Checking in from the Appalachian Trail: 4/1 - 5/11

Hello friends, family, loved ones, mentors and nemeses (you know who you are)!

I'm writing with another update from this past 40 days on the trail. Observant readers may notice that 40 days is a much larger interval than my originally promised two weeks--my apologies! A mix of good times, bad times and very smart COVID restrictions on using motel-lobby-computers got in my way. But thanks to the kind folks at the Pearisburg Public Library, here in Pearisburg, VA, I'm able to share some stories and reflections.

Before jumping in, I did want to share that I am unfortunately sidelined right now with a hip injury. I'll include a more thorough description the next time I post, but the long and short of the matter is that I am working for stay at a hiker hostel until I recover and/or get more clarity from an upcoming MRI. Hopefully my hike will continue in the near future.

The Smokies:

When I last checked in, I was just about to enter Great Smoky Mountain National Park, writing from Fontana Dam, NC. Now I know no one on here signed up for ridiculous, arm-chair history lessons or political analysis (you know about, say, how Joe Manchin wins in West Virginia) BUT the history of Fontana Dam is so hilariously interesting that I must quickly share the highlights:

The famous Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) was one of the most successful New Deal programs during the Roosevelt administration. "Electricity for All" was the slogan attached to its creation, and it did indeed provide electricity across the entire Tennessee Valley and other parts of the rural South. Among many other things, the TVA built 16 hydro-electric dams across seven states. One of those dams was Fontana Dam, which was built very, very quickly in 1943 to provide obscene amounts of electricity, not to the Tennessee Valley, but to a secret site in Oak Ridge, TN that for some unknown reason needed...obscene amounts of electricity. Turns out most of the plutonium and uranium used at Los Alamos during the Manhattan Project--and what was used in the two atomic bombs dropped at Hiroshima and Nagasaki--was enriched at top-secret plants in the Tennessee Valley, thanks to the hydro-power of Fontana Dam.

It feels impossible to imagine the country as we know it today accomplishing an infrastructure project of that scale, in such a short amount of time. Perhaps war-time exigencies would shift the political reality even today, but I'm doubtful. And a 2 degree Celsius increase in temperature (along with irreversible climate catastrophe) is a far less unifying enemy than imperial fascism, I guess.

As the great Dave Chappelle recently said, reflecting on the insurrectionists of 1/6/21: “There’s a simple question: Do you have a country or not, and you said no.” The infrastructure of the WWII era is forever built into the landscape as a reminder of what this place can be if the vast majority of Americans decide once again to answer that question in the affirmative.

For now, Fontana Dam is one of the more interesting stretches of the trail; quite literally, the trail follows the rim of the dam itself:

The trail running along the rim of the dam on the lake side.

View of the dam from just off trail.

View of the hydro-power processing station from the trail.

View of the Tennessee Valley from the trail/dam.

A friend I met near the dam.

Once I walked across the rim of the dam, I had entered the Smokies:

I've found that thru-hikers direct lots of their mental energy towards specific sections of the trail, somewhat arbitrarily. "Such and such mountain is so hard," or "this section is the most brutal section ever," are common phrases I hear on trail. Many hikers speak of "The Smokies" this way, which left me somewhat skeptical of the fear and/or hype. My time in the Smokies proved me wrong on this occasion, partially because of the beauty of the park and partially because of the weather.

Due to the elevation of the Smokies (the highest point on the AT, Clingman's Dome, is in the Smokies), the weather is quite unpredictable. I had heard rumblings in Fontana that the first few nights in the Smokies would be cold, so I did the totally thorough and responsible thing: I googled Fontana Dam weather, glanced at it briefly, saw that it would be in the high-teens/low twenties and then did nothing differently based on that information. Generally, I find hiking in cold weather to be very nice. High teens/low twenties sounds bad, but with a great, 20 degree rated sleeping quilt (shouts to Yoni Segev and Sophia Spooner), I do fine in that temperature.

But upon my arrival in camp on my first night in the Smokies, I learned that the situation was going to be a bit worse. First I heard 10 degrees, then I heard 7 degrees, then I heard 4 degrees, then I heard "negative wind chill." It was around this time (4 pm) that the sun was no longer directly shining on our side of the mountain, and pretty much immediately, I was having trouble moving my fingers.

It was a struggle, though I was very fortunate to have met some great folks hiking that day who created a very uplifting, find-joy-in-our-shared-suffering spirit. These folks--Canary, DJ Moss, Hurricane, Tater Tot, Avatar, Icarus and many others--built a huge fire, shared tea/food and generally made life a bit easier for one another.

In the end, according to a park ranger who I met the next day, the real temperature recorded at the top of Clingman's Dome that night was negative 11 degrees farenheit. At our shelter, Mollie's Ridge, we had a low of negative 1 degree farenheit with a wind chill effect of negative 10. I spent pretty much the entire night moving my arms and legs inside of my quilt to stay warm, until about 5 am when I managed to fall asleep. Unfortunately, when I woke up, my drool had frozen both to my beard and to the ground. It was a painful way to wake up.

Ice on my way up into the Smokies for my first night: the first sign that I should have looked more closely at the weather.

Our roaring fire which we all desperately wanted to sleep next to.

The next day, movement was my only hope. The hiking helped but it was still brutally cold throughout the day, in spite of the body heat. I decided to cut my miles short and secure a spot for myself in a shelter. I've normally avoided shelters on trail and instead opted for my tent in order to avoid sharing too much breathing space with others. But on this occasion, I needed the warmth.

One nice feature of the shelters in the Smokies is that they are very old, so they actually have fire places built into them. This allows for a fire to create some warmth inside the structure, though they are only three wall structures, so still quite cold.

Understandably, the shelter was packed with folks trying to avoid the cold, so it was quite a tight squeeze. I was on the upper level sleeping in between a thru-hiker named Two Turtles from Allentown, PA and a section hiker named Apogeet, a middle-aged man from Knoxville, TN.

In the middle of the night, zipped inside my sleeping bag, I saw a man approach the shelter and yell "Hey! Are y'all hikers?" He then climbed up onto the upper level of the shelter and started stabbing Apogeet with a knife. I screamed "HEY YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" and heroically punched the man.

That's when I woke up and realized that I had just punched Apogeet quite hard in the shoulder. 

Apogeet jolted up. "What’s going on?”

Still inside the pitch black of my sleeping bag, I mumbled "I don't know..." 

Remarkably, Apogeet--who had just been woken up by a punch to the shoulder at 4:45 am--soothingly asked "Are you having a bad dream?"

"Yes, I guess I am," I said. "Sorry about that." And I fell back asleep.

In the morning, I apologized profusely to Apogeet who remained very understanding. I thought I had screamed in my sleep and simply punched him, but it turns out I had screamed out loud and the entire shelter of probably 16 people woke up to my heroic attempt to save us all from a midnight murderer.

It was my first night terror in a long time and I'm still not sure what caused it. Perhaps some lizard brain survival instinct had been triggered by the cold. Or perhaps my accidental cocktail of Prozac, Benadryl and Melatonin primed me for some intense dreams. Either way, Apogeet was a total mensch about it.

That third day of hiking in the Smokies, I began to find the environment stunningly beautiful and it continued to blow me away for the duration of my time in the park. Here are some photos:

Icy trees in the distance.

Icy trees up close.

Almost there!

This is my friend Bare up on Charlie's Bunion. This is why he's called Bare:

Bare is an 18-year-old from northern Georgia. He runs long distances bare feet and is determined to hike as much of the trail as he can in bare feet. I shit you not. This dude was hiking in bare feet the day after the negative 1 degree night! I had to document it.

Up on Charlie's Bunion.

The Smokies in all their glory.

The final days of the Smokies were an absolute joy and my time in the park ended in magical fashion. My last day was very warm and sunny; and as I stumbled my way down to the park boundary, I came across some totally unexpected trail magic. A gentleman from North Carolina had come out to the first gap outside the park to give us honeybuns, candybars, fruit, snacks and beer. It was just lovely. I sat in a folding chair for hours greeting people I had hiked with through the Smokies. Then a group of friends from UMaine called "The Lost Boys" rolled up with a birthday cake to celebrate Fun Dip's birthday. We all devoured birthday cake and then hiked on to a hostel/farm nearby, stopping to jump in a river to cool off first. Just to emphasize how variable the weather in the Smokies is, on April 1st (my first day in the park) it was negative 1 degrees at night; on April 5th (my last day in the park) it was in the high 70's and we were so hot we needed to jump in a river!

Goldielocks and Whiplash cooling off after I had exited the river.

Reunion at Max's Patch:

One of the best experiences I've had on trail so far was getting to see my late grandfather's husband Matthew Charlton. I hadn't seen Matthew in about two years and it was such a gift to be able to reunite with him on trail of all places. Ever since I met Matthew, we've connected over a shared love of hiking so it was fitting to meet up at Max's Patch, a particularly gorgeous viewpoint in North Carolina:

Two views from Max’s Patch.

Me, Rollie Pollie Ollie (RPO) and Schlep on top of Max's Patch.

Max's Patch is a slight misnomer: it was land originally owned by a fellow with the surname Mack, somehow it was recorded incorrectly and was forever known locally as Max's Patch. The land was clear cut for timber, a somewhat ironic creation story for one of the best views of the forests and mountains on the trail.

Matthew is an avid adventurer and explorer of the outdoors who completed almost 2000 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail last year in spite of COVID. After his thru-hike, he reconnected with the Kendall family, whom he had stayed with the previous year. The Kendalls built a beautiful lodge about half a mile from Max's Patch, where they operate an organic farm and retreat center. Matthew is in the process of launching a business adjacent to the cabin that will serve delicious, homemade food to visitors (including thru-hikers) coming through Max's Patch. It's hard to overstate what a welcome addition this will be to the (very hungry) thru hiker community.

I learned all of this in my one day with Matthew at the Kendall's lodge where he treated me and my friends Schlep and Rollie Pollie Ollie (RPO) to an incredible dinner:

Matthew did it up for dinner, characteristically. Perhaps the best dinner I've had on trail.

It was great to catch up with Matthew and hear his tales from the PCT. But the unexpected joy was getting to connect with David and Phillip Kendall, the father and son who run the family lodge and organic farm. David is a landscape architect, an artist and a deeply contemplative thinker. Phillip is a body worker, massage therapist, avid plantsman and farmer. Both are deeply generous and kind people who opened up their home to us and gave us a window into the remarkable work they're doing. Likewise, we got to meet Neal, a badass, 72-year-old marathon runner and thru-hiker (of both the AT and PCT) from Maine who Matthew met on the PCT last year. Here are some photos of our time there:

The Kana'ti Lodge in the background, David's meditation garden in the foreground, at sundown.

RPO, me, Schlep outside the lodge.

Before the feast.

Hikers reunited, with the Lodge in the background.

The whole gang is pictured thanks to Schlep's selfie stick.

Matthew of course made an amazing breakfast to boot.

A tour of the organic farm, along with a foraging lesson from Phillip.

Phillip kindly showed us a handful of edible plants that grow naturally on trail and taught us how to identify them. For days after, I found and ate Chickweed, Yarrow, Violets, Dead Nettle and Dandelion as I made my way up the trail. I have since taken a break from this practice for reasons I'll explain a few sections below. But even so, I am very thankful for the lesson--it's made me much more attentive to the plant life on trail which I had previously breezed by without much thought. Even the ability to identify five plant species completely shifted my view of the trail while hiking.

Parasites and hosts, (re)considered:

For obvious reasons, viruses have been on the mind for most of us this year. Phrases like "the virus doesn't care about your ideology" or "the virus doesn't care about borders" have created what is, at least for me, a newfound perspective of viruses as living beings. Of course that's an obvious fact of their nature, but for me, someone who struggled with natural sciences in school and tends to blindly follow the advice of shamans in white coats, this was somewhat of a new realization. The pandemic has brought all of us much closer to "nature" psychologically; though the divide between the natural and artificial is a false construction, which the pandemic (as well as climate change) continues to reveal. Try as we might to keep some distance, our remove from "nature" is far less certain or stable than we tend to think.

So it somehow feels fitting that I would begin to take a step towards the light at the end of the tunnel of this pandemic while hiking the Appalachian Trail. I went from living in the woods one day, to getting a COVID vaccine in my arm the next. It's a nice reminder that that line between nature and civilization is blurrier than we tend to think.

The day before I got my vaccine, I hiked 27 miles--my high watermark for the thru-hike so far. I like to think that the lure of that sweet, sweet Moderna is what gave me the extra push to make it that day. I received my shot at a Walmart in Erwin, Tennessee from a woman named Hollie. As I told her in the moment, if I ever have grandkids I will tell them about her, the person who gave me my first vaccination during COVID-19. I don't have any grandkids, so instead I will tell you all about Hollie:

Getting my shot in a Walmart fitting room.

One of the reasons it was so easy for me to get the vaccine was that very few local residents have gotten it in Tennessee. Hollie said that many of the shots she's given out have been to thru-hikers.

It feels like we are light years away from those days when everyone in New York City would lean out their windows and bang pots and pans for healthcare workers; I can even feel a certain jaded cynicism in myself as I think back on that time ("well what about grocery workers?!?"). But my goodness, it cannot be overstated how much praise those who work on the front lines of healthcare deserve. Consider Hollie--a very kind, caring pharmacist who's been tasked with figuring out a way to vaccinate a community that is not only vaccine hesitant, but in some cases antagonistic towards the vaccine and those who deliver it (aka Hollie). It makes me genuinely sad to think that anyone would be hostile towards a healthcare worker trying to protect us. But again, to refer back to the sage Dave Chappelle, we don't really have a country right now, in the spiritual sense of what it means to be in a shared society. That's the only way to explain the fact that 25% of Americans don't want the vaccine and some large percentage of those folks view people like Hollie with hostility.

Nonetheless, after receiving my shot it was hard not to feel some profound optimism given the year that we've all had. Perhaps this is what put me in the mood to explore the Walmart, in the hopes of imbuing the place with some symbolic meaning as the site of the end of my experience with the pandemic. This was, of course, foolishly romantic. It's a fucking Walmart.*

*I should note, I had never been to a Walmart before which is itself an interesting indication of the America I don't usually see.

So I strolled the store trying to feel some divine connection to the fluorescent lights in the spirit of DFW (shouts to Caleb Brooks); that's when I found this section:

I had indeed stumbled into a certain half-baked symbolism, though it wasn't of the romantic sort. I walked a few paces away from the pharmacy--where Hollie and her co-workers beg their neighbors every day to get a free (FREE!) vaccine so that we can end a pandemic that has destroyed the economy, killed 600,000 Americans and poses a risk to the non-immunized every day--and I find a section where I can purchase a lethal weapon with just a little bit of paperwork. I hear the late, great Dan Baum pointing out all of the nuance I am missing in this rather tendentious connection I am drawing, to which I say, point taken. But I must say it's hard to take that walk in Walmart and not feel that we are living in a culture of death as my brother Ben often says. Not to be too on the nose here, but I actually can't remember how many mass shootings have happened since I started on trail; better yet, I've lost track of those that have happened since I got my first shot from Hollie!

All of these thoughts of death were on my mind as I set off from Erwin and back into the woods to summit Roan Mountain and cross the Roan Highlands, a beautiful and lesser-known gem of the trail. Unfortunately (or fortunately) for me, my young immune system kicked into high gear and also kicked my ass. As my friends Schlep, RPO, Alaska and Goldielocks can attest, I was a mess that day out of Erwin. I was feverish, achy, weak and slow as molasses (living up to half of my trail name). I took lots of Tylenol and an edible (shouts to Joan Freedman!) and managed to make it through the day, in large part due to the encouragement of friends.

The next day I woke up feeling energized and ready to push on. My MRNA had clearly gotten the message and no longer felt the need to kick my ass, a welcome change. It was a wonderful day, as I recall, until about dinner time. I made some Knorr Sides instant pasta alfredo, but as I sat down to eat I suddenly lost my appetite. I offered my food to Goldielocks who kindly helped me finish the food. A few minutes later, I was projectile vomiting. Turns out I had caught a stomach bug, some form of the norovirus, from other hikers on the trail. I had known of two friends who had gotten sick in the past 10 days, but I kept my distance and generally, since I had pretty strict personal COVID protocols, I assumed I would be fine.

Incorrect! I vomited and had diarrhea all through the night in a less than ideal location: 5500 feet up the side of Roan Mountain (6,286 ft. high) which I needed to summit and descend in order to get to my next destination. The next day I was forced to take the worst type of zero (day off) possible: an in-tent zero. I spent the entire day lying in my sleeping bag waiting for the chills and aches to subside. Eventually I had the strength to get out of my tent, sit on a log and eat some dry tortilla. Friends passed by throughout the day to offer food, pepto bismol and other goodies--I'm very appreciate of all of them.

Three important realizations I had from this experience for which I'm very grateful:

1) Despite my inclination towards solitude on trail, I realized that having friends with me and behind me is a very important safety measure. I would have felt far less comfortable taking a zero on the side of a mountain if I didn't feel like I had people nearby who could help me out.

2) I caught a virus despite what I thought were responsible safety measures that I had taken to prevent contracting COVID. This was a wake up call that I needed to be more vigilant even with the vaccine.

3) As I rested on my hands and knees and vomited, then dry-heaved, all of the contents of my body out into the wilderness I had a mild, ego-dissolution experience. The scientists who've studied the ego-dissolution phenomena of deep meditation, high-dose psychedelic experience and intense fasting (among other things) have shown that physical experience, along with a shift in brain chemistry, can prime a person to step outside of the ego, not abstractly, but literally and in real time.

In my case, I simply became aware that I had lost total control over my body. I had no ability to stop dry-heaving nor could I even attempt to eat. At that moment it occurred to me that the virus inside of me was no less of a living organism than I was. What I believed to be my for near-total control over my own destiny was destroyed by a microscopic parasite swimming along gleefully through my body. I felt less and less of a distinction between myself and the virus temporarily occupying my body.

What's more, as I looked out across the valley beneath me and saw the bright stars of the night sky, I realized that the virus and I were not only both alive, we were in fact on quite similar journeys. To this tiny stomach bug, my body might as well have been the Appalachian Trail. Like me, the virus inside of me was an individual member of a much larger species which had gotten quite lucky. It had found its way into a great host (if I do say so myself) in the form of a human body and as a result, it was having the time of it's life.

As I heaved my way through the night, it was this second realization that stuck with me and frankly, troubled me. Am I a proverbial parasite making my way through the host that is the Appalachian Trail? Here's this long corridor of ecosystems, full of plant and animal life (including human societies in the form of small, rural towns), and I am blazing my way through it having the time of my life--in the literal sense, consuming water from the creeks, foraging for plants, shitting and peeing into the soil; in the figurative sense, rolling through towns, buying/drinking beer at hostels, making noise, being very smelly in supermarkets, etc.

Of course, once the fever-psychosis passed, I realized that the sober answer to this question is no. No, I am not a parasite attempting to infect the host that is the Appalachian Trail. I do believe, however, that there's a useful insight embedded in my delirium-induced analogy. Many thru-hikers (at times, myself included) relate to the trail as a consumer, rather than a caretaker.

Take for example a classic point of discussion that comes up on trail: whether or not a hiker should sleep with their food to prevent animals (read: bears) from coming into camp. Now, my education in backpacking came through Tufts Wilderness Orientation which naturally stressed safety, given that we were university students leading other university students out into the wilderness. So I was unaware that this was even a debate until I started thru-hiking.

It turns out a sizable percentage of thru-hikers, perhaps even a majority, regularly sleep with their food in their tent or even in a shared shelter. Like all behaviors, if respected members of a social group openly display a behavior (even if it's risky), others have a permission structure to do it. That's why I slept with my food on that negative 1 degree night in the Smokies (also my hands literally couldn't move to tie my food bag to a tree).

Other than that one exception though, I have never slept with my food on trail for three reasons. 1) It puts me in harms way. 2) It puts other hikers, who have not consented to my decision to sleep with my food, in harms way. 3) It endangers bears, who actually live in the environment in which we hikers are just visitors.

If a bear gets hold of human food, it will likely continue to return to campsites and will likely have repeated encounters with hikers. Eventually that bear will either be re-located or killed, if it poses a threat to human beings. In other words, a hiker's failure to do a simple thing (hang a bear bag) out of sheer laziness, risks the life of an animal (and potentially the lives of other humans).

This is a small example of what I mean by consumptive (or parasitic) relationship to the trail. There are myriad others. By no means do I want to suggest I am somehow enlightened in this regard--I myself have engaged in many of these behaviors that I've begun to question. I wonder though to what degree a certain culture within the hiker community fuels some of this.

"Hiker Trash" is a common identifier of pride among thru-hikers. In it's harmless and sometimes hilarious iterations, it takes the form of someone doing something ridiculous (cutting their nails with scissors so that they don't have to carry nail-clippers; wearing the same pair of socks for 10 straight days; any sort of creative pooping in the woods). But I see more toxic aspects of "Hiker Trash" culture too: excessive drinking, in town but sometimes on trail; trashing communal hiker spaces like hostel lounges or hiker boxes; leaving unwanted weight like empty fuel canisters at campsites and shelters in the backcountry; and yes, sleeping with food in areas with lots of bear activity.

"I'm Hiker Trash" is a mantra that oddly justifies reckless behavior. It puts the consumptive framework (i.e. "I need to reach Mt. Katahdin (the end of the trail) as fast as possible and I'll do whatever it takes!") ahead of the stewardship framework which prioritizes the long-term health of the trail, recognizing that it's existence is dependent on an ethic of care, without which we'd have no trail upon which to be hikers, let alone "Hiker Trash."

I have had productive conversations with fellow hikers about these topics, which make me hopeful. But for now, I see more celebration of carelessness than I think is healthy.

Thank you stomach bug for offering me the chance to learn this lesson.

Roan Highlands, Roan High Knob and Grandfather Mountain:

The day after my in-tent zero, I was still quite weak, but I had enough energy to push on. I was very slow, putting one foot in front of the other as I climbed up and over the Roan High Knob. But I was rewarded for my sickly efforts with a beautiful view of a place that holds a special place in my family's memory.

As it turns out, Roan High Knob (Tennessee) sits across the state line from Grandfather Mountain (North Carolina), where my great-grandfather had a cabin that I have heard a great deal about over the course of my childhood. Here are some views of Grandfather Mountain from my hike across the Roan Highlands:

Grandfather Mountain is the tallest peak in the photo, the left side of the ridge-line in the center-left of the photo.

A bald in the Roan Highlands with Grandfather Mountain to the distance on the right.

Grandfather Mountain peak is in the dead center, with Mogul (in Yellow) below. Mogul is from Chester County, PA #represent.

Grandfather Mountain on the left with Mogul, GiGi, PunGo and Moss below. They're one of the coolest groups of hikers I've encountered out here.

It was a strangely beautiful day that included a lot of darkness, along with some snow flurries:

It was also nice to find an unexpected example of the stewardship ethic on trail. Water sources on Roan High Knob were quite infrequent, but someone had taken a lot of rocks and wood to turn a little, inaccessible trickle into a great water source:

They left a note--thank you turtle and pup!

Goodbye Tennessee, Goodbye North Carolina:

The final stretch of TN and NC was lovely. I stayed at one of my favorite hostels--Mountain Harbor, which had by far the best breakfast I've ever had (it's pretty much consensus among hikers that they have the best breakfast on trail).

The next day I stayed at one of my favorite shelters--Mountaineer Falls Shelter, named for a beautiful water fall that's also the shelter's water source:

Mountaineer Falls

Mountaineer Falls shelter respects the bears #GarytheBear #TeduardoSandinista #TheBear'sLoose #FreeTheBears #AlfonsoTheTap-DancingBear

I put North Carolina in the rear-view mirror first:

Photo cred: GiGi, who's an all around badass from Providence, RI. She's a grandma (hence her trail name) and a self-declared paisan (shouts to Alex Fontini). She was a higher-ed lawyer at Providence College for decades (go Friars) and has recently retired. She now lives in Narragansett (shouts to the Fainbergs!) where she regularly trains for triathlons. We're hoping to meet up for some biking next time I'm visiting the Fainbergs in Gansett. But right now she's thru-hiking. GiGi's the GOAT.

Then I hit the 400 mile marker:

Shortly thereafter I hit the 420 mile marker which is marked, of course:

#420Blazin'

Another highlight at the end of Tennessee was some kayaking arranged by our friend Schlep. It was a lovely day on Watauga Lake and it was nice to feel sore in my arms and core and not my legs for once. Sadly, I don't have any photos of kayaking cause I had to protect that phone from water damage.

One other unexpected thing happened at the end of my time in Tennessee relating to an amazing group of thru-hikers: Ms. Friz and the Field Trip. Ms. Friz is a woman from New Hampshire who is thru-hiking the entire trail with her four sons, ages 11-15. They are home-schooled, so the hike was not an issue with their schooling and they freaking rock. The boys have already hiked most of the forty-eight 4,000 foot peaks in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, a goal that I've been trying to accomplish since my freshman year of college. Generally speaking, they seem to be loving it. God bless Ms. Friz, mother extraordinaire.

Unfortunately, the oldest son, Rocket, was having some knee soreness in NC/TN, so he had developed a bit of a limp in camp (he's now doing great). A passerby saw Rocket limping, heard that he was hiking the whole trail with his mom and did the sensible thing: called the Department of Children and Family Services for the State of Tennessee. Just kidding, that's not the sensible thing to do at all! The local sheriff showed up at a hostel we were staying at, questioned Ms. Friz and the kids in front of all of us, and then made Rocket walk around for about 5 minutes. The whole situation was pretty uncomfortable, but Ms. Friz handled it like a champ.

The next day, they accidentally got split up on trail as Ms. Friz took a wrong turn down a side trail. I found them and we agreed we'd hike together to the next hostel where we’d meet their mom. Man, those kids ran circles on me they were so damn fast. Here's a little clip of one of my favorite sections of the trail that runs right along Laurel Fork and Laurel Falls:

Hiking behind Rocket.

He was faster than me even with his limp.

Laurel Falls.

After some truly wonderful days, it was time to say hello to Virginia:

I won't be saying goodbye to Virginia for quite a long time as it makes up about 20% of the total mileage of the trail! First town I hit was Damascus, home to Trail Days, the festival that celebrates thru-hikers every May. I won't be attending this year, but I've heard it's a raucous occasion. Some scenes from Damascus:

Virginia is for lovers (of American democracy)!

A tradition unlike any other: throwing your worn out shoes onto a tree at the Broken Fiddle hostel.

Getting closer!

My friend Wheelz bought fake poop at the Dollar General and she was very excited about it.

Tucker, who belongs to my friend Engine, getting very friendly with Twinkle Toes on the main drag of Damascus.

Foraging revisited:

As grateful as I am for Phillip's foraging lesson that I mentioned earlier, my perspective has shifted a bit after a rather scary situation involving my friend Engine. At some point in the final miles of Tennessee, Engine was given some plants by a friend she was hiking with. The friend told her the plants were ramps, akin to a wild onion. Engine put three of the plants in her ramen noodles that night and shortly thereafter, she was in bad shape--vomiting and getting very weak, quickly.

It turns out, Engine had not eaten ramps; in fact, she'd eaten Lilly of the Valley, a plant that is poisonous to humans and can kill humans in certain situations. Unfortunately for us humans, the two can look quite similar before they have blossomed. 

As it became clear that Engine's condition was worsening, one of our friends, Voodoo, wisely realized that she may have eaten a poisonous plant. Bear Bait, Nacho, Wheelz, Voodoo and Ketchup all stepped up into action, calling 911 and eventually carrying Engine down the side of the mountain to the nearest road (she was far too weak to walk at that point).

Engine would later find out that in the ambulance her heart rate dropped into the twenties (BPM) multiple times. She was taken to Johnson City's hospital, where she learned from a toxicology report that she had ingested three times the lethal dose of the toxic compound that's found in Lilly of the Valley. She was probably within an hour--maybe less--of dying if she hadn't received medical care.

I was not there that night, but shortly thereafter I learned what had happened. It's hard to overstate how scary it was to learn that a friend came that close to dying on trail. Stating the obvious, it would have been devastating and somewhat inconceivable.

The good news is that Engine is a total bad ass (from Maine originally, Engine was taken to the top of Mt. Bigelow before she was 6 months old; she was born to hike the trail). We reunited with her and Tucker in Damascus and she was already cracking jokes about the experience. She admitted that it was rattling, but she was excited to get back on trail.

She's back on trail indeed and having a blast. Here she is with Tucker (one of the greatest dogs of all time) a few weeks later:

Given what happened to Engine, I have paused my foraging for now. I think it's important to be confident in one's knowledge of what's edible, and perhaps more importantly, of what's toxic. That being said, I'm eager to learn more so that I can continue foraging while hiking. As I said, it's something that made me much more attentive to the life of the trail and I remain very thankful for Phillip's introductory lesson.

The Glory of Southwestern Virginia:

The first 200 miles of Virginia have been, without question, my favorite section of the trail thus far. It's hard to put my finger on what precisely has made the section stand out, though I have some theories. For one, many hikers speak of the "Virginia Blues," presumably referring to the end of the honeymoon phase that many hikers experience early on. It seems to also refer to the length of Virginia, meaning that folks get tired of the state after so many miles.

Perhaps because of these low expectations, I was swept off my feet by the early portion of the state.

Here are some sights and scenes from this most recent stretch:

I was treated to this view on my first night out of Damascus.

View from the Grayson Highlands.

Licked by ponies, in four photos.

The ponies of the Grayson Highlands are wild ponies, originally introduced to eat invasive species. Today they are very familiar with people and have no qualms licking the salt off your legs. Turns out hikers have lots of salt on their legs. This video was taken literally on the trail itself!

The aftermath.

The end of my day in the Grayson Highlands.

The Trail Devil (aka Willy) was a bit odd. But he did give me a PBR at 7 pm, which was nice.

The next day I came across this river...

It seemed to have a nice deep spot...

Had to jump in.

Then I met Jeff. This guy is one of the kindest, funniest and most interesting people I've met on trail. He went down to Key West, Florida in December, touched a buoy floating in the ocean and started walking north. He is attempting to complete what's known as the International Appalachian Trail. He's walking from Key West, FL to Nova Scotia, Canada. But it took him almost 12 hours before he mentioned that because he's one of the most humble people on trail. Trail name's Jeff, just Jeff.

The Lindamond School, a one room schoolhouse built in 1894, right on trail.

Nacho, soon headed to Northwestern for his freshman year, heads back to school early.

Cows on cows on cows.

Cow.

Chestnut Knob Shelter might be my favorite shelter on trail so far. It has four walls and a door because it's at the summit of Chestnut Knob, which is very windy. It also has no water source, so you have to hike your water in a few miles...

But it was well worth it for this sunrise...

which I watched from inside of my sleeping bag.

That same day, which started with the sunrise above, ended at this campsite. Mile 588.8, a "stealth site" that my friend Wheelz told me about. It had no water, so I had to carry it in from about 4 miles below. But it was well worth it...

For this sunset....

which I watched from my sleeping bag.

My friend Wheelz is an amazing woodburner. When she hiked on and I stayed put to recover from my hip injury, she gave me this camping spork. The image at the top is a depiction of my favorite campsite from mile 588.8:

And my trail name. This is one of the kindest gifts I've ever received and is now on a short list of my prized possessions. Made this old Zayde cry...

My last night on trail before I had to step off to recover.

One night I got a lot of soot on my face.

Quite a bit of soot, unbeknownst to me. My friends poked fun, to which I retorted: have you heard of the coal miners unions? I proceeded to spew all that I had learned from the West Virginia Mine Wars Museum (shouts to Hannah Freedman). And of course, it became a running joke that I was always fighting for the coal miners union.

So as a goodbye gift, my friends gave me Cinnamon Rolls with Bernie Sanders sitting cross-legged on the left and "We <3 Coal Miners Union" in text. I am quite lucky to have hiked with these hooligans:

Nacho

Wheelz

Goldielocks

Patchwork

Send It

Rollie Pollie Ollie

Schlep

Bear Bait

Rambo (with his name burned onto the taco, courtesy of Wheelz)

Loki (not pictured, Alaska, Loki's owner,, who's amazing I just don't have a picture of her!)

The Scurvy Sisters including Emma in the middle.

Am I a Scurvy Sister?

I am so grateful to all of these folks as well as so many more who've been sources of joy, humor and commiseration along the way. Canary, Bigote, Voodoo, Engine, Baby Otter, Twinkle Toes, Ghost, Whiplash, Roadkill, GiGi, Ketchup, FreeFall, Lookout, Slow Burn, Big Dipper, Duck, Two Turtles, Forward, Tater Tot, Pythagoras, Spud, the list goes on and on. Sadly, I don't have photos of these folks, but these are some amazing people who I can't wait to see on top of Katahdin this summer.

I will leave things there for now. As I mentioned towards the beginning, I am unfortunately sidelined in Pearisburg, VA with a hip injury that doesn't seem to be improving quickly. I'm awaiting the results of an MRI to determine the severity of the injury. No matter what happens, I plan to write again about the magical little trail hostel where I am working (in exchange for meals and a free stay) along with some reflections (hopefully not final) about my time on the trail so far.

Much love to all,

Andrew

Oh yea and I made it 1/4 of the way there!