky to be alive. I cut myself some slack. This would become, in memory, just a thing that happened- and now I could continue.

The shelter was packed, and we celebrated nothing in particular by socializing over a small bonfire. Rocky Raccoon passed out some of the cookies that her well-meaning mother made. (Thank goodness she didn’t want to carry them!) As hikers, we commiserated about the horrible weather, and talked about our reasons for hiking. We discussed the glory we’d feel when we made it to Katahdin and how we shared an adventure. Other than Samsquatch keeping all five guys and three girls in the shelter awake with some amazingly loud snoring, it was a good night. Exactly what I needed to get my spirits back up.

The following morning, I got up with everyone at 8 or so, but mostly watched them go. Instead of charging forward with them, I took my time, drinking tea and reading on my Kindle. After all, my name is No Hurry for a reason! Reading on the quiet mountainside wasn’t exactly adventure, but it was enjoyable. About noon, I set out, making it about 5.5 miles. After getting water at Justus Creek, I decided to avail myself of the tent sites just up the hill for a better night’s rest than I’d had yet.

In the (not early) morning, I’d packed everything up when along came Ugly, who said, “I just wanted to stop by this camp site. I almost died here last year.” He’d had hypothermia at the exact same spot I slept last night! Amazingly, he’d heard about me, as many others had. The grapevine on which news travels among thru-hikers runs the length of the trail and in every town, shelter and bonfire where hikers are gathered. Northbound hikers (NoBos) and Southbound hikers (SoBos) exchange information so that news travels both ways! So, we talked for a bit, and then I started off for my longest day so far.

I made it a little over 8 miles this time, and camped 22.9 miles from the plaque at Springer Mountain. I made sure to rest well, facing my ascension of Blood Mountain, the highest point in Georgia. Intending a full “purist” thru-hike with no shortcuts, I planned to avoid the temptation to take the 2.2-mile “Freeman Trail,” which bypasses the climb. After making it to the top, I hoped to go 7 miles to Neel’s Gap, at which I’d find the Mountain Crossings outfitter, and the Walasi-yi hiker hostel.

From this campsite, I review my notes and compose my blog entry. Already I’ve seen how cruel nature can be and struggled with my equipment, but there is no discouragement. Here, reflecting, I’m aware that I’ve also seen the kindness of strangers and the community I’ve become a member of. I’ve enjoyed stillness and reading time in a state of unhurriedness unobtainable in my life at home. My car is parked, my cat’s litter box is being changed, and life pulses on elsewhere; the adventure I’ve expected and looked forward to lay set to unfold before me moment by moment, step by step.