Fat, and then muscle, began to evaporate from my frame. My legs were the only exception; instead they grew freakish, veiny, and equine. Atop my head sprouted the hair of a gorgon.
From my chin, the beard of a goat. If I reached back, I could feel my shoulder blades pushing through the threadbare fabric like budding wings. Most of us who embark on a long hike do so seeking change, buoyed by the almost-magical hope that we can walk ourselves into a new body or a new state of mind.
But when it actually takes place, the experience of transformation can be unnerving. I thought I looked normal, but to the world I looked like a newly rescued shipwreck victim. I just had a several minute debate about whether or not it was actually you. All who hike the Appalachian Trail undergo some form of transformation. Many thru-hikers seemed to relish the transformation, and even accentuate it: The guys tended to grow out their facial hair, while the women allowed their body hair to bloom.
One clever hiker took a selfie once a day, and then time-lapsed them into a single, mesmerizing second clip; in it, a lichenous gray beard sprouts on his face, like something in an Attenborough documentary.
There was a certain romance to all this — on some level we fancied ourselves wild animals, despite our absurdly modern clothing and gear — but it was practical, too. The human body has evolved to get all hairy and greasy and gross. Surprisingly quickly, your nose stops noticing what you smell like, and starts tuning in to the subtler aromas of the forest.
One day while I was hiking, I remember catching a whiff of something alien floating on the breeze — a cloying chemical smell. Minutes later, a group of Girl Scouts came around the bend, and I pinpointed it: Herbal Essences shampoo.
Following a long-standing tradition, each of us thru-hikers adopted new "trail names" to match our new bodies. Most people were given their names by fellow thru-hikers because of something they had said or done: My friend Snuggles, for example, had a habit of snuggling up against other hikers in the lean-tos at night to keep herself warm; I was given the name Spaceman after my shiny ultralight hiking gear.
Others picked names in an attempt to shape new, aspirational identities for themselves. A tense silver-haired woman renamed herself Serenity, while a timid young man called himself Joe Kickass. Sure enough, over time, she seemed to grow incrementally calmer, and he more audacious.
Studies have shown that going for a nature walk reliably increases creative thinking. And indeed, each day as my legs warmed up, I found my brain would begin fizzing with ideas for stories that I wanted to write and questions I wanted to research.
There is a long tradition of writers — Wordsworth, Kierkegaard, Rimbaud, Woolf, Solnit, to name only a few — who found and find inspiration afoot. However, I quickly discovered that, because I was spending 10 hours each day walking, I was left with almost no time or energy to write. I took to carrying a small notebook in my hip pocket, so I could jot down ideas on the hoof.
Only that. You are nobody. You have no history. You have no identity. You have no past. You have no future. You are only a body walking.
Within the first week, I was surprised to discover that my sleeping patterns had also changed drastically. Shortly after sunset, I would retire to my hammock and then read myself to sleep. Around 2 a. I learned to keep a book and a headlamp within easy reach, so I could resume reading until my mind grew groggy again. It was a wonderful state of mind in which to read — pleasantly quiet, slightly unreal, golden-lit.
By the end of the first month, I started to have vivid, almost pornographic dreams about food — an obsession that would only intensify as the months wore on. Studies have shown that on an average day, thru-hikers burn roughly 2, more calories than they eat.
This article was brought to you by our friends at Gregory , makers of seriously high-quality outdoor backpacks that are tough enough to last you the entirety of the Appalachian Trail, and beyond. Measuring in at approximately 2, miles, this exhausting excursion will take you through 14 states and put around five million steps on your pedometer. Traversing the entire trail will test your mettle and your stamina like few other challenges can.
Because, perhaps surprisingly, there actually is somewhat of a consensus on how long it takes a person to hike the full length of the Appalachian Trail. The vast majority of hikers will complete the entirety of the Appalachian Trail in five to seven months. While that may be the official line, the reality of hiking the Appalachian Trail accounts for much more variability—hence the five to seven month window. So, whether that satiates your curiosity or not, is up to you.
There are essentially three different ways to tackle the Appalachian Trail. The northbound route is, far and away, the most common route taken by thru-hikers. Beginning at Springer Mountain in northern Georgia, hikers proceed north on the traditional course toward the finish line at Mount Katahdin in Maine.
However, due to the increasing number of hikers attempting the textbook Appalachian Trail route, other route options have started to gain popularity. I imagined them continuing, heading down the other side of the peak, up the next one, up and down again and again. Just like that I became what in AT lingo is called a dreamer—a thru-hiker in waiting. In the course of trekking some 18, miles on long-distance trails in numerous countries and writing 14 books about hiking, including Great Hiking Trails of the World , I have frequently been asked which is my favorite, which is like asking a mother to pick her favorite child.
What I can tell you is what is unique about each one. For the Appalachian Trail, my touchstone is its seminal idea—or ideal—which was first published years ago in an article that appeared in the Journal of the American Institute of Architects.
Conservationist Benton MacKaye proposed a trail that would link the peaks of the Appalachians and serve as an antidote to the unceasing pace and stresses of the industrialized East Coast. The Appalachian Trail has done that and more. Its combination of wilderness, history, community, and legend have given it an iconic status and have inspired the creation of long-distance trails in places as far away as Israel and Australia.
Note, however, that your actual mileage will vary. First of all, you may walk more miles to get to shelters and towns for resupply. Nor can the AT compete in the jaw-dropping mountain-scenery department. While many western trails are graded and switchbacked for horses, the AT often takes a straight-up-and-down path—rocks, steepness, and mud be damned. PUDs hiker talk for pointless ups and downs often add up to thousands of feet of elevation gain and loss, while hand-over-hand boulder mazes can reduce progress to a mile an hour in places like western Maine, home to infamous Mahoosuc Notch , the hardest mile on the entire trail.
Most hikers complete the AT in five to seven months, although those gunning for fastest-known-time records FKTs , have covered the distance at a mind-boggling speed. The current record holder is Karel Sabbe , a Belgian dentist and long-distance runner, who completed the trail in just 41 days, 7 hours, and 39 minutes in What all this works out to is an average pace of maybe 15 to 18 miles a day.
Another way to tackle the AT is to section-hike, which means covering the distance in a series of hikes spread out over more than a year. In hiker lingo, Lashes—long-ass section hikers—take on several hundred miles at a time, while Sashes—short-ass section hikers—chip away at it in shorter segments. Either way, section hikers can plan to trek different trail segments during their peak seasons. Some of my favorites are rhododendron season in late spring in the southern Appalachians, especially around Roan Mountain, Tennessee; fall with its radiant foliage in Vermont on Glastonbury Mountain; and summer in New Hampshire and Maine, when temperatures are just about perfect.
But section hiking has its own challenges: transportation logistics and expenses, as well as having to deal with the aches and pains of the first few days on the trail more often. Thru-hikers, by contrast, only have to break themselves in once and then can enjoy being trail-hardened and able to do longer, faster miles.
On the AT, you can go northbound or southbound. The very first thru-hiker went northbound, which became the norm for the majority of hikers to follow. Shaffer titled his book about the journey Walking with Spring , but northbound hikers nobos, in thru-hiker lingo often encounter surprisingly winter-like conditions in March and early April.
Because of their elevation, the mountains of northern Georgia can have approximately the same climate as coastal Maine. Another surprise for nobos are the crowds: with more than 3, aspiring thru-hikers, the southern Appalachian Trail in April can resemble a frat party during spring break. For some, this is the antithesis of a wilderness experience.
Sobos southbound hikers have a very different experience. A sobo itinerary attracts far fewer hikers but presents some tough challenges. The first miles—up and down 5,foot Katahdin—are among the most difficult of the entire trail, filled with rock scrambles and cable-assisted bouldering.
To spread out impact, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy has established a voluntary online registration system so hikers can check to see how many others have registered for their intended start date. In recent years, some thru-hikers have been beginning earlier—in February or even January—to have a more isolated experience.
On most of these hikes, I rarely saw other people. If you and your gear are winter-ready and able to handle ice, cold, and snow, much of the trail south of Vermont is usually hikeable through most of the winter.
Another strategy that the ATC has been promoting in recent years is the flip-flop —a noncontinuous thru-hike. The hiker starts wherever they like, treks in whichever direction they want, then gets a ride to another point on the trail and continues hiking in a different direction.
The AT is one of the best and most consistently marked trails in the world. White blazes are precisely two inches wide and six inches tall; maintainers even use a stencil to be sure the blazes all look the same. Blazes are found on trees and also on rocks, cairns, fence posts, telephone poles, fence stiles, and in one case, on the bottom of a canoe that ferries hikers across the Kennebec River in Maine.
Double blazes indicate a change of direction. In addition to the white blazes, blue-blazed alternate routes lead to shelters, lookouts, or side trails. White blazers are purists who walk every mile, never deviating from the official white-blazed route, no shortcuts allowed. Blue blazers might skip some white blazes by taking side trails into and out of shelters, or by taking shortcuts on alternate blue-blazed routes. Before you criticize someone in the opposite camp, remember the unofficial AT motto: hike your own hike.
Hikers also take on trail names, like trucker CB handles, which are either names they choose or names that are given to them on the trail. They might be named for speed Jackrabbit versus Turtle , their favorite foods Chile versus Veggie , their habits Bookworm or Macho , their appearance Red Fox or Golden Girl , or a host of other traits. Cell phones and online journals are a way for hikers to communicate, but old-fashioned notebook communal-trail registers found in shelters remain an important part of the hiker grapevine.
The trail community also extends beyond those hiking. Maintainers, who are usually volunteers, do everything from cleaning out privies to building rock steps.
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