A DAY IN THE LIFE

I awake at 5:45AM. I'm wrapped tight in a down quilt, warm as an oven, surrounded by a shade of blue cast by my tent. It's still dark, and all around me is silent except for the steady breathing of Add Coffee. This is my favorite part of the day. I unzip my tent door and unhook a storm fly, rolling it up and out of the way to watch as light creeps over an adjacent ridge eastward. It's cold out there; the chilly fingers of winter caress my face, but my body remains hidden and warm in the down bag.

I roll back over and gently wake Add Coffee, aware that any sudden movement before caffeine hits her blood stream could be my last. Then I unzip the bug net door, slip my feet out into my shoes, and rise out of our home-on-trail. 

I walk a safe distance to the tree in whose branches we've hung our food to prevent rodents, raccoons, or bears from getting, untie the knot that holds the bags and gently lower them to the ground. It's still quite dark and I am forced to use a headlamp for this task- winter is upon us and the days are so short that waking in the dark is necessary. 

Every day on the Appalachian Trail is different, and it is difficult to write a summary of our everyday as weather, terrain, distance from town, fire closures, availability of water, and our energy levels all affect how we approach the day. The method by which we succeeded in getting through New Jersey is not the method that pushes us through Tennessee. For instance, not long ago we were in Maine, rising casually by daylight and in camp before dusk; we are lucky now if we don't have to navigate our last hour by flashlight. 

I walk back over near the tent with the bags, assemble my alcohol stove with its 750ml pot, light it, and begin heating water for tea and oatmeal. It's 6:15AM. I hear Add Coffee begin to stir - a noise like a balloon deflating as she loosens the valve on her sleeping pad, a sure way to get herself moving in the morning. She appears as I take boiling water off the stove and prepares her gas canister stove for the same routine. (Note: when we first started, Caitlin and I shared a canister stove and 1900ml pot. After a month of trying to compromise our different schedules and debates over the best way to boil water, we learned to carry our own cook systems. We like the independence; we've been all smiles at meal time ever since.) The water boils, the tea begins to steep and the oatmeal hydrates, and we watch the earth wake from its slumber.

A bird chirps. A valley dog preaches somewhere far off away to my right. A goose croaks overhead, fading into distance southward, perceptible only due to that mountain morning quiet. The dead leaves rustle ever so softly in unison. The day comes quickly but surprises me every time as the dark fades into light so slowly, imperceptibly.

The first sip of tea in the chill morning quiet of the woods is an unrivaled pleasure - like the smell of pumpkin pie at thanksgiving, or the sight of home rolling into view after a long drive; a jump into cool lake water in a hot southern summer, or the sound of the door opening when you're expecting a dear friend. Familiar; warm; good. We used to make excellent coffee on trail, but abandoned the practice for quicker rituals to combat the short days; we look forward to bringing it back into our daily routines soon. We take this time in the morning to look over our guidebook and discuss where to have lunch and potential places to camp that evening. We look for water sources and flat terrain, shelters and tent sites, always focusing on elevation change- more telling of the day than mere distance. If we have cellular service we might answer messages from family, or we may read or listen to an audiobook at this time. Perhaps I'll work on a blogpost as I do now, under a vibrantly colored canopy with my back to a pine on a crisp morning that boasts 56 degrees. Another sip of tea.

It's 7:15AM or later now- time to get moving. After relieving ourselves far from any water sources (separately- an important distinction), we clean dishes, roll up quilts and sleeping pads, and pull off our warm sleeping layers - we won't need them once we start moving and our bodies warm up. In summer, depending on our tent-site choice, we might knock any slugs - that's right, slugs - off of our gear and wash the trails they've left behind. Our record is 21 in one morning; they appear to like humid, dank areas.

I break down the tent as Add Coffee puts her snacks within arms-reach in her pack, we fill our containers with water from the nearby stream, and camp is broken. It's likely 8:00AM now unless we've decided to get an earlier start and skipped a hot breakfast (a risky decision when your hiking partner's name is "Add Coffee"). To save time, we often brush our teeth while walking.

And then we hike. And we hike some more. And we keep hiking. Keep walking. Backpacking. Traversing. Ascending and descending, climbing, scooting, skipping, crawling, rolling, between-sliding and over-jumping, wandering, moseying, trekking, trudging skirting glisading hobbling wadinghoppingshufflingslippingdancing and ambulating ever closer to Springer Mountain- our southern terminus. We do all the kinds of hiking you can imagine and some you can't. Boiling down our identities we are walkers, taking short breaks here and there between hours of walking. Lately we've been walking through rhododendrons- a nice change of green as we've become accustomed to barren branches and gray forest. 

My favorite time to hike is in the morning; Add Coffee's the evening. Sometimes we walk together and talk about where we want to live or what we want to do after the trail. We talk about news we read recently, or about our convictions and how this experience has strengthened or weakened them. And sometimes we walk separately, drinking in our surroundings in solitude and bracing against strong ridge-line winds, waiting for each other at vistas and breaks. It's been both fun and challenging learning to pace ourselves with one another for a 2000 mile journey, but I'm proud to exclaim we've succeeded for 1800 miles and we're going to walk up and, more importantly, return from Springer together. 

At midday we break for lunch, grateful for rest and nourishment despite snacking all morning. We consume 3000 calories daily at minimum and experience what is known as "hiker hunger"- an insatiable appetite- all the time, which is a product of constant activity day after day. We shovel down tuna with cheese on a tortilla or a similar creation and gather water or study our guidebook as we dream of cheeseburgers and mixed vegetables. Ideally we have less than ten miles remaining of our goal, which typically varies between fifteen and twenty miles a day. Anything less than seventeen feels like a short day at this point. We chemically treat our water and start hiking again. And we keep hiking. Keep walking.

You meet all kinds of people while you walk: normal people and outlandish people, with names like Toothless, Pancake, Crash, and Calorie. Some are out for the weekend escaping work, or out for the week preparing for their PCT hike in spring; others started in Maine or flipped from Harpers Ferry like us. Whoever it is, you value the time to break from the social isolation that accompanies walking south in winter. 

You trade stories about life before the trail or technical gear preferences or animal encounters early into the trip. You talk about the election and family struggles and hardship; you laugh at shared experience and the culture you've come to regard as normal out here and that terribly heavy pack you have because you couldn't practice restraint at the last resupply. You make instant friends, and it is often easy to speak about tough subjects within an hour of introducing yourself because you're out here sharing a unique experience, and that gives you far more in common than the average acquaintance. Anybody can start this, but it takes a certain breed to finish it. Plus you have beards in common.

It's 5:25PM. The sun's setting on our day as we cross over Roan Knob and we have four more miles to our target stealth site- a gap with water, which is rare and valuable in this drought. Darkness will set in in the next half hour, at which time we'll turn on our headlamps and throw on another layer in anticipation of the temp drop. Our coldest night dropped below 20. 

"Night hiking" was unsavory at first, but it is popular for thru hikers with miles to make in limited daylight hours, and we have become accustomed to it and even enjoy some aspects. It is human reaction to fear the woods at night, but it is truly just another part of nature to appreciate. When the moon is full, you can turn off your headlamp and let moonlight guide you, listening to the earth rustle under your feet in the quiet forest as the strongest willed leaves finally surrender and dance down from their boughs. There is beauty in every hour here if you look for it. We try to avoid night hiking during scenic sections where we stand to miss views, and occasionally we get a rush as the reflection of our lights catch in the eyes of some creature in the woods looking back at us. So far it's always been deer.

Around 7:30PM we begin looking for a soft, flat surface to set up. Now that it's cold we avoid staying in shelters, which tend to be drafty and home to mice. Add Coffee finds a limb to toss our bear bag rope over once we've found a site surrounded by firs, and I begin erecting the tent by flashlight. We throw on our warmest layers and blow up our insulating sleeping pads, then begin boiling water for a ramen or rice side with tuna, followed by Nutella or hot chocolate for dessert. 

We sit in our tent as we eat to escape the wind blowing above 4000 feet where we camp, talking about our strategy tomorrow, remembering warmer days in New Hampshire and Maine where we could cowboy camp under a clear night sky beside a mountain lake without fear of freezing weather. We finish our meals and hang the bear bag quickly to avoid any more exposure to the cold than is necessary, and end our evening by 9:00PM. Tight in my down quilt i read Doug Peacock's The Grizzly Years before drifting off for an eight hour night of sleep, undisturbed barring the occasional animal walking by. I sleep comfortably now- the woods, the night, the sound of the wind and Add Coffee rolling over in her quilt- they have become home to me. And so ends another day on the Appalachian Trail.

I tried on the farmer's hat,

 Didn't fit...

A little too small - just a bit

 Too floppy.

Couldn't get used to it,

 Took it off.

I tried on the dancer's shoes

 A little too loose.

Not the kind you could use

 for walkin'.

Didn't feel right in 'em.

 Took 'em off.

I tried on the summer sun,

 Felt good.

Nice and warm - knew it would.

 Tried the grass beneath bare feet,

Felt neat.

 Finally, finally felt well dressed,

Nature's clothes fit me best.

- Shel Silverstein, Tryin' On Clothes