A Solo-female Thru-hiker’s Journey on the Appalachian Trail (Part 2) with Guest Writer Ann Marie White
The Appalachian Trail is 2,193.1 miles long, and last year I hiked every step of it over the course of 165 days. The dream of thru-hiking the AT took root when I was ten years old, and on March 21, 2021, twelve years later, I climbed the first mountain, beginning my adventure. Over the next few months, I hiked through fourteen states along the East Coast, exploring the world, making new friends, and riding the rollercoaster of struggles and triumphs that is the Appalachian Trail.
Georgia holds the first 77 miles of the AT for northbound thru-hikers (aka NOBOs). Though not the most obviously beautiful state, Georgia holds a special place in my heart because it was the first time I experienced such freedom. I was on my own. I could hike however far, however fast I wanted. I took breaks when I needed, set up camp when I felt done for the day. And all I had to do each day was walk, eat, drink, and sleep. No rushing to get to the car so I could get home and do things the real world requires like running errands or going to work. This was my day. Walking through skeletal trees, staring at mountain views, talking to other hikers, living free.
“...all I had to do each day was walk, eat, drink, and sleep. No rushing to get to the car so I could get home and do things the real world requires like running errands or going to work. This was my day. Walking through skeletal trees, staring at mountain views, talking to other hikers, living free.”
North Carolina and Tennessee are lumped together in my mind because the AT follows their shared border for the majority of its time in these states. They are the states of my first real trail friends. Cimba*–who I met on day one and hiked the first 450 miles with–sharing the last trail magic** donut with me when I was literally starving in the Smokies, my stomach painfully cramping and growling with emptiness. Vista, teaming up with me to combat negative thru-hiker stereotypes. Pluto, always wearing a smile through the cold and rain. Dingo, teaching me how to play Australian-rules football (it’s WILD, look it up). Woody, swapping in-depth retellings of the plots of our favorite musicals, crushing Guitar Hero in an arcade in Gatlinburg, and helping me get out of the woods when I was violently vomiting from norovirus. I made so many more friends as I hiked north, but North Carolina and Tennessee are home to the very first.
Virginia contains about a fourth of the entire length of the AT, and is often characterized by the “Virginia Blues” to most hikers. The “Virginia Blues” is the feeling many hikers get while hiking through those 544 miles– the feeling that the miles are dragging on, that each day is monotonous and no longer a grand adventure. Basically, the honeymoon period of their relationship with the AT is gone, and they’re settling into the trail’s version of real life. But not for me. Virginia was full of ever-changing new experiences. From the wild ponies of the Grayson Highlands, to the incredible beauty of the triple crown area (Dragon’s Tooth, McAfee Knob, and Tinker Cliffs), blueberry milkshakes in Shenandoah National Park, and the struggle of a section called the Rollercoaster, Virginia is jam-packed with amazing new things around every curve. So many highlights in this one state, I don’t understand how people get bored.
Ann Marie at the iconic McAfee Knob overlook
West Virginia is the fifth state, and is honestly too short for me to really have an opinion of it. The AT is fully in West Virginia for four miles (excluding the roughly twenty miles where it skirts the VA/WV border). It’s notable as the state with the town of Harpers Ferry and the headquarters for the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, which are cool, but that’s it. You cross a bridge over the Potomac River and boom, you’re in Maryland.
Maryland is also a short state, at only about 40 miles long. Some people attempt what is dubbed “the four state challenge”-- hiking in four states in 24 hours. Starting just outside the VA/WV border, one hikes from Virginia, through West Virginia and Maryland, into Pennsylvania for a total of about 44 miles within a 24 hour period. I know a few hikers who completed it, and many who did not. The decision on whether to attempt or not was made for me. Maryland was where my headaches began. I was only in Maryland for a day and a half, but the whole state was nothing but rain and pain. Two staples of the Appalachian Trail. By my first night in Pennsylvania, I was soaked and shivering with a high fever in my tent. My troubles were just beginning.
Pennsylvania will possibly forever be my least favorite state. The southern portion is beautiful, lots of traipsing through corn and wheat fields. But after Duncannon, the infamous rocks begin. Miles and miles of trail in PA are covered in golf ball- to bicycle-sized rocks, all attempting to trip you up. And that wasn’t even my biggest problem in that state. In Boiling Springs, PA, I went to the hospital with a painful swollen eye, and blurry, double vision. After hours of waiting in the emergency room, I was diagnosed with a mass in my sinus cavity. Very long story short, I had surgery to remove the mass and was told I couldn’t hike for at least two weeks or risk popping something in my head and contracting meningitis, or worse. So I went home to South Carolina for two weeks, while all my friends continued hiking north.
Exactly two weeks from the day of my surgery, I returned to the hospital in Pennsylvania and was cleared to hike. That afternoon, I hiked eight miles. My dad slackpacked me (meaning I carried only a day’s worth of snacks instead of my whole pack and spent the night in a hotel) for the first three days to make sure I was recovered enough to hike before he drove back to SC. During those three days, I had the most terrifying experience of my life–running for my life across a ridgeline from a severe thunderstorm, and watching a hiker ten feet in front of me have a tree fall on him after it was struck by lightning. We both got down the mountain okay, but there was about twenty minutes of pure terror beforehand.
After my dad left, Pennsylvania was very lonely. There were a few hikers around me, but they all zoomed past me as I was still recovering from surgery and had lost my trail legs. Pennsylvania was the lowest part of the trail for me, easily one of the most difficult times in my life. I’d been alone many times before, but this was deeper. This verged on desolation.
But as they say, it’s always darkest before dawn. I survived Pennsylvania, which did have its highlights amidst the struggle, and reached New Jersey. New Jersey brought redemption. New Jersey reminded me why I love hiking. Why I was out there. Why I would hike Pennsylvania again and again, just to keep pursuing this love. And it wasn’t because the loneliness ended. I made a few friends in New Jersey, but no one I stuck around with for long. No, New Jersey wasn’t friends. It was views that were more than just fields and the same ridgeline running parallel to mine every time. It was swimming in lakes and rivers, because I was hot and I could. There was no one there to discuss taking an unplanned break to swim for a few hours; there was no there at all, and there was also no plan. No one talks about New Jersey when they discuss the AT, which I guess I understand. When you have states like Virginia, New Hampshire, and Maine, New Jersey doesn’t have much to offer. But for me, it gave me the priceless gift of reignited love, and I will never stop being thankful for that.
With New York came a new era. It was very dry, and very hot, so I was often filtering from sketchy water sources. But with the never-ending rocks, came new friends. Friends I would spend multiple states hiking with, two that I would finish with. My favorite New York memory was the day I hitched into the town of Warwick, NY where a drive-in movie theater allows thru-hikers to camp and watch movies for free. They even provided us with battery-powered radios to share so we could listen. I counted seventeen tents and three hammocks when I was packing up the next morning, and some people had already taken theirs down. It wasn’t the nature experience many, including myself, flock to the trail to find, but it was the community that I’d seen time and time again before Pennsylvania. And that in New York I found again.
Connecticut was a state of adjusting. I hadn’t hiked any ‘real’ mountains consistently since Tennessee, and all of a sudden Connecticut was throwing them at me again. Southbound hikers (SOBOs) kept remarking on how easy Connecticut felt as they passed me, and I began to battle imposter syndrome. I’d hiked 1400 miles to get this far, and yet I felt less than the hikers passing me who had only hiked about 800. Which is a ridiculous statement in many ways. Miles ultimately don’t matter. You will continue to struggle on climbs, no matter how far you’ve hiked. Comparing yourself to other hikers is also ridiculous. Who cares how far or fast they go? All that matters is that you meet the goals you’ve set for you. Or you are at least satisfied with your effort to reach those goals, and you try harder next time.
A view of the Great Smokey Mountains from the AT
And that phrase, only hiked X miles. I’ve always hated when I heard hikers saying they’ve only hiked X miles (X being something they deem a low number), or that they’re only a day hiker. Who cares? You’re out here, hiking. That’s amazing. Don’t focus on how far, or for how long. Do what makes you happy, and fits in your schedule. Stop comparing. Stop racing. Just go outside and hike. Or ride your bike/horse/friend if they’ll give you a piggyback ride. Anyway, I’ve gotten off topic. The point is, I had hiked over two thirds of one of the U.S.’s longest trails, and I was still comparing myself. So as my legs adjusted to the hills of Connecticut, I worked on adjusting my mindset too, for the umpteenth time (can’t say I was entirely successful, but I made progress).
“You’re out here, hiking. That’s amazing. Don’t focus on how far, or for how long. Do what makes you happy, and fits in your schedule. Stop comparing. Stop racing. Just go outside and hike. ”
Despite having been hiking for so long, Massachusetts brought a phenomenon that I experienced for the very first time. Silence. Climbing up Mt. Greylock was the first time, but not the last, that I encountered the most complete silence I’ve ever heard. No birds singing, no wind sighing through the trees. When I paused in my hiking, there was absolutely nothing. Many times I held my breath because it felt wrong to be shattering such silence with my huffing and puffing. The silence was so strong I could feel it; it felt like a brick against my ear drums. Harsh, yet beautiful. I’m always listening to something while I hike–if the birds aren’t singing, I do, or I listen to music. But when I heard this, I stopped my music, and listened with a reverent awe. To make sound was to sin. It was incredible.
Vermont felt like it flew by, despite lasting 150 miles and nine days. I have many great memories from Vermont, filled with my friends Pickles, Pace, and Fiddlehead. Lots of swimming and beautiful views, and so much green. This may be cheesy, as the trail traverses the Green Mountains for part of Vermont, but Vermont really is very green. Contrasting with the dark brown mud that saturates the trail, the green of the ferns, leaves, moss, and needles held a brightness that few colors could rival. I have more pictures of beautiful trail scenes than mountain vistas from my time in Vermont, and it’s not because those views didn’t exist.
Mt. Lincoln of Franconia Ridge in New Hampshire
New Hampshire. My one true love. My soul mate. New Hampshire is the definition of majesty, and if it were a person, he’d be waaaay out of my league. I can’t do justice to the grandeur of New Hampshire, so I’ll let a picture do the talking for me. Franconia Ridge was my absolute favorite part of the mountain range, with its grassy sides and sharp angled peaks unseen anywhere else on the East Coast. The Presidential Range, which my friends and I hiked in one day and ended up racing down Mt. Madison (which many believe to be the most difficult descent of the whole trail) in the dark and the rain, contains a contrasting beauty to Franconia, with dark colors and awe-inspiring barrenness where Franconia has lush grass. I could sing the praises of the White Mountains until the Internet runs out of space, and it still wouldn’t do it justice.
And then, Maine. The fourteenth and final state of the Appalachian Trail. The grand finale to my lifelong dream. But I’ll cover that in my next installment. In this one, I’ve attempted to sum up the rest of my five and a half month journey, and there’s so many things I had to leave out or else you’d still be reading this post a month from now. I hope you’ve enjoyed this brief taste of my experience, and that maybe you begin to understand my passion. Why I wanted to hike 2,193.1 miles.
Ann Marie on Cheoah Bald in North Carolina
When you step outside, yes, there’s rain, loneliness, bugs (I didn’t mention this, but Massachusetts was bursting at the seams with mosquitos). You have to adjust to discomfort and pain. But the joys of the outdoors far outweighs all of that. The freedom. The community of friends, who all share your passion. The new experiences, like walking through a tunnel of green and encountering the purest silence.
“Who cares if you hike 2000 miles, or 0.1? The redemption and solace that can be found in the majesty of creation awaits.”
Who cares if you hike 2000 miles, or 0.1? The redemption and solace that can be found in the majesty of creation awaits.
Footnotes
*During long distance hiking trips, many hikers choose to go by a trail name rather than their real name. These names typically have something to do with the hiker’s appearance, special talents, or something that happened to them. My trail name is Monkey Toes because I can pick stuff up, turn doorknobs, and even tie shoelaces with my feet!
**Trail magic is when someone, called a trail angel, gives something to hikers for free. Trail angels typically set up by the side of the trail or in a parking area at a trailhead to give hikers good food, but trail magic can also be in the form of a free ride or a free place to sleep. These wonderful people expect nothing in return for their kindness, and hikers are forever grateful for them.
