My First Backpacking Trip
Of all the adventurous, limit-pushing, and torturous pursuits humans volunteer themselves for, none have captured my fascination more than the idea of thru-hiking a long distance trail. The Appalachian, the Pacific Crest, El Camino, to name a few, are quite the accomplishments. Oh and that lady who walked across Australia with her dog. I behold these stories with envy and awe.
Such a quest may come with, but are not limited to, the following: blistered feet, blackened toenails, throbbing knees, turned ankles, sore legs, and knotted shoulders. Not to mention pesky insects, unsympathetic weather, lurking wildlife, dissatisfying meals, menstrual cycles for the ladies, and extended times of overall poor hygiene. In other words, misery.
So why would anyone want to do it? Here’s my answer: Those who would, already understand. Those who wouldn’t, might never understand!
I am drawn to the wilderness. I find it exhilarating. I think nothing of sleeping on the ground or squatting in the woods then doing a little shake. I love the idea of walking from Point A to Point B to Point C and so on, carrying everything you need on your back. I prefer, as much as the elements will allow, to be outside, always. It’s raw and wild, simple and pure, which is how I aspire to live my life.
However, my knees have historically given me some troubles, so I’d be naive to think I could aspire to such feats. I may have this romantic vision of myself traversing along the wooded ridges of the East Coast for six months straight, yes, but can my body hold up? A small-scale test run would show me if I could ever entertain the idea. And I was thankful to have a friend crazy enough come with me.
She agreed partly because she was under the impression that I had chosen a relatively mild portion of the trail that we could accomplish in three days. I was wrong, as we were about to learn.
See, I started with the vague memory of having read, or heard, or skimmed on google somewhere, that Connecticut is an “easy” state. So I bought some maps, and I saw that CT had a couple dinky looking peaks compared to the expansive zig-zags on the NH and VT maps. I mean, I also had to make sure the effort/reward ratio was optimal; I didn’t want us to just walk a straight line the whole way.
But the days of preparation and packing brought a sense of foreboding. “What are we getting ourselves into?” As we lay out the supplies the night before at our quaint, rustic Bed & Breakfast, I felt nervous. It did occur to me, (especially while lying in a hammock) that it might be just fine to stay there for a few days. The lady was really nice and she had a waffle maker.
But anyway, the next morning, we took a taxi over the border into southern Massachusetts. After the last toilet, we strapped on our monster packs, found the AT signpost, and walked into a field towards a formidable looking “hill” that showed us our future pain. A few steps later I had this sudden horrible thought. I whipped out my phone to check google maps one more time, just to make sure we had, in fact, started walking South. Yes, we had. Off to a good start!
Our first climb was Jug End, a sharp elevation gain in a short distance. This was the first time, but not that last, Liz noted that the “trail” really didn’t feel like a trail, but rather, an arbitrary rock scramble up a giant’s back. Not even a mile into the hike, Liz had one of those scary moments of feeling her ankle bend--nearly snap-- with a slight misstep. She gasped, and we froze. I braced myself to possibly have to face the world having quit in the first hour.
But Liz is pretty tough, so after some Advil and a stretch break, she resolved to deal with it (and guess what - the pain eventually went away!) So after a scenic break at Jug End, the walk climbed steadily uphill. Not cool, not cool. Hiking uphill with a behemoth pack can be so disheartening. You perceive the tree line to be thinning out, opening up to a blue sky, but still, the upward path meanders on, and your heart sinks a little more with each switchback. Then you get angry, possibly you start cursing or whimpering. You begin to think the end will never come, but here’s the thing: it most certainly will, as long as you keep putting one foot in front of the other. So finally, you reach an open rock face with a panoramic view of valleys and neighboring mountain ranges, and you appreciate how hard work took you to a spot that feels like a secret. That’s how we felt reaching the summit of Mt. Everett, the highest point in Massachusetts.
I am amazed at how a breath-taking view can suddenly make all the stepping up and heaving seem worth it; it attests to the power of beauty and wonder. At this point and others like it, Liz and I would slip away into our own worlds of admiration and contemplation. Mostly, she took out a journal, while I wandered with my camera.
A long climb behind us, it was actually the descent that troubled me more. Descents just kill the knees, and the south face of Mt. Everett was steep and rocky. I had to go slowly and use my walking poles, careful not to lose footing, and I could feel the weight of my pack pushing me into the ground. It was tedious and annoying, and it went on forever. I kept thinking, surely, SURELY we had reached the bottom, but after so many times the “trail” incredulously tumbled forward, I nearly lost my mind. You know you’re not having fun anymore when you start cursing at the trail and have the urge to chop down some trees with your hiking poles.
Racing the coming darkness, we finally reached our campsite. An older married couple had set up for the night, while a group of thru-hikers sat around a fire down by a stream. It was dark by the time we washed our dishes; by 8pm, we had crashed.
The next morning we clumsily went about our camp chores. Liz had been impressed by how accurately I had predicted the time of night I’d have to get up and pee (around 3am in case you were wondering), but unfortunately, neither of us had slept well after that point. However, we still got on the trail early and were feeling good. The first half of the day availed a more flattish and defined walking path, to which Liz remarked, “now this is a trail.” We were making great time, but we were no longer naive about what another day of walking would entail.
To accomplish any taxing feat, you learn how to budget your time and break up the challenges. One strategy is to impose on yourself certain goals. It is a careful balance of motivation and rewards, which is probably the only sane way to accomplish a long quest in the same direction. We did this on the second day with conditions like “we’ll walk an hour straight before we break again,” and “we’ll get to Sages Ravine before lunch.” Sages Ravine is a peaceful progression of little waterfalls and pools that make up the westernmost part of the MA / CT border. It would be our place to gear up for the most daunting climb and introduction to CT: Bear Mountain.
The North side of Bear Mountain, which we faced midway through the trip, is basically a steep rock scramble, requiring you to “hike” with all fours by hoisting yourself up boulders and slabs the size of your body. It goes on like this for about a mile, which is exceedingly long for rock-scrambling distance. Oh and that 30 pound toddler on my back.
What do you do when you find yourself in a situation that is harder than you thought it’d be? When you can’t turn back? We felt more sober now. I mean, we passed a northbound hiker who said of the way ahead, “Oh, just a quarter-mile of hell, and then you’re there.” There was apprehension, yes, and dread, but also acceptance and determination. Isn’t that how you accomplish much of life? With a shrug, a sigh, and step forward.
I like to pace myself on the uphills, while Liz likes to trudge fast and get it over with. Every so often I would hear her cursing up ahead. “Holy--.” “You’ve got to be kidding me.” And of course, “This is not a trail!” But you know what? When we got to the top, we were like, hell yea, we did that.
A hike must have rewards--some good views, cool landmarks and possible swim holes. This route availed them all. We also experienced a phenomenon I had read about, trail angels: hiker friendly folks who routinely left containers of fresh, clean water for passersby.
But the reward that stands out the most, that glows with warm nostalgia in my memory, was Mt. Riga Shelter that 2nd night. First of all, it had a picnic table! Secondly, the shelter opened due East to a view, so we were poised for a spectacular sunrise. Finally, we met a bunch of interesting people. Between a daddy-daughter-doggie trio, some girls from MIT, and two local AT veterans who had just come up for the night, but with beer and cold pizza, we experienced a real trail camaraderie, there at that picnic table.
Now, when you purpose to see a sunrise, there is always, always a moment your tired body tries to trick you into thinking you don’t need to see it. This voice is stupid. Do not ever listen to it. Get up.
All I had to do was sit up in my tent and unzip the door:
It was a lake of clouds! And I couldn’t even tell the difference between the mountains and the silhouetted streaks of cloud. It was the kind of thing people just watched without saying words.
I felt exhilarated. However, I also felt something else: some serious inflammation in both knees. And as we headed out again for the third morning, I grew slightly alarmed that “Advil for breakfast” wasn’t working anymore. Then Liz noticed that I seemed tired and slow. Halfway through the day, we finally emerged on a county road near the town of Salisbury. It would be almost 6 more miles to where my lonely car waited for our victorious appearance. We sat solemnly on a log and considered calling it. But why is it so difficult to let yourself be proud and satisfied with what you’ve already done? Just because you got another idea stuck in your mind? A little uncertainly, we continued on, into the woods again.
And then suddenly, I started to feel a small but unbearable irritation-- I became acutely aware of the friction between my boots and my toes. It was the sensation that with each step, my left big toenail was being pressed, pulled, pressed, pulled. My heart sank with the realization, I don’t know if I can do this. Just then, Liz turned around with a kind of resignation and said, “Yo, are you sure you want to do this?”
It was basically a rhetorical question. Because obviously: My body was telling me I was done. I just had to let my brain concede.
And when I finally let go, all the pain and exhaustion I’d been ignoring were retroactively released. My misery seemed to multiply, as if the novocaine of determination was now wearing off. The simple .8 miles on a flat paved road back to town seemed impossible; people passing in cars would see a puny hiker slouched over and dragging her poles along the asphalt. I was zombified. Such is how I came to the Country Bistro of Salisbury, CT, where our trek officially ended.
The first thing was to get this beast off my back. Next, I mindlessly pushed off my shoes and socks and stared blankly at the menu. Finally we ordered some food. You’d think I’d be raging hangry for some fresh food, but I didn't have an appetite.
And then, surprise! I started to cry. I hardly noticed it happening until a tiny bead emerged from the corner of my eye. My eyes felt wet. I blinked a few times, but it kept coming back. What was this salty discharge! I needed to go for walk and compose myself!
So I found a bench, but then it all came out! And all I could think of was, I don’t even know what I feel!
In retrospect, it was a lot of feels. I felt immense relief. Crying was a huge release. But I also felt disappointed and even a little embarrassed. A voice inside taunted, “I told you so.” Finally, I felt grief. Something in me knew: I will never be a thru-hiker.
When I shared my thoughts with Liz, she be like PSSSHHHHHHH I’m proud of what we did!
And that’s a great perspective. For life. Whatever you accomplish, wherever you get to, you can turn around and say, “hell yea, I did that!” Because life is hard, and we’re all schlepping around some really heavy stuff.
So after a couple of months, I’m yearning to try again. Follow your dreams, right? You just might have to modify them from time to time, and that’s okay. I may never be a long-distance hiker (to my mother’s relief), but I can get out there for a few days here and there. I can choose a less ambitious route and be kinder to my knees. I can modify.
I’ve already bought some new maps :)
