The "Mosey Slow-downs" in the Bigelow Mts. in Maine on the Appalachian Trail. Martha, Ann, & Cindy
Martha McSweeney Brower, on the Appalachian Trail for a week-long walk with two intrepid companions, brings a fresh perspective to the through-hikers she encounters there (from her essay "Wandering & Pondering on the A.T.," in Deep Wild 2023):
Within our first hour of hiking, a signpost read, "2,000-mile marker of the Appalachian Trail." Then it took the rest of the day for the three of us to hike five miles north from Stratton into the Bigelow mountains of Maine. We clambered over the pocked and pitted massive boulders with thirty-pound packs, some half as big as my house, crawling over them on hands and knees.
Whenever a hiker passed us, I was in awe that they chose to walk these 2190 miles. Story after story tramped by, and I wanted to know why from each of them but didn't ask. They were in a hurry now. They had already hiked over 2,000 miles north from Georgia. They were coming from behind us one second and completely gone the next, like a vision. Most would gasp a quick hello and continue without a pause. And they always passed us. I'm a slow hiker who marvels at every mushroom and patch of moss.
Although we saw people of all ages, most were in their 20s and 30s and had been hiking for four to six months. Most were solitary young men, some with hollow desperate eyes and some with eagerness, rushing to get to Katahdin, the end of the Appalachian Trail. They want to be free of their names, because everything else you did before the A.T. doesn't matter out here in the wilderness. It only matters that you can walk and sleep in the woods, so they give each other fictitious names for their stint on the trail....
"Where you headed?" I asked one wearing a headlamp as she hiked into the black woods. Without hesitation, she answered, "Pearce Pond," which was still miles ahead. Another wanted to catch up with her friends two miles up the trail as the golden sky spread behind the trees, making shadows and silhouettes of pines and mountains.
The most heart-rending was a young woman of about 25 who was all alone. If I had to guess, she might have been a scientist or a computer geek who had been working in a dead-end cubicle somewhere. She had a hole on the seat of her pants patched with a piece of duct tape. She was tall, peaceful, and wore glasses. We asked if she would be camping in the spot where we found her sitting on a rock by the pond, surveying the glassy water.
"You setting up camp here?" I asked.
"No, I'm headed north a few more miles," she said as she lifted herself from the rock. It was getting dark, and this young woman headed into the woods on a trail covered with roots and rocks. What if she got lost? Or tripped, fell, and hurt herself? My soul ached as I watched her walk off into the descending twilight, all alone with miles of wilderness in every direction....
When a butterfly breaks out of its cocoon, its wings strengthen from the effort. So do we too pulse, push, and struggle to find our way in our own time. That's what empowers us to become who we are intended to be.
Watching others strive to complete this demanding journey cemented my conviction that being badass is not easy. To reach a goal, you must be uncompromising and tough to get there. Hiking the A.T. could very well be the University of Badass. For one person, it might simply be a few months of adventure. For another, it is a Herculean effort of grueling hiking while hungry, tired, and depressed. The lessons of the A.T. are like getting a tattoo on the brain, impossible to forget….
Martha McSweeney Brower's essay appears in the current issue of Deep Wild: Writing from the Backcountry, along with the work of 51 other writers. To read more, visit deepwildjournal.com/subscribe
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