The very beginning. Well, at least for the vast majority of thru-hikers, Georgia and Springer Mountain are the start of the AT. Not so for Pancho and Nachita, of course. We opted to begin in Virginia and to finish in Georgia, wanting to hike home. So it's particularly interesting for me to be here at the start. Since I'm stationed at Springer and also patrolling the Approach Trail, I get to meet people on their first, at most second, day on the trail. I've definitely thought a great deal about our first day over the last week, recalling how we were feeling and struggling and determining to persevere.
And it has been especially difficult for a lot of folks heading out, due to the frigid temps and snow. Many have simply been unprepared for the weather and have already headed for home--part of the large number of thru-hikers that never make it out of Georgia.
I think that is what I've enjoyed most so far, being a witness to such a big day for all of these hikers, the day they head out on one of the greatest, most transformative experiences of their lives. Some are excited, others nervous and apprehensive. Some just blow by in such a focused rush, eyes already locked on the summit of Katahdin.
I've already met some memorable folks. The very first thru-hiker, on my first day: Deidre, struggling up a hill on the Approach Trail, looking soft and not-so fit, with her freshly buzzed hair. But as we chatted, the thing that struck me was her quiet determination, the sense of "I shake my fist at whatever the trail throws my way." And with that very first conversation, I realized how much I want to know what happens for these fellow travelers, even though I likely never will. How great it would be to see Deidre in 6 months, perched triumphantly atop that sign on Katahdin, dirtier and wearier, with thighs like rocks and a neverending grin. A photo that she will treasure forever, because she accomplished something no one ever thought she could. And I just keep hoping that she made it through the cold and the snow, that she's still trudging along slowly--but getting faster and stronger with every step.
On Sunday, Pancho came to hike with me--Take Your Husband to Work Day. It was bitterly cold, with snow on the trail in the morning. But late in the day, we came upon a hiker resting on the side of the trail, dressed in full camo, with military gear. As we chatted, he revealed that he was a veteran suffering from PTSD, or simply mental illness according to the military. He had received little to no support from either his family or the military and had dropped out of college, probably due to learning disabilities. He seemed mainly to be searching for something to do--something useful, and meaningful to someone. As he told us, he is good at carrying loads for long distances and dealing with foreigners. So the trail seemed as good a place as any. Will he make it to Maine? I'm not sure. But I'm also not sure that what he's looking for is necessarily in Maine. I saw him the next morning, heading out from Black Gap shelter. Most of the snow had melted and the sun was shining. He was cheerful, in good spirits, and looking ahead to a day on the trail. I last saw him moving north, smiling and waving. I only hope that he finds his place--somewhere he feels accepted and of use again. Even in our brief conversation, it was obvious how much he sacrificed in his service to our country and that a "thank you" would never suffice.
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