My First Step on the Appalachian Trail
By Kristie Camp
Part 1: Signs
Let me begin with a comment for the real hikers out there – the thru-hikers who spend days on the trail and carry packs that weigh as much as the hikers themselves do – I am not as tough or as dedicated or as accomplished as you are in hiking. Let’s establish that fact first. I don’t claim to have any revolutionary insight or any tips about getting more out of a trail experience or any knowledge about what a person should do to stay hydrated. I am an amateur day hiker, just someone who enjoys a few hours in the woods, walking and thinking and pretending I am channeling Thoreau.
But that doesn’t stop me from observing and contemplating and maybe even learning a life lesson or two in my two or three hours communing with nature. And I am fully aware of Ed Abbey’s scalding commentary about part-timers like me (For the record, though, I don’t own boots from JC Penney; my husband, Marc, bought mine from REI), but still I insist on walking the trail as a part-timer. So, if you are a true hiker, one who scoffs at amateurs like me, then you may want to swipe on and find a blog from someone who has made it from Georgia to Maine. But then, maybe a novice’s look might offer a fresh perspective. Or maybe renew a life-long love of the trail. Or maybe prompt a superior chuckle. If so, read on.
I spent most of my childhood playing in the woods, and my husband even proposed to me atop a waterfall on a trail at Chimney Rock, NC, while we were hiking one November afternoon, but I never thought that made me a hiker. Marc and I started taking frequent short walks in the woods fairly recently, though, and since I live in the foothills, I have dozens of trails within an hour-or-so drive of my house. Yet, the lure of the Appalachian Trail has beckoned me since I heard its name used as Mark Sanford’s alibi when he was actually flying off in a state plane for a rendezvous with his Argentinian girlfriend. The signs kept pointing for me to try it out – articles and books and movies seemed to appear out of nowhere, dropping magical stories of the AT into my newsfeed, tempting me. Then, one afternoon, while driving somewhere, Marc and I started discussing our anniversary plans. We would be out of school before our anniversary this year (June 1), so we would actually be able to take a short trip on our wedding date to celebrate. I offered Grandfather Mountain first; my husband loves the mountains, and we hadn’t been to the swinging bridge, yet. Then, Savannah came into the conversation somewhere, and I still want to pursue that option again and soon. But then Marc said, “We could go back down to Helen, again.”
“That is so weird,” I replied. “I had been thinking the very same thing.”
When telepathy is involved, I follow. Especially when the start of the AT is just a few miles outside of Helen, Georgia, on Springer Mountain, and especially since the AT crosses right over the highway that is main street in Helen. The mountains truly were calling, and I had to answer. The start of the AT awaited, the very gate where thousands of people stood every year, ready to tackle more than 2000 miles of wooded introspection from Georgia all the way to Maine. A footpath that slices through the heart of the Appalachian Mountains as if it were slicing off the eastern piece of American cake. To walk the same path as those other travelers, to wave my hand over the barks of trees that others had rested against, to park myself on a rock others had stepped over was to sample immortality, to tap into a common store of human magic that bound us all as living creatures.
So, we set off south to Helen, Georgia, and arrived mid-day, just in time for lunch. Our first stop was the visitors center for coupons and maps and brochures. The attendant at the visitors center was an older gentleman who seemed so pleased to answer my questions; he offered me a map and told me exactly how to reach the entrance points to the AT. In fact, he offered, “Have you seen ‘A Walk in the Woods’?”
“No, but I have read the book. I want to watch the movie,” I answered.
“Well, you know they filmed a lot of it right here,” he said. “Especially at the entrance.”
More signs that I must find the trail. After another quick conversation about a local place for an inexpensive but authentic lunch, we hit a German restaurant on the Chattahoochee River, had Reuben sandwiches for lunch, and then headed down the main highway to find where the AT crossed our path.
Just a few miles down the road, according to our visitors center gentleman. “Certainly, there will be signs; don’t you think?” I asked Marc.
“You would think so if this is as big a deal as you make it out to be,” he replied.
Yet, we drove right past it. And there were signs, but the signs were on the back side of a small, indented parking lot where we had to pull into the parking lot to see. As soon as we knew we had gone too far, we decided to go back and check out the small parking lot we had passed, and sure enough, there were the signs indicating that we had connected with the AT.
I got out of our Jeep and opened the back.
“Are we going to hike now?” Marc asked.
“Just a little bit today here at this crossing, ok? About a mile in and back here at this point, and then we will go to the entrance tomorrow. Is that cool?” I responded as I ditched my flip-flops and started putting on those socks and hiking shoes he had bought me from REI.
By Kristie Camp
Part 1: Signs
Let me begin with a comment for the real hikers out there – the thru-hikers who spend days on the trail and carry packs that weigh as much as the hikers themselves do – I am not as tough or as dedicated or as accomplished as you are in hiking. Let’s establish that fact first. I don’t claim to have any revolutionary insight or any tips about getting more out of a trail experience or any knowledge about what a person should do to stay hydrated. I am an amateur day hiker, just someone who enjoys a few hours in the woods, walking and thinking and pretending I am channeling Thoreau.
But that doesn’t stop me from observing and contemplating and maybe even learning a life lesson or two in my two or three hours communing with nature. And I am fully aware of Ed Abbey’s scalding commentary about part-timers like me (For the record, though, I don’t own boots from JC Penney; my husband, Marc, bought mine from REI), but still I insist on walking the trail as a part-timer. So, if you are a true hiker, one who scoffs at amateurs like me, then you may want to swipe on and find a blog from someone who has made it from Georgia to Maine. But then, maybe a novice’s look might offer a fresh perspective. Or maybe renew a life-long love of the trail. Or maybe prompt a superior chuckle. If so, read on.
I spent most of my childhood playing in the woods, and my husband even proposed to me atop a waterfall on a trail at Chimney Rock, NC, while we were hiking one November afternoon, but I never thought that made me a hiker. Marc and I started taking frequent short walks in the woods fairly recently, though, and since I live in the foothills, I have dozens of trails within an hour-or-so drive of my house. Yet, the lure of the Appalachian Trail has beckoned me since I heard its name used as Mark Sanford’s alibi when he was actually flying off in a state plane for a rendezvous with his Argentinian girlfriend. The signs kept pointing for me to try it out – articles and books and movies seemed to appear out of nowhere, dropping magical stories of the AT into my newsfeed, tempting me. Then, one afternoon, while driving somewhere, Marc and I started discussing our anniversary plans. We would be out of school before our anniversary this year (June 1), so we would actually be able to take a short trip on our wedding date to celebrate. I offered Grandfather Mountain first; my husband loves the mountains, and we hadn’t been to the swinging bridge, yet. Then, Savannah came into the conversation somewhere, and I still want to pursue that option again and soon. But then Marc said, “We could go back down to Helen, again.”
“That is so weird,” I replied. “I had been thinking the very same thing.”
When telepathy is involved, I follow. Especially when the start of the AT is just a few miles outside of Helen, Georgia, on Springer Mountain, and especially since the AT crosses right over the highway that is main street in Helen. The mountains truly were calling, and I had to answer. The start of the AT awaited, the very gate where thousands of people stood every year, ready to tackle more than 2000 miles of wooded introspection from Georgia all the way to Maine. A footpath that slices through the heart of the Appalachian Mountains as if it were slicing off the eastern piece of American cake. To walk the same path as those other travelers, to wave my hand over the barks of trees that others had rested against, to park myself on a rock others had stepped over was to sample immortality, to tap into a common store of human magic that bound us all as living creatures.
So, we set off south to Helen, Georgia, and arrived mid-day, just in time for lunch. Our first stop was the visitors center for coupons and maps and brochures. The attendant at the visitors center was an older gentleman who seemed so pleased to answer my questions; he offered me a map and told me exactly how to reach the entrance points to the AT. In fact, he offered, “Have you seen ‘A Walk in the Woods’?”
“No, but I have read the book. I want to watch the movie,” I answered.
“Well, you know they filmed a lot of it right here,” he said. “Especially at the entrance.”
More signs that I must find the trail. After another quick conversation about a local place for an inexpensive but authentic lunch, we hit a German restaurant on the Chattahoochee River, had Reuben sandwiches for lunch, and then headed down the main highway to find where the AT crossed our path.
Just a few miles down the road, according to our visitors center gentleman. “Certainly, there will be signs; don’t you think?” I asked Marc.
“You would think so if this is as big a deal as you make it out to be,” he replied.
Yet, we drove right past it. And there were signs, but the signs were on the back side of a small, indented parking lot where we had to pull into the parking lot to see. As soon as we knew we had gone too far, we decided to go back and check out the small parking lot we had passed, and sure enough, there were the signs indicating that we had connected with the AT.
I got out of our Jeep and opened the back.
“Are we going to hike now?” Marc asked.
“Just a little bit today here at this crossing, ok? About a mile in and back here at this point, and then we will go to the entrance tomorrow. Is that cool?” I responded as I ditched my flip-flops and started putting on those socks and hiking shoes he had bought me from REI.
Part 2 coming later…
Photo above is the day Marc proposed to me at the waterfall near Chimney Rock, NC. To the right is a photo of us at lunch at the German restaurant on the river. We watched people tubing right past us. |
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Kristie Camp 