7/27/17 -- Miles are no longer viable markers of progress made in life -- Brooklyn, NY
Dear Andrew, I am writing this letter not by hand in the fading light of a slowly sleeping sun, but rather, on the harsh, clean, clear keys of a computer. I am in one of the biggest cities in the world sitting on a futon that my friends profusely apologized for being so uncomfortable. I reminded them that I have been sleeping on rocks and dirt for the past four months. As the above picture might suggest, I have done it. On July 21st, I woke up at 3am to hike the ten miles into Baxter State Park to the base of Katahdin with my friend Chicago. He's a tall, youthful, vibrant college kid who hates that people first identify him as tall. We met in the very first week and have encountered each other throughout the entire trail, so it only seemed fitting to finish together. Plus he stuck with me during the 100 mile wilderness when I had a dramatic bout of stomach flu and spent all day crawling an excruciating seven miles, and I can assure you, I was not pleasant to be with. As we neared the summit of the last mountain, the final few miles, I felt calm, blank, perhaps a little empty. "I have two miles left on the Appalachian Trail," I told myself. "I have almost hiked the entire Appalachian Trail. I walked here from GEORGIA. I have been walking every day for four months and this is the last one." But no matter how much I muttered to myself under my breath while day hikers stared at me in confusion, I couldn't really make it sink in. It was another mountain to climb, another day to hike, one foot in front of the other as it always had been. When I saw the summit in the distance, I started to run and tears welled in my eyes. I was relieved, if I could sob at the summit this whole thing about knowing what to feel would really be a hell of a lot easier. But I didn't sob. I reached the top and sat down with Chicago in silence. There weren't any words for the occasion. Instead we ravenously ate a pie; as always, food is much more tangible than the culmination of a lengthy spiritual quest which turned up more questions than answers. A few days earlier a fresh southbound hiker had asked me: "So what's your biggest revelation from being out on the trail?" I answered: "That there are no big revelations." Everyone chuckled. It is a chuckle-worthy way of evading the question, but it is also the truth. I'm still the same Laura I was when I left on March 17th, because I always will be. But now I'm also Lobo, and I've accrued countless tiny experiences, thoughts, and feelings that add up to what I suppose the professionals call: "personal growth." I thought about all of this while we climbed down the mountain. I thought about what I had learned, and who I had become, and where I was going from here -- and then Chicago said that his Mom could take us to Chipotle and I mostly thought about that. I woke up and walked each and every day for four months and four days. And then one day I finished, and I didn't walk anymore. My feet are relieved, my mind is confused, and my stomach demands bread products as constantly as possible. But even as I funnel bagels, donuts, and cookies into my mouth at regular two hour intervals, even now that I'm no longer known as "gross" by the children of America, and even now that I can sit and read and write and think about something beyond my basic survival needs--I think I might miss it. But I guess that's why life is long enough to take on plenty more crazy and ill-advised quests. Love, Laura
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7/16/17 -- Mile 2075 -- Monson, Maine
Dear Andrew, I have now walked over 2000 miles and everyone I meet has one question. "How has it been?" they ask, eyes wide with wonder at what I can only assume is my clearly radiating wisdom. This really means: "What secrets of the forest have you uncovered and how do I do that too?" I smile with a twinkle in my eye and look slightly past them into the distance. "Amazing," I say. They smile and nod, but this really means: "I could give you the long answer but I'm kind of trying to get to Katahdin and you're the eighth person to ask me that today." But amazing is not the right word. A dog wearing a backwards cap while riding a skateboard, or that picture of Obama jumping out of an airplane -- that's amazing. Is there a word for: 1. I've walked more than 2000 miles and I'm so tired that I can barely pretend to be a normal human in this conversation, but of course, yes: 2. This has changed my life, but not in the way you imagine (life lessons accrued on mountaintops amongst the auburn sunset of a crisp summer evening), it's more like: 3. Everything is different now, but mostly everything is the same, and it's hard to express it in words but if it were a picture there would probably be a wolf in it, and: 4. Even as I yearn to be done, I know that as soon as I am back in the safety of warm walls, soft couches, and routine showers I will miss this terribly. I haven't discovered one big truth that changed everything, I don't know what the trees whisper when they sway in the breeze, I'm not exactly sure who I will be when this is over. But I have lived more consciously and vividly in my own experience, I am at home in my own skin, I have sunk into the depths of the thoughts that swarm when there is no noise to drown them out, and I have kept walking. Today I begin the "100 mile wilderness," the final stretch before Katahdin. As the name implies: no towns, no public roads, and lots of mosquitoes. I'm sure it can only be described as amazing. Talk to you on the other side of that last big ol' mountain, Laura 7/6/17--Mile 1891--Gorham, New Hampshire
Dear Andrew, I could tell that the infamously intense White Mountains had taken their toll on me when a small girl clutching her father's hand asked in a surprisingly accusatory voice: "Do you ever shower?" I stopped and laughed. "I haven't in a long time," I told her. I was covered with dried mud flakes, swollen bug bites, and multicolored bruises, not to mention the musty and deeply unpleasant odor that only comes from three straight days of bone-chilling rain. "That's a thru-hiker," her father told her, as if I were a Lobo in a zoo. "That's what they smell like. Maybe that'll be you one day." "Gross!" she shrieked. So here I am, mere miles away from entering Maine, officially known as "gross" by the small children of America. The White Mountains of New Hampshire were indeed the most wholly challenging mountains I have ever climbed. I'm no longer walking -- shocking, I know -- I'm rock climbing vertically up miles and miles of jagged rock. I'm traversing exposed ridges above tree line in 70 mph winds while dodging snap thunderstorms. I'm seeing the highest peaks of the northeast, I'm hiking in the clouds. It's hard. It's the hardest part of the whole trail thus far. I'm tired, everything hurts all the time, and there's never enough peanut butter. The end is close but not close enough, I'm itching to be done so that small girls stop calling me "gross." The immensity of what I've done, the miles I've walked and the sights I've seen -- I wish there were words but I can't find them, I wish there were pictures but my decrepit iPhone 4 can never get the exposure right. And so I come to the same conclusion that I reach at the end of every long, sweaty, arduous day, after I've eaten my crunchy instant rice and before I fall into a deep blank sleep: I'll keep walking. If every letter seems to end this way, it is because every thought ends this way (or with something about peanut butter). Your Gross Sister, Laura 6/17/2017 Mile 1572.9-Crystal Mountain, Massachusetts
Dear Andrew, Today I have been in the woods for three months, and I celebrated the only way I know how: walking. I decided to get a little wild, and I hiked my last few miles of the day after an ill-advised gas station milkshake consumed curbside next to where the neighborhood boys park their bikes before buying Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. I guess we’re all just trying to spice it up. The north has been littered with breathtaking mountaintop views that I would have stopped to admire longer if not for the hordes of mosquitoes whose interests include:
What comes to mind when you think of Connecticut? “Yale” and “Gilmore Girls” are both acceptable answers- though I recently added another association to the self-proclaimed “gateway to New England:” a radical boarding school chaplain and her farmer husband from the Netherlands inviting me into their charmed life for an impossibly glorious evening. I was trudging through the third day of 90-degree humid heat, drowning my dehydration sorrows with the sweet sounds of Jim Dale’s flawless performance of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, when I ran into a woman walking two overenthusiastic mutts. I prepared for the usual benign trail small talk with a jaded internal sigh. “Are you thru-hiking?” she asked. “I am,” I answered, as if the one-bedroom apartment on my back didn’t give it away. “How would you like to sleep in a real bed tonight?” She asked. I stalled for exactly 25 seconds while I evaluated my odds of being murdered: very low. No murderer would dare own such lovable dogs. So I accepted, and Kate took me to her eclectic home nestled in the countryside valley for a shower, laundry, dinner, a cozy bed in the guestroom, breakfast the next morning, and even a sandwich for the road. She spent years in her 20s travelling and hitchhiking through New Zealand, relying on the kindness of strangers. Now that she is able to, she takes in the occasional wayward traveler like yours truly. I could have basked in the sun on that well-manicured back patio forever, eating sautéed kale and discussing the best way to stop the deer from eating the seasonals. But she drove me back the next morning, and just like that, it was over. So here I am, definitely not murdered, and glowing with the undefinable hope that comes from the kindness of strangers. Since then I’ve been given two Powerades from a business-like biker, an ice cream sandwich from a trailer-living hippie hiker, and an entire sandwich spread complete with sodas and homemade cookies from a farmer thru-hiker and his lovely coworker. They say that the trail has magic, but mostly the trail has bugs. The real magic is in the people. Well, the real magic is in Hogwarts, but you know what I mean. When I asked Kate what made her stop driting, she said meeting her husband. Then she paused and added; “Also running out of money.” Love and Money- is there anything else in this world? Oh, of course- walking. How could I forget. Love (and Money and walking), Laura 6/4/17 -- Mile 1293 -- Delaware Water Gap, PA
Dear Andrew, I think the season must be changing; I can tell because everything is new (people, places, shoes) and also I've walked through at least six different caterpillars spinning themselves into a new life. I feel bad for interrupting them, especially since that's what we're all out here trying to do, too. But even with delightfully comfortable new shoes I suspect I'm still pretty much the same ol' Lobo. I am now past the halfway point, and in a few moments I'll be hiking into New Jersey. As a fellow hiker said, this half is like "the second session of summer camp" -- it's a whole new world out here on the trail. Rowdy college kids are out for beer-fueled car camping, begrudgingly enthusiastic Boy Scouts are trekking along en masse, middle-aged section hikers are taking early summer vacations, and at some point I became a grizzled hiking veteran. Maybe it's just because I haven't brushed my hair in two and a half months, but people talk to me like I know what I'm doing, and they're impressed. I say this not to humble brag, but out of sheer self-deprecating disbelief at how deeply I've settled into this life. I cannot imagine an existence in which I am not walking all day, every day. When I walk I think about walking. I dream about walking, and then I wake up and I walk. It doesn't matter whether or not I enjoy it, it's just what life is. Since I last wrote to you I've walked through three states: 18 miles in West Virginia, 42 miles in Maryland and 229 miles in Pennsylvania. PA is infamously despised for its rocky terrain, and my feet are feeling the consequences. Each and every step is onto a jagged rocky spike, and the miles inch by. Then there are the monstrous piles of boulders that require hand-over-foot rock climbing, except also with the weight of a small child on your back. Oh, and of course you have to do all of this in the rain. But what else is new. I'll TELL you what's new--I saw a groundhog in a TREE yesterday! More like treehog, am I right? All jokes aside, I wish it well on its important work up in the sky, where no groundhog has ever gone before. I am also going where no groundhog has ever gone before--to a land of extreme self-reliance and all the glorious self-worth that comes with it. But I'm being rude, I shouldn't assume that groundhogs don't spend their youth in a quest to self-actualize. Perhaps that's what the treehog was looking for after all. But enough about those glorified hamsters, time to leave the rocks behind and, you guessed it, keep walking. Love, Laura P.S. As I was writing this in a civilized church hostel basement a caterpillar FELL OUT of my hair. Just thought you should know. 5/22/17 -- Mile 1023 -- Harper's Ferry, WV Dear Andrew, I have walked over a thousand miles and I think I have learned one, two, or perhaps even three things from the surprisingly glorious state of Virginia. 541 miles and one month of walking later, I have a new appreciation for the state that I used to just think of as Maryland's less sophisticated cousin. Here's what Virginia taught me, and it's best if you read this while listening to that one song about West Virginia that I've heard three different hikers singing since we crossed the state border. 1. Beggars cannot be choosers when hitchhiking in the rain. I hitched into the town of Buena Vista to get groceries (at a gas station) with a truck driver who had removed his passenger seat. I crouched on the floor dripping wet while he mumbled in a nearly unintelligible southern accent about how crazy I was for walking so much. I told him he was the crazy one for driving so much. Buena Vista did not have any good views but they did have a Hardee's, which is the same thing to me. 2. It is surprisingly easy to have the stomach flu in the woods. You can throw up most places, no problem! Say goodbye to the pesky problem of staying in close proximity to a bathroom and just continue to hike all day while floating in a hazy fever dream. Sure, the "smart thing" is probably to go into town to get medicine and become a person again, but the cool stubborn thing is to KEEP HIKING. 3. Virginia is not flat, whoever tells you that is a dirty liar. I guess people probably aren't telling you that very often, but if anyone ever does, you can tell them that your sister would like to have a few stern words with them. 4. Shenandoah is a magical idyllic wonderland filled with trailside restaurants and the well-maintained beauty of national park land. Just about every day of the 100 miles I was able to hike a short distance off the trail to go to a "Wayside" -- overpriced little diners and camp stores serving real human food to real human people. The food was mediocre grill food by any real culinary standard, which of course meant that it was five-star dining after hiking 20-plus mile days. 5. Eating a 24-ounce can of beans in one sitting earns you a surprising amount of respect from your fellow hikers. Sure, there were a lot of juvenile farting jokes thrown around. But as I slowly consumed every last brown-sugar soaked bean in that absurdly oversized can, the congratulations began to roll in. What did everyone eat at the next camp store? Beans Lobo Style (straight out of the can while crouched on the ground in the corner near the trash). 6. Old retired men love to do section-hikes in Virginia and ask you about your boyfriend and your father. The conversations might be stilted with painfully outdated gendered assumptions that they'll never understand, but the good part is that I hike fast enough to never see most of them again. 7. Hiking an Ultra Marathon makes you feel like an Ultra Human (until the pain). I learned about Ultra marathons from my friend Ultra, a soon-to-be grandfather who has the body of a minor Greek God and the beer drinking habits of a college freshman. He runs ultra marathons, which are events like 100 mile races (his record is 19 hours) or six marathons in six consecutive days in six different states, which he will be doing a few weeks after he finishes the trail. Technically, anything over 26.2 miles is a marathon, which he told us at the end of a 28.5 mile day through Shenandoah. I had never felt more alive, until the next morning of delightfully excruciating foot pain. 8. My feet are now so swollen that there are no women's sizes that fit me. But luckily men's shoes have tough masculine colors like red and black and the sales people treat you like a scientific anomaly for having this height-to-foot-size ratio. Look at that, I learned an entire eight things, way above my earlier estimate! I'm now past the 1000 mile mark and can't quite believe it. I am thrilled to be moving into the northern states, including the 42 miles of our beloved homeland. Pretty messed up to think about how I flew to Georgia over two months ago and have now WALKED back. I can't imagine a future in which I won't be walking all day, every day. Maybe there isn't one, who knows?! All I can say with any confidence is that for now I'll keep on walking. Love, Laura 5/6/17--Mile 728--A Cracker Barrel in Daleville, Virginia Dear Andrew, I must admit that my biscuit rampage has only continued in your absence. Your visit last week made my spirits soar to unparalleled highs, and it wasn't just because Harry Potter was on TV in the motel room. It made me realize what the hardest part of this has really been--being so far from everyone I love, and everyone who loves me. This week I've been thinking about all the love I've taken for granted, and how rich life can be when shared with others--almost as rich as the eight biscuits you saw me consume over the course of 12 hours. But here's a recap of every biscuit I've eaten since we parted: The Pearisburg Hardee's Egg and cheese biscuit: greasy and gooey and wonderful after a rainy night. Good for: giving me enough energy to hike over 20 miles to tent at The Captain's. He's a bearded old southern man (so many of them are) who invites hikers to camp on his yard across a creek from the trail. To get there you clip your backpack to a zipline and pull yourself across on a swing. I slipped off the swing and several hikers had to haul me in; I survived with only minimal physical injuries and severe damage to my pride. The Homeplace Restaurant Never ending baskets of fresh-baked biscuits Good for: eating so many you lose track of who and what and why and where you are. I visited this glorious family style all you can eat restaurant from a "hostel" off the trail. Perhaps flophouse is a more accurate term for this three-bay garage filled with smelly old couches, lawn chairs, yowling cats, and grungy hikers relieved to be sitting down on something a human made. You throw down your sleeping bag and claim a spot and hope that the old man next to you who isn't moving is sleeping and not deceased. Last, but not least: the illustrious Cracker Barrel Free biscuits brought to you even when you order an alarming amount of food for one person Good for: reminiscing about that other Cracker Barrel we went to a week ago because all of them look exactly the same. Was it worth it to dart across interstate highways and trudge through construction zones to get here after emerging haggard and confused from the woods? Almost certainly. All biscuits aside, southern Virginia has been stunningly gorgeous, included are a few pictures to prove it. Hoping you have a wonderful birthday next week! I'll be meandering on as always, until the next biscuit. Love, Laura 4/27-Mile 568.1-Chestnut Knob Shelter Dear Andrew, This is a frigid and tragic tale in which our beloved heroine survives four days of end-of-the-world rain, near-freezing temperatures, washed out bridges, and the loss of childhood innocence that can only come from not even seeing a single pony. But let me switch to first person and explain from the beginning. After Damascus comes Grayson Highlands, a famed stretch of State Park in which wild ponies run free. Imagine sloping green pastures speckled with budding flowers, fluttering butterflies, and majestic ponies doing what ponies do best: being goddamn beautiful. I never knew how much I wanted, needed to see the ponies until I walked 500 miles, and then it became my singular desire. Would they eat instant oatmeal out of my palm? Would their manes be flowing in the breeze? Would they look into my eyes and understand me in a way that no human ever had, or ever would? I was all ponies, all the time, and I couldn’t wait to find out. And then the rain struck. Sideways, pelting rain bullets with 40 mph winds that chilled you to your very bones. There was no seeing, or thinking, or feeling- there was just walking, only walking, always walking. Twelve blurry miles later I made it to a shelter shivering, drenched, and ravenous. It was only noon but I knew I had to stop hiking or risk hypothermia at that elevation, and so I peeled off my layers, pulled on mercifully dry clothes with feeble fingers, and crawled into my sleeping bag to take what I can only describe as an “emergency nap” Are you picturing me doing all this alone? Because I wasn’t, in fact, I survived the storm with three older men who I would now take a (rain) bullet for. There’s Scout, the reluctant civil engineer from Michigan who has spent a life alone traveling the world; Hodge Podge, a 47 year old charmingly witty goofball; and Trainwreck, a retired railroad mechanic from Alabama with a wry sense of humor. These men and your dear sister became a rag tag group as we huddled together in an attic perched on the top of Mount McKinley, Virginia’s highest peak. We passed the storm the only way we knew how: eating, then talking, and then sleeping. When the next day dawned the storm appeared to have no intention of leaving. The magical land of ponies and open pastures was shrouded in a thick, chilly fog; the trail was less of a trail and more of a creek; and I would hike the next 30 miles with drenched socks and shoes. As the Smokies taught us all, this is a recipe for blister disaster. And, well-you know the ending. I did not see a single pony, but I did see a hell of a lot of pony poop. I hiked out of the storm and into the next town with my fellow crisis survivors, where we split motel rooms, did our laundry, and ate even more Subway. We found out that just about every other hiker behind us had gotten off the trail during the storm, except those too foolish and/or stubborn, like yours truly. But as I plodded with squeaking socks across the fogged-out terrain softly singing Sheryl Crow’s “Every Day is a Winding Road” to myself, I came to terms with the fact that sometimes when you want to see ponies, you only get pony poop. But then you can turn that soggy animal waste into real human friends who keep you warmer than your $12 Walmart rain jacket ever could. And thus our heroine has learned an invaluable lesson, and takes comfort in the knowledge that somewhere out there those ponies are gleefully trotting across sun-kissed mountain tops while the voice of 90s radio pop tells us that every day “you get a little bit closer to feeling fine” Love, Laura P.S. I saw my first bear with her cub! Have not yet been eaten. 4/20/17 -- Mile 469 -- Damascus, VA Dear Andrew, While you have been in Germany living, laughing, and loving, I have been in the woods, hiking, hiking, and hiking. I made it to Virginia! I saw a snake! I ate two foot-long subs from Subway in one day! Three memorable moments: 1) Camping alone at the foot of a waterfall off the trail and finally understanding the concept of white noise as a sleep aid. 2) Hiking with a groundhog--the furry lil' guy would scurry up the trail in front of me, freeze, and then shoot a furtive glance back to see if I was still behind him. It took him a good quarter of a mile to figure out that I wouldn't follow him if he dove into the bushes. 3) Talking to the titular Brown of Brown's Grocery in the unincorporated town of Hampton, TN--which I hiked four miles out of my way to get the aforementioned two subs from Subway. "How long have you been out there?" The pot-bellied old man Brown asked me (people are often asking me this, I think it is because I resemble Tom Hanks from Castaway more and more each day). "About a month," I said. "Well," he said with a smile, "I reckon you'll be mighty tickled to get home." I laughed, mostly I was just tickled that this grizzled man in overalls had used the word "tickled." "Where are you from?" he asked. "Maryland," I responded. He gave me a long look and then said, "Well, I don't know if you'll be all that tickled to get back there." Guess that's southern charm for you, huh? It feels stupendous to be in Virginia, and absurd to have already walked as much as I have. The soft green of spring is slowly seeping into the forest, the violets are blooming, and the chipmunks are brazenly chattering. Spring is nigh! Current mood: optimistically exhausted. Can't wait to hear about Germany and mostly all the food you ate. Most of my social interactions involve collective fantasizing about food we can't have. I've attached a few pictures for your visual consideration. Love, Laura Pic 4/7--Mile 240--somewhere outside of Asheville Dear Andrew, I write to you today using the modern marvel of the interwebs because I am off trail in a real human house with real human walls and real non-human cats. I survived the Smokies and saw three wild turkeys so I think it's safe to say I'm living the dream. I'm at a friend's house outside of Asheville, a retired woman in her 50s who goes by Lambchop. She's a wildly speedy hiker who speaks with a friendly southern twang and instantly makes you feel like you've always known her. Her partner rescued us from the pit of despair known as unexpected freezing temperatures and wild storms with pizza, smoothies, fresh fruit, and best of all--a ride back to their house to soothe our weary souls and cleanse our blisters. Did I mention that I have like, a lot of blisters now? Thank you, soggy socks and wild Smoky storms. Here's a recap of the Smokies, as told through the few pictures I could get when I wasn't busy getting blasted with 30 mph wind or hiking through confusingly unseasonable snow. *Pictures attached below* NOT PICTURED: Hiking nine miles in a torrential downpour, getting everything I owned entirely soaked, sleeping in soggy and smelly and overcrowded shelters filled with old snoring men, hiking twenty miles a day for two days in a row to escape dangerous weather, meeting new friends, doubting myself constantly, eating way too many clif bars, surprising myself constantly, burning the last few pages of "The Waves" by Virginia Woolf, and of course, as always, continuing to walk. I will return to the trail tomorrow refreshed and replenished and filled to the brim with specially-made vegetarian chili, brownies, and all the fresh fruit and vegetables I've fantasized about while eating instant rice out of a ziplock bag. Lambchop and her partner Chris have given me a comfortable bed, hearty home-cooked meals, insightful wisdom, quality time with two lovable cats, and the irrepressible feeling that people are kind and good. I am trying to be cool, but I am blown away by the generosity, hospitality, and love emanating from these two. So I mostly just say "thank you" every three minutes and internally vow to do the same for another weary soul when I have the means one day. Oh, and Chris and I discovered that we are both alumni of good ol' Montgomery Blair High, albeit 44 years apart. What a delightfully weird world it is to walk 240 miles in (and counting!) I hope you have a wonderful time in Germany! And entirely unrelated, I hear that you may have a sister whose diet is now 60% chocolate... Love, Laura
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LettersThese are the letters that Laura has sent her brother over the course of her hike. They are faithfully and painstakingly transcribed in their entirety. They are meant to keep people updated on how many facts she has learned about trees. Archives
July 2017
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