Keith Foskett - Balancing on Blue: A Thru-Hiking Adventure on the Appalachian Trail

A Thru-Hiking Adventure on the Appalachian Trail

KEITH FOSKETT

This book is dedicated to the Appalachian Trail Class of 2012.

And to those who didnt come home:

Dwight Cope, Dagan Cope, Thomas Andersen, Carmen Kotula and Paul Bernhardt.

I smiled. Theyd cast it for me and every hiker. Significant words returned my gaze: A Footpath for Those who seek Fellowship with the Wilderness. Just one profound line. I did seek fellowship with the wilderness: I wanted to learn and be part of it again, to banish my negative emotions from two years spent in society since the PCT.

The moment Id dreamt of had arrived, my saviour. Content at last, I had several months following a classic trail through prime American countryside. Free to roam with no schedules, no alarm calls, with other like-minded people to share the experience. Id escaped from society, a freed prisoner, and the relief overwhelmed me. I sat, cupped my face in my hands, gave into emotions and unashamed, I cried.

Hearing voices, I wrote a message in the trail register and left. I passed Springer Mountain Shelter but felt no need to rest so early.

I had a guidebook but no topographical map. The AT was so well-marked that many hiked without one. The AT Guide, written by a thru-hiker called David AWOL Miller, supplied the information I needed. It detailed mileage completed and remaining, altitude graphs, distances to the next waypoint, water sources, other trails and notable features. The town maps were indispensable.

The trail markers, known as blazes, provided further clarification. The size of a dollar bill, they dotted the AT. Painted on trees, rocks, fences or other mediums, they signified the right track. Dinosaur claimed they were so frequent that the next blaze should be visible from the preceding one. These simple white rectangles led to Maine; I couldnt get lost. They were marked southbound as well for the sobos. Other trails, such as those to shelters and water sources, were blue.

The trail narrowed through tunnels of rhododendron bushes: a green desert island in the starkness of late winter. Soon, theyd erupt in splashes of pink blooms. I jumped over narrow creeks or used stepping stones over the wider waters.

I saw my first thru-hiker ahead. Simple clues like his larger pack and short hair suggested he could be Maine-bound (some thru-hikers shave their heads at the start). I slowed; his gait and stride differed from normal. He trod with care, concentrating on each step and foot placement. One arm rose to steady him, as though balancing on a tightrope.

I spoke so as not to startle him. You walk carefully. Its interesting to watch! Whats your name?

PJ, and yours?

Fozzie. Nice to meet you.

He noticed my accent. Are you British?

Oh crap, here we go again.

I slowed, intending to stop, but didnt want to explain twice in one day, so I offered the simplified version.

Yes, English to be exact. See you later, I expect?

For sure, its all good.

After 12 miles and already late afternoon, a blue blaze marked the side trail to Stover Creek. Eager to experience my first shelter, I took the turn.

I intended using the shelters infrequently, so Id packed camping equipment. Id heard much about these simple, three-sided refuges dotting the trail. A focal point for hikers at days end, they offered a haven from the elements and company. Some had a fire pit, privy and picnic tables. With no plumbed water, electric or heating (although a handful had fireplaces), they were purely sanctuaries from inclement weather. They also helped minimise environmental impact by limiting foot traffic to one area.

Occupied on a first-come, first-serve basis, they often filled by mid-afternoon. Our guidebooks stated their capacity, but limits were exceeded, especially in wet conditions.

I sleep poorly in confined spaces, especially with several others. Snoring, passing wind, fidgeting and conversations didnt help either. Once familiar with shelter etiquette, we were considerate, but I still struggled to rest and preferred my tent. And humans werent the only occupants; mice favoured them too.

Our rodent friends also liked refuge and food. Several lengths of cordage, around a foot long, hung from most shelter entrances with a horizontal stick tied at the bottom. An empty tin can dangled half-way, held by a knot. Mice couldnt negotiate this obstacle, so our packs (and food), suspended on the stick by their carrying loop, stayed safe.

My food supplies didnt bother me. I might find a nibbled pack of crackers, or a ruined loaf of bread. The potential damage to belongings worried me as hikers often discovered holes in their gear. Equipment wasnt cheap, so you can imagine my concern.

I stayed in the quieter shelters, becoming fond of the mice. At sundown, scurrying sounds echoed around. They checked the menu, carried out route surveillance, and held planning meetings to discuss the best line of attack. I didnt mind; they rarely bothered me. Theyre like us, just trying to survive.

I often honed in on a shelter come days end. They were marvellous places to socialise when I needed to, see friends, swap food, get a weather report from whoever had cell phone reception, and sit by anyone with dark chocolate with an expectant, hungry smile. Come sundown, I retired to my tent.

Stover Creek was impressive. Split into two levels with a capacity of ten, it could have slept double that. Twelve other hikers wrote their journals, cooked, made their beds or socialised. I chatted with Eric, Bridget and Josh before finding a flat spot to camp.

The following morning, keen to put in a good shift and finish early, I left at 6:30am. After a short-lived chill, I wore shorts and a T-shirt in the warmth. Waking up, spring had overslept and realised there was much work needed. However, I didnt become complacent about the weather. I remembered the ATs reputation for changeable conditions, and apart from the rain, at higher elevations it could be erratic. The Smoky Mountains, 165 miles in, were notorious for late snowfall. I wasnt complaining; I relished being out of the English cold and enjoyed the premature warmth.

I stopped and chatted with two forestry workers. Their eagerness to talk about their home state of Georgia was clear. They pointed out the Trillium plant with its three virgin-white petals and Mayapple, sporting a simple, more delicate, single flower head. I asked after ramps (wild onions), which Id read about in David Brills excellent AT memoir As Far As The Eye Can See, but it was too early. Food played on my mind, and ramps held much potential. They were free, fresh, abundant and tasty. I couldnt wait.

I passed Eric sitting by Blackwell Creek collecting water for camp.

Hey Fozzie, the shelters close. You staying there tonight?

Is anyone there yet? I asked.

Yeah, most from yesterday.

Sounds good, I added. See you there.

Gooch Mountain Shelter signalled 13 miles for the day, matching the low target Id set, so I took the side trail and found a suitable spot for camping. Bridget, Eric, Josh and another Josh had arrived along with PJ, who was in a jovial mood. Noticing the two Joshes and the potential confusion, I suggested we offer them trail names. Josh Long Hair and Josh Short Hair wasnt original but solved the immediate problem.

Many still used their proper names, which surprised me as on the PCT most hikers already had trail names. However, on the AT customs werent yet familiar. We discussed it that evening in the shelter and agreed to give it more thought.

PJ and Bridget intrigued me. Character traits suggest how focused on the adventure people are: from their hiking style, either lazy or purposeful, whether they chat with excitement or an air of nonchalance, or their organisation at camp, slapdash or orderly. These indications held clues; indeed, I wondered how others perceived me.