My backpack weighs 31 pounds, and it barely fit into the trunk of Jen and

Steve’s Honda. I don’t think they believed I was actually going through with
this until I called and asked for a ride up the mountain. Jen gave me
that look, that pitying, tight-lipped smile, but she helped Steve and I load up
my things, and then they bought me lunch before dropping me off at the
trailhead. Jen cried, and Steve gave me a can of pepper spray and an
awkward side hug.
So here goes nothing. I’m at Springer Mountain, Georgia, with zero miles
down and only 2,190 miles to go.
See you on the other side.  
Mile 8
I can feel my heartbeat in my feet, but I made it to the first campsite.
I’m exhausted, but in that good I-did-a-hard-thing kind of way. I had
trouble setting up my tent—broke a nail just getting it out of the bag—but
there was another group at the campsite and some nice college kid saw me
struggling, jogged over to help, and then had the whole thing up in under a
minute. He looked at me funny, and I’m sure he was wondering what I was
doing all the way out here instead of lounging on my sofa with a glass of
chardonnay and an Oprah’s book club novel, but he didn’t pry.
Mile 19
Well, I pooped in the woods today. You would have laughed at me as I
hunted for the perfect spot, then deposited and buried my own waste like
some dainty, purebred housecat.
I laughed at myself too.
Mile 49
I’m already behind schedule. I wasted hours repacking my bag yesterday to
redistribute the weight, as one hiker told me it would be less strain on my
back to move the heavier items to the center. So I took everything out and
repacked it as tightly as I could, which took forever. The hiker hovered
nearby the entire time, obnoxiously commentating on all my belongings,
and when he finally left, I sat down to write, only to find I’d somehow
buried my journal. So, I unpacked my whole bag again, rummaging through
my gear like a madwoman, just to then see the journal had been sitting on a
rock next to me the whole time.
Even in the cold spring air, I was red-faced and sweating.
Mile 65
My feet are killing me, but I think I’ve finally broken in these fresh-out-of-
the-box hiking boots.
I fell asleep last night listening to the crickets and thinking about you.
Mile 87
I met an interesting hiker today who said this was his second thru hike. He
looked at least 10 years older than me and called himself “Pinetree.” All skin
and bones with a long scraggly beard, he looked like a castaway stranded in
the woods, though I got the sense he liked the solitude. He’d jutted out his
bearded chin at me and said, “Nobo?”
“What?” I huffed out.
“North bound?”
“North bound? Oh. Yes. I am.” I had to pause and catch my breath after
each sentence. “Just getting started.”
He looked me over and clicked his tongue. “You’re carrying too much
weight.”
I was momentarily offended before realizing he meant my pack. “How?! I
left so much behind. I need all of this.”
He was quiet, chewing his lip. “Give it a few more miles. You won’t feel that
way then.”
We continued walking; his stride was twice that of mine, but he slowed and
matched my speed, and we hiked in companionable silence until I stopped
for lunch.
He kept walking. “When you’re ready to let some of that go, you’ll feel much
lighter. Trust me.” Then with a final, “take care out there,” he disappeared
around the next bend.
His reprimand irritated me, but the frustration kept me going for a good
four or five more miles.
I envied him: so confident and free.
He reminded me of you.
Mile 112
I pulled eight ticks off my legs yesterday. There were probably more where I
couldn’t see them, and that thought kept me awake all night, tossing and
turning and twitching in my tent until the exhaustion pulled me into fitful
sleep. I dreamt that my hiking boots jumped off a cliff, and I had to walk the
rest of the trail with my feet covered in orange plastic ramen noodle
wrappers.
Mile 148
I met some thru hikers from South Dakota (which I had completely
forgotten was a state) who were both in their 80’s! We talked the whole way,
and it helped the miles pass quickly.
They told me the secret to longevity is to never stop moving.
Mile 162
I’ve been making better time; today was my record so far—14 miles. A rather
uneventful 14 miles, though I did see a porcupine, which was interesting. I
always thought they’d be…spikier…?  
At the shelter, I removed three shirts, a book, and a tube of lotion from my
backpack and left them in a giveaway box. It made a surprisingly noticeable
difference.
Mile 169
Well, those 14 miles about killed me. I slept late today, then took two
ibuprofen before even getting out of my tent. My back hurt, my feet hurt—
even my earlobes hurt.
The last thing I wanted to do was put those boots back on my swollen feet
and walk.
Mile 202
Regret tastes sour and so do the dry ridges of my dehydrated gums.
What am I even doing out here?
Mile 327
I hiked 18 miles yesterday but took today off. I needed to replenish my food,
as I guess there’s going to be a good stretch before I reach another town (I’m
still learning how to read maps and plan ahead). I bought groceries and
some new clothes, as my pants are starting to hang on me, then checked
into a motel and took the first real shower I’ve had since leaving Georgia. I
stood there until the water ran cold, then laid down on the sheets and
passed out until my grumbling stomach woke me up. I ordered a large
pepperoni pizza and ate the entire thing myself.
Then I called the pizza place back and ordered another one.
Mile 463
Made it into Virginia. It’s been raining for three days. The trails are slush,
my boots are filthy, and I feel like a wet rag.
I want to go home.
Mile 567
I made a small group of friends who have sort of pulled me into their circle
and let me tag along the last 50 miles or so. Melons is a vet tech from
Florida, whose cleavage makes introductions before she does. Huckleberry
is a lanky 22-year-old who wears his pants rolled at the ankles and hikes in
crocs. Seems impractical to me, but he says it’s comfortable. Aunt Jemima is
a hulking middle-aged Norwegian man who loves breakfast food and lugs
around a flat top campfire griddle. He’s made us pancakes almost every
morning, and it’s become one of my favorite parts of each day. Easily the
largest man I’ve ever met, Aunt Jemima often smacks his head on low
hanging branches as we hike, eliciting a string of game-like sound effects
from Huckleberry like “doink” and “boing.”
Their company has changed everything, and I’ve laughed more in the last
few days than I have in years.
Mile 653
Today was HARD. The terrain was rugged and uneven. I made a game,
tracking how many hours ago I could go without tripping.
I never actually made it a whole hour.
Mile 713
Melons, Huckleberry, and Aunt Jemima decided to take a detour;
Huckleberry’s family lives nearby and invited everyone to stay for a few
days, but I wanted to keep going.
We all exchanged contact information, then parted ways.
Mile 806
You don’t feel the blisters until you stop.
Mile 878
I’m tired of hearing my own breathing, tired of TREES, tired of freeze-dried
soup, tired of having nothing but time to think about everything I should
have done differently in my life.
I don’t know who I thought I was, why I ever thought I could do this.
Mile 900
I almost quit yesterday, and then I met an angel.  
I was 7 miles into the day, feeling like there was no possible way I could
make it to the next shelter, nevertheless all the way to the tip of Maine,
when I walked straight into a spider web, tripped over a rock, then
faceplanted in a patch of ferns. I was so angry, I hurled my backpack against
a tree, pulling a back muscle in the process. Then I sat down and just
sobbed.
Everything hurt; I was sunburned, hungry, and ready to call it quits and
admit to the world that I couldn’t do it.
Then the next thing I knew, I was on my back, staring up at the floppy, wet
tongue of a gigantic Great Dane. I struggled to sit up, and when I did, it
nuzzled its massive head into my shoulder, and without thinking, I draped
my arms over its neck. I realized then it was the closest thing I’d had to
an embrace since Steve’s stiff-armed goodbye hug.
Shortly after, I heard someone whistling and calling for “Karen,” then saw a
gray-haired woman heading down the trail. She took one look at me—at my
pack thrown into the ferns, my scraped-up knees, and her dog (which was
indeed named Karen) with its head on my shoulder—then looked me right
in the eye and asked if I liked lasagna.
She introduced herself as “Zippy” as we walked a side trail up to her place. I
could smell oregano before I saw the cabin. She’d made two bubbling-hot
pans of the best lasagna I’d ever had and never asked if I wanted seconds of
anything, but just continued to load food onto my plate the second I’d
cleared it.
After dinner, we sat on her couch and talked about the hike—the solitude,
the friendships you make, and the boredom too. I’d gone a few days without
really talking to anyone and when she asked why I was doing it, it was like
a dam broke within me, and I cried—ugly, shaking sobs that rattled our
teacups on the side table. She let me cry, let me talk.
I told her that hiking the AT was never my dream, that I never wanted to
put my life on pause to traipse up and down mountains and live out of a
backpack for half a year.
Then I told her about you—how this was always your dream, your
adventure, how you begged me to hike it with you…bought me my own gear
and everything…because I had told you I would.
Then I told her how every time you brought up the hike, I shut you down—
put you off with a “maybe next spring,” and “things are so busy with work
right now,” or “how about when we retire.”
How naïve I was to think time would wait for us; sometimes hearts stop
beating, and they never start up again.
I know I can’t blame myself for that, but I blame myself for giving you the
false hope that I’d join you when I never had any intention of looping my
arms through that purple backpack you hung in the garage next to yours.
You waited for me, and now it’s too late for you. We should have been doing
this together, and now you’ll never have the chance.
This hike has been hard—the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but you
would have loved every minute of it. And I would have loved to do this with
you.
I felt lighter the next day than I had the whole trip. Even with a belly full of
lasagna.
Mile 989
How am I STILL in Virginia?
I left a multitool, some too-big hiking shorts, and an extra flashlight in a
shelter box.
Mile 1057
This muggy dog-breath summer air is making my skin crawl…
I dropped the gasket of my water filter in a creek today and stood staring
into the brown trickle for several minutes trying to find the thing before I
realized I was standing about a foot away from a coiled-up copperhead. My
blood turned to ice—a momentary reprieve from the suffocating heat—and
then I spun myself away from the thing with the agility of a woman 20 years
younger.
So, I didn’t get bitten by a snake, but I never did find that gasket.
Mile 1132
You wouldn’t believe who I ran into today: Melons, Huckleberry, and Aunt
Jemima.
I must be that slow of a hiker.
Melons gave me a big hug, squished me right in between her giant bosom.
Huckleberry was wearing real boots—said he’d lost his crocs in a river and
had to walk a mile and a half in socks before he could buy new shoes.
Someone made Aunt Jemima an apron with a picture of a giant backpacker
flipping pancakes. He said he wears it every morning.
Mile 1281
Almost through Pennsylvania.
I know I’ve complained a lot, but today was one of those days where all the
blood, sweat, and tears felt like they were worth something. I woke up
before sunrise, made hot coffee, and climbed to an overlook where the
valley stretched below, still shrouded in shadow. I watched the sun rise and
shed light on each curve and dip of the land. Birds chirped all around me,
leaves danced in the breeze, and I felt you there with me.
For the first time, I couldn’t wait to get moving.
Mile 1359
Did I tell you I’ve been given a trail name?
Scribe.
Mile 1422
We’ve made it to New York! Melons and I hitchhiked into town today and
got pedicures, mostly just to see the looks on the beautician’s faces when
they saw our feet (that and I was dying for a foot massage). I picked out
some bright red nail polish and sunk down into a massage chair, but when I
peeled my socks away, my left pinky toenail came clean off and landed right
in the sudsy water.
I didn’t feel a thing.
The poor lady painted the nail-less stub of my toe anyway, and now you can
hardly tell anything is missing.
Mile 1614
The terrain has been fairly steep the past few days but absolutely gorgeous.
We’ve made it into Vermont, and the gang and I stopped for a much-
deserved night at a motel. The motel served scrambled eggs at the
continental breakfast the next morning, and between the four of us, we
must have eaten two dozen eggs. Aunt Jemima wasn’t impressed with their
pancakes, but he still ate enough for a football team.
Mile 1736
I’ve made it to New Hampshire. From Georgia. WITH MY OWN TWO
FEET. I can hardly believe it. There have been so many days when I’ve
wanted nothing more than to give up and go home, but now that I’m getting
close to the end, I’m almost afraid. What happens when it’s over?
Mile 1901
I beat my own record and walked 24 miles today. Every muscle in my body
is screaming, and I barely have the energy to hold up this pen, but I just had
to say one thing: I’m sorry.
I’m sorry you never got to see what I’ve seen or walk where I’ve walked, but
I hope you know that I have carried you with me every step of the way. I
know it doesn’t change anything, but wherever you are, I hope you know
that you are what has pushed me through these mountains.
Mile 2032
We’re in Maine! We celebrated crossing into the last state with way too
much beer, and Huckleberry, in his inebriated condition, forgot to pack up
his food. Well wouldn’t you know, around 1 in the morning, I started
hearing this huffing and rustling, and I thought maybe it was Huckleberry
getting sick, so I ran out of my tent to check on him and came nose to nose
with the ugliest black bear I’ve ever seen. It was missing one ear and had a
ragged scar across his eye.
I froze, panicking—what was I supposed to do again? Run? Play dead?
Scream? I just knew I was about to be mauled to death, when suddenly Aunt
Jemima stepped down from the shelter, walked up to that bear with his
chest puffed out, and started yodeling. Yes. Yodeling. Deep, reverberating,
melodic howls. I’d never heard anything like it in my life, and that bear
must have thoroughly hated it, because it took off.
I slept like a rock knowing that ugly bear was off telling all his friends about
the terrible yodeling monster I call Aunt Jemima.
Mile 2178
Tomorrow, we hike Mount Katahdin—the last leg of the Appalachian trail!!
Mile 2191
It was a grueling trek up 4,000 feet of rocky elevation, but I made it.
I MADE IT!!
There’s a picture of me, Melons, Huckleberry, and Aunt Jemima, our arms
outstretched at the big wooden “Mount Katahdin” sign, and I’ve never seen
such a wide smile on my face.
I looked confident—free.
The four of us lingered at the top for a while, reveling in our victory, then
the others left me alone:
So you and I could have a few moments to ourselves.
And that’s when I set you free.
I lifted the cap on the small, cylindrical urn I’d carried with me through
sunshine and rain for the past 2000 miles, and I sprinkled your ashes into
the wind. You spread your wings and flew over the mountain, settling
yourself in the rocks and rivers and valleys of beautiful, wild Maine.
We’re thru hikers now, you and me.
And I couldn’t have done it without you.