Hike Your Own Hike
From New York City to the Appalachian Trail
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,. But I have promises to keep,. And miles to go before I sleep,. And miles to go before I sleep.”
-Robert Frost
There’s something weird about stepping out into Brooklyn in hiking boots.
I walked by the same scene I always do — people opening up their bodegas, repairing engines in their car shops, and taking out the trash behind the metal fences of their apartments. But instead of wearing some semblance of blue dress-comfortable shoes-green backpack-red headphones, I was awkwardly strolling to the subway with a 30-pound backpack, calf-high purple socks, and a hat.
And of course the hiking boots.
There’s two ways to look at getting to the Appalachian Trail from New York City. One is with gratitude—the fact there is a way to swap the concrete jungle for a real one with public transportation. The other is with annoyance—it’s two subway rides, a $22 Metro North ticket, and $12 cab ride to the trailhead.
Whichever way you look at it, I left my Brooklyn apartment at 7am and was on the trail by 10am, the city 72 miles south, though many more in my mind.
Last year when we hiked the Appalachian Trail, it was our first time backpacking in the woods. We had been well-versed in car camping in The Rockies, day hikes in Utah, and the whole not-showering-f0r-days-at-a-time-thing. So we assumed a few days in the woods would be no problem.
The three days out on the trail took us by extraordinary surprise. We did a section from New Jersey into New York, where we reached an elevation gain of 1,685 feet, hiked against 90-degree humidity (feels like 97!), trudged through pouring rain, and quite literally ran into a huge bear. These are some of my reflections after emerging from the woods last year:
And then we began to climb. The heat was relentless, and the hills unyielding. After each rise in elevation, we’d turn a corner to see the trail continue to climb up and up. We stumbled over rocks while trying to keep our balance; the extra weight made not only our bodies, but our hearts heavy. In the middle of the beautiful, beautiful woods, we quietly surrendered to its unsympathetic splendor.
When we returned to the AT a year later for a long-weekend trip, we automatically compared our experience to our first trek, which had set the “standard” for how people should approach the woods:
It should be really hard. You should hike 15–20 miles a day. You should cook your beans and boxed couscous and be asleep by 9. Use your bear bell. Be sore all the time. Rinse (in the wash basin) and repeat.
Yet this year’s adventure was quite different. We still climbed up steep rocks with 30 pounds on our backs. It still got hot. We were still not quite in backpacking shape. But we weren’t dealing with bears, unyielding heat, or incredible elevation gains. Instead of searching for streams to avoid dehydration, we were walking in shaded trails with plenty of water sources. Our campsites were even filled with “Trail Magic” coolers of vodka, juice, and beer (how’s a screwdriver sound?) and we ran into the infamous Party Boys (“Denali,” “The Rock,” and “Cruise”) who are actually binge drinking and tripping their way up the AT.
We also met a ton of thru-hikers (people who are hiking from Georgia to Maine) who taught us a phrase that helped redefine our approach to the woods.
Hike your own hike.
It’s a phrase thru-hikers often use to avoid judgements and stress how personal doing the AT is. If you’ve committed to walking 2,168 miles and putting a pause on life outside the trail for six months, you clearly have a reason why.
One man was in his mid 30's and had lived in 18 different states. He lived paycheck by paycheck, sublease by sublease. He saved up enough to do the hike, and was back on the road —or trail — because he knew no other way.
Another hiker was a woman from Seattle who recently returned from Afghanistan. She was planning to continue hiking another 100 miles once she reached the AT’s finish line, Mt. Katahdin.
There was a man in his late 50's who had done the AT when he was in college. He wanted to relive his youthful adventure while spending time going off the trail to visit family in New England.
There was a father-daughter duo. The father was retired and the daughter recently laid off from work. I didn’t ask, but it looked like they were repairing a relationship.
And then there was a girl similar in age to us. She was section hiking with her dog from New York to Maine. She had just broken up with her boyfriend, quit her job, and moved back home to Long Island from Texas.
She didn’t know what else to do but go hiking for a bit.
Hike your own hike.
Some of them hiked 20 miles a day. Others, 14. Many with hiking poles. A few without. A couple had packs so impressive (and costly) you’d never know there was a tent and sleeping bag in there. Some hiked with music, alone, barely taking breaks. Others liked the social component of hiking the AT, and latched on to different groups of people. Most were “Nobo’s” (Northbound hikers) yet some preferred the less cluttered Southbound route. People slept in lean-to’s, tents, hammocks, or under the stars. Most tied up their food. Others took the risk and kept their scraps close by.
We also met people who were “yellow-trailing,” meaning they’d get off the trail and skip some sections along the way up. Others were “slackpacking,” a.k.a. hiking parts of the AT without their heavy packs (takes some coordinating). Some were even “tour hiking,” — using the experience of going from Georgia to Maine to stop and see the sights outside of the woods: The Mall in D.C., Yankee Stadium and Broadway plays in New York City, and the rustic beaches of New Hampshire and Maine.
And then of course you have Denali, The Rock, and Cruise, who are using the woods as a way to party up and down the mountains.
Yet there is a weird catch.
What’s interesting about hiking your own hike is that everyone is more or less still doing the same thing. You’re really just walking.
Your muscles all clench in that same burning way. Your hips carry the weight of your pack while your shoulders lightly throb. A day’s worth of thoughts are condensed into what feels like seconds. It’s 8am and then it’s 3pm. You follow the same white blaze to new corners of the trail. The sun is rising and then you’re setting up new camp in a new state.
And you continue: minutes into hours into miles into state lines.
And then you fling your pack off. You begin to do your campsite chores: get your bear hang ready, pitch your tent. Blow up your mattress pad and pull out your sleeping bag. Assemble the stove. Pump, purify, and boil water. Take off your hiking boots. Grab your tevas. Sign the shelter log. Apply bug spray. Cook.
Hike your own hike.
It’s funny how quickly you get back to places.
In what felt like minutes I was back in Brooklyn, walking the city streets with my hiking boots. I was heading home to shower, run errands, and then sit in my tiny apartment with a cold beer.
I felt odd not holding a bunch of weight on my back. I felt useless sitting still. I felt…too clean. I also felt a strong sense of attachment to the woods. One day I will be on the trail for much longer than a few days.
But first, I need to figure out why I’d walk 2,168 miles. How will I get there? What pack do I choose, what meals do I cook, how fast will I go, how often will I take days off, who will I go with, which direction will I take?
What does this all really mean for me?
And then I too will get to hike my own hike.
