3/31/17-Mile 152.8 Brown Fork Gap Shelter
Dear Andrew, Today I have been on the trail for a fortnight, and I’m mostly the same except now I casually drop the word “fortnight.” I think I’m starting to get my “trail legs,” which means my body has begrudgingly accepted that I’m going to make it do this shit every day. Hiking this trail has meant the insane dichotomy of being intimately in tune with my physical well-being (do I need food? Water? Sleep? Usually all three) while simultaneously ignoring the blaring red alarm that sounds with every step. It is shrill and high-pitched and sort of sounds like this: WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS DID YOU KNOW YOU COULD DRIVE THIS DISTANCE IN 23 HOURS BUT YOU ARE WALKING FOR SIX MONTHS LIKE A DAMN FOOL ALSO I’M HUNGRY AND THIRSTY AND TIRED AND- But as loud as the alarm is, I still want to be here. I don’t think I can explain why, yet. This is a culture unlike any other I’ve ever known and the only unifying characteristic is that everyone is somewhat unfit for society. There are college dropouts who are too philosophical to choose a major (study PHILOSOPHY, I tell them), retired blue collar workers trying to reclaim their vitality, fathers reconnecting with sons, sons proving they’re different than their fathers, middle-aged mothers yearning for adventure, and of course, lots of fellow 20-somethings who can’t quite figure out why they exist, yet. It’s good company, but mostly it’s weird company. The strangest character I’ve met is a pot-bellied man with a tangled, filthy, gray-white beard who is usually so stoned his sentences do not make sense. He ties back his scraggly hair with a karate bandana and always wears blue scrubs-which has earned him the name “Papa Smurf.” He looks and acts like a Vietnam army nurse who defected and has been living in the jungle ever since, and also he only eats marshmallows. He hikes excruciatingly slow and yet inexplicably he has been sighted up and down and all over the trail-even after passing him I’ll find him a few days later, crouching on the side of the trail, tearing into his marshmallows like he’ll never eat again. Either Papa Smurf is teleporting, or a diet of weed and marshmallows is the secret to a successful thru-hike. Oh, also-I have a trail name! Everyone here sooner or later abandons their boring real person name (I have met an unseemly amount of Johns and Jakes) for a silly nickname that is born out of an identifying characteristic or story. Some of my friends go by names like Ice Pak, Stretch, Abstract, Shaggy, Oh Well, Lamb Chop, and Minnie Mouse. And then there’s me- Lobo. As you probably know, this is “wolf” in Spanish, which came out of a conversation in which I mentioned working at the wolf sanctuary and has stuck ever since. It is thrilling to have a new name at 23, and perhaps that is why being out here is so liberating-you can be whatever the hell you want to be. I am making friends whose real names I don’t know, and the best part is that doesn’t matter. Tomorrow I will hike into Fontana Dam, NC- the last stop before six days in the Smokies. It’s the highest elevation in the whole trail, which means snow is possible and cold is definite. But if Papa Smurf can do it, so can I. Love, Laura P.S.-That knee brace I picked up has been doing wonders!
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3/24/17 – Mile 69.3 – Hiawassee, Georgia
Dear Andrew, I’m writing this from a combination laundromat/locksmith in the heart of bustling Hiawassee, known far and wide for such attractions as an $8.75 all-you-can-eat dinner buffet and “McDonald’s.” This is my first visit to a town, with some much needed laundry and showering. Also, food. Always food. In reference to my previous letter, I realize that cheese and an apple does not sound like a crazy thing to consume, at all. I can say this now because I’ve eaten some truly crazy shit, like an oatmeal cream pie covered in peanut butter wrapped in a tortilla. I don’t have much of an appetite when hiking, but every time I eat I feel less like I’m one step away from physical decay, so I try to work it into my busy schedule. In one word, these last few days have been HUMBLING. It’s one thing to hike ten miles, once, and another thing to hike ten miles once with 35 pounds on your back, and then a whole different world to hike ten miles with 35 pounds on your back every day. People my age are notorious for doing too many miles too early on and getting injured before their joints can adapt to the strain. My left knee has been giving me some trouble, so I’ve been trying to slow down. It’s hard not to feel competitive with the people hiking close to me- the trail is PACKED with people. At any moment on the trail there are probably 50 people within a few miles from me, everyone anxiously trying to prove to themselves that they can make it to Maine. I’m just trying to make it to camp before I lose the capacity to set up a tent. They call afternoon hiking “drunk hiking” because of how much you stumble, and 9PM is “hiker midnight.” At the end of the day I’m so exhausted I can barely think about who I am, or why it matters. I suppose in a sense this is what I have been looking for- a willful obliteration of the self. That’s a lot more dramatic sounding than what it actually looks like- picture me eating spoonfulls of peanut butter while staring off into space and you get the picture. The best surprise out here has been “trail magic.”- acts of kindness from strangers who for some reason or another, love hikers. My first trail magic came in the form of Jim and Pam from Alabama (“Like ‘The Office’!” I said. “What office?” Jim replied) – they had pulled up to a gap where the trail intersects a road and were giving fruit, crackers, candy and water out of the back of their minivan. They have never hiked a mile in their life but have been giving food to hikers for 12 years because they love to talk to us. A few days later I came upon a church group that was grilling for hikers as they passed by, and then a few days after that I met two retired hiking aficionados who had a table full of snacks and knit caps that the ladies of their church had stitched for us. There’s a lot more to describe but I can feel my cognition slowing the longer and longer I walk. It’s a hell of a good way to work out your anxiety- beat it out of yourself through sheer exhaustion. Now that I have clean clothes, I think the $8.75 buffet is in my future… Love, Laura 3/20/17 – Mile 31.9 – Neel’s Gap, Georgia
Dear Andrew, It has only been four days and yet I already feel like I have lived a life time, maybe even two. Today I hiked about 12 miles up and down Blood Mountain, where I literally saw a splattering of blood on a rock. No blood for me, yet, though- just one blister and the feeling that all my limbs are going to fall off when I stand up after not moving for a while. I was going to tell you that I haven’t experienced any crazy hunger or weird cravings yet- but I just got to my first resupply place and wandered around delirious and enchanted by all the modern conveniences of, well, food. I ate an apple and half of a chunk of cheese because this Joni Mitchell song has been stuck in my head – where she sings about “apples and cheeses.” Right now I’m drinking a root beer, which I haven’t had the desire to consume since I was 12. The very first day on the Appalachian Trail (my first actual day was spent on the nine mile approach trail) – it rained all night and into the morning. Everything I had got soaked as I packed up, especially because I did not do gear packing and unpacking dry runs like virtually everyone recommended. But as soon as I started moving this mystical fog enveloped the terrain and it was like I was in another world (I guess I am?) A wise old woman with snow white hair emerged from the fog like a ghost and told me that it was good luck to start a thru-hike in the rain. It felt like I had been blessed, even more so than the woman in the parking lot the day before who literally blessed me and told me that God would be watching over me. I didn’t tell her that I don’t believe in God, but I did wish her luck on her move to South Carolina, where God had called her to go. Anyways, that night I had a dream where I saw Brandy (our child hood dog), and she had the same snow-white hair as the old ghost woman. I was so happy to see her, and I had to save her from Mountain Lions. Turns out, the Mountain Lions weren’t dangerous and they had adorable tiny cubs. Brandy probably would say hi if she could talk, and if she wasn’t dead. I haven’t seen any real mountain lions, or bears, but there are a lot of dogs hiking with people. Oh, also, the people! There is so much to say but my space is running out and now I’ve wasted more room writing this sentence. I’ve been hanging with a group of military veterans who are funded by a non-profit that brings former soldiers to long-distance expeditions, as a therapeutic and productive outlet when they come back from war. They’re all charming and personable and very well-disciplined, the first to leave each morning. At night, at camp, they’re prone to shouting “Freedom!” I thought this was a ridiculous military thing until I discovered Freedom is the name of a veteran’s dog. A few times I had the thought: “Should I join the military?” And then luckily I remembered I’m a pacifist. I’m going to hike on another mile or so to camp – tomorrow, I think maybe I’ll walk some more. I love you and hope all is well! Love, Laura P.S. Hope you can decipher this hand writing :) |
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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