101 Miles on the Appalachian Trail Saved My Life.

A Grandiose Idea

My goals have always been grand, over-the-top, magnificent ideas that look good on paper but never quite play out in real life. I guess you could consider me an official card-carrying member of the Go Big or Go Home Club. The problem is that membership has never held many benefits for me. My grandiose ideas tend to set me up for failure.

As a child growing up on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia, I would spend every minute I could outside. Weekends were consumed with adventure—building tree forts, riding go-carts, and leading my younger brother and cousins on expeditions deep into the woods behind our house. After Saturday morning cartoons, we packed our tin lunchboxes and set off for a morning of exploration. It was the 1970’s. The absence of cell phones, the internet, and paranoia over letting kids be kids, meant we were free to be just that—kids.

At 10 years old, I fancied myself an expert expedition leader. I always had something grand planned for those Saturday mornings. There was a place not too far away where people would dump junk over a hill in the woods—old furniture, mattresses, car parts. We would scavenge through these treasures and build forts out of them. In those days, I had two heroes—one was Tarzan, and the other was Evel Knievel. I remember piling up discarded mattresses and swan-diving off the top of the hill onto them. It was about a ten-foot drop, just enough to feel airborne for a couple seconds. We would do this for hours, competing to see who could jump the highest and with the best form.

I have always been fascinated with Bigfoot. My 10-year-old self was convinced that Sasquatch inhabited the forest behind our house. At the end of the day’s expedition, as we were climbing a rather steep hill that led to our home, I would make the announcement, “Big Foot is coming!” This would lead to pandemonium. Each child would claw their way up the hill, grabbing at one another to ensure they were not the last to reach the top—because everyone knew the last one would be carried off by the giant cryptid and consumed. Or worse, raised as a squatch, never to see another episode of Scooby Doo. Surely, a fate worse than death.

When we reached home, our faces were smeared with red Georgia clay, snot, and tears. The war paint of yet another successful Saturday. We would empty our lunch tins of the blackberries we picked along the way and be treated to blackberry milkshakes. The perfect ending to a perfect adventure.

Those Saturdays were born of grandiose ideas, the kind that would carry through to my 56-year-old self, and the idea of walking to Maine.

My inspiration

The Appalachian Trail is something that everyone has heard of, but not everyone knows much about. Around ten years ago, I became interested in America’s most beloved footpath after watching the movie “A Walk in the Woods”, based on Bill Bryson’s book of the same title. I set out to learn everything I could about it. I quickly discovered the story of Emma “Grandma” Gatewood, who in 1955 at the age of 67 would become the first woman to solo hike the entire Appalachian Trail. I became fascinated by folks, known as thru-hikers, who hike the nearly 2,200-mile trail in one go—a trail that passes through fourteen states from Georgia to Maine, or Maine to Georgia, depending on which way you’re headed.

Each year I select a handful of these hikers and follow their journey on social media. These journeys take an average of six months to complete. Some do it faster. A trail runner named Tara Downer recently completed it in forty-one days, breaking the record for the fastest known time (FNT). For some, it takes a bit longer. Each of these hikers inspired me tremendously and sparked yet another grandiose idea – to do it myself.

Springer Mountain: Showing up empty-handed

I put a tremendous amount of research into this undertaking, reading everything I could get my hands on.  I bought all the right gear and tested it out. I even did a mini shakedown hike, purposely camping in freezing rain. It was miserable.

My training consisted mainly of gym workouts. I live at sea level. My house sits at twenty-seven feet of elevation. It is nearly impossible to train for elevation hiking. Needless to say, I wasn’t very well prepared. I suppose my rationale was that it would sort itself out. The trail would train me. One day’s hike would prepare me for the next—that was my reasoning. While it is true that there is no better training for hiking than hiking, you need to condition yourself as much as possible for an undertaking such as a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. It is extremely hard—physically, mentally and emotionally. I showed up empty-handed, weighing 315 pounds.

I will never forget the day I was dropped off and left for dead in the middle of the woods. It was glorious. My wife and mother drove me up from South Georgia. We spent the night at the lodge at Amicalola and I took a shuttle to the Springer Mountain trailhead the next morning. I could have hiked up the 7.5-mile approach trail from Amicalola but forget that noise – those miles don’t count. I was just fine with starting at the beginning – Springer Mountain.

Standing there all alone at the Springer Mountain trailhead, the feeling was – “holy crap, this just got real.” Prepared or not, I have no choice but to start walking. The one thing I had in my favor on that first day was that I had hiked the first eight miles before. I knew exactly what to expect. It wasn’t an overly difficult section, even for someone as out of shape as me. My anxiety that morning was more about being alone. Personally, I don’t mind hiking alone as I’m typically the slowest person on the trail which means I’m alone anyway. However, I do not prefer camping alone. At the end of the day, I like to be around other like-minded folks. I hadn’t even walked a mile, and I was already thinking about a tramily – thru-hiker lingo for a group of hikers that stick together, forming a “trail family”.

Day one is for Dad

I started my thru-hike attempt on February 14th,2024. Valentine’s Day. This is the day that my father passed away in 1997. My dad liked to take long walks around his hometown of Clearfield, Pennsylvania. Unfortunately, he was diabetic. One morning he went for a long walk without eating first. His blood sugar dropped, causing him to collapse. He suffered a fatal heart attack as a result. He was just fifty-four years old. In addition to being diabetic, my father suffered from major depression, which cost him two marriages and left him estranged from his children. Depression took everything from my dad. I have always known that I share some of my dad’s depression demons, and so I dedicated that first day’s hike to him. Little did I know, as I turned my feet towards Maine and the promise of a lobster dinner, that those demons would return with a vengeance.

Forever in Georgia

It became brutally obvious from the very first mile, that I had bitten off more than I could chew. I was slow. So slow that every other hiker I met passed me by. I was okay with this at first because I had allowed myself eight months to complete the thru-hike. Two months longer than average. My only deadline was October 15th, when Baxter State Park and the northern terminus at Mount Katahdin Maine close for the season.

The benefit of being so slow is that I could get to know everyone. To my surprise, many of the hikers I met were following me on YouTube. I was also receiving a tremendous amount of online support from subscribers and followers on social media. This was wonderful and boosted my confidence, however, it also added pressure, in that I felt obligated to complete each and every one of those 2,197.4 miles. To put things into perspective, after three weeks into the hike I had gone a measly 40 miles. Now those miles are nothing to sniff at—Georgia is hard! However, given my pace, it would take me three years to complete the trail. I didn’t have three years, I had eight months.

The mental game

From day one it was a mental game. The physical challenges were incredible, but the mental obstacles were almost crippling. Every day I would psych myself out about things like making it to camp before dark or having people waiting on me. One of my biggest fears was making it over Blood Mountain, the first 4,000-foot mountain you encounter on a northbound thru-hike. At 4,458 feet, Blood Mountain is the highest peak on the Georgia section of the Appalachian Trail. It is just under eleven miles from Woody Gap to Neel Gap, the access points on either side of the mountain. At that point, the farthest I had hiked in one day was about six miles. Hiking over Blood Mountain in one shot was not in my wheelhouse. To make matters worse, I had very little time to get over the mountain before the bear canister rule came into play. From March 1st through June 1st hard-sided, bear-resistant canisters are required for camping on Blood Mountain. I, like the majority of other hikers, was using a soft-sided food bag, which was unacceptable. Getting over Blood Mountain would require some strategy.

With the help of Lucky, owner of the nearby Above The Clouds Hostel, I was able to break down the Blood Mountain hike into two sections. I started at Woody Gap and camped overnight before the bear canister rule changed. Lucky picked me up at the small, lesser-known Jarrard Gap about halfway between Woody and Neel Gap. The next day I slack-packed (hiked with a light pack containing just the essentials) from Neel Gap southbound over Blood Mountain, back to Jarrard Gap where Lucky picked me up. Boom! Blood Mountain was in the bag. I am so grateful to Lucky, and the many others who were kind enough to help me plan out my hike. It made all the difference.

Reaching Neel Gap at mile thirty-one was monumental. It’s estimated that around 25% of thru-hikers toss in the towel by then. Georgia seriously challenges you. I was thrilled that I was still pushing on. The next ten miles, however, would prove to me that I wasn’t ready for all that Georgia had to offer. By mile forty I finally gave in to the realization that Georgia wasn’t working for me.

Change your plans or…change your PLANS

I had two options – I could quit and go home, or I could go somewhere else. The good news is that I wasn’t alone in the decision. A few other hikers, who I would come to know as my tramily, were also in the same predicament. Even though these hikers were a bit faster than me, they weren’t that much faster. We were doing anywhere from five to seven miles per day, with my mileage being in the lower range.

Donna and Bill, owners of The Green Dragon hostel in Hiawassee Georgia were gracious enough to point out something that not many hikers are aware of. The Nantahala National Forest closes forest service roads from January 1st until April 1st. There is a section on the Georgia Appalachian Trail – Dick’s Creek Gap that typically has an egress point at Deep Gap, about fourteen miles north. That was closed and we were looking at a forty-mile wilderness, as Donna calls it, between Dick’s Creek Gap and Winding Stair Gap. Averaging five-six miles per day, this would take us eight days to hike. We weren’t about to carry food for eight days. So, we made the collective decision to jump ahead—way ahead, to Harper’s Ferry WV, and hike southbound. This is what is known as a flip-flop thru-hike. It seemed like a good idea considering the obstacles ahead of us. Besides, we expected that section of the Appalachian Trail to be more forgiving. While this seemed like a good idea considering the alternative was to quit altogether; my announcement on YouTube was met with some rather negative comments.

Trolls live under bridges, I’m standing on a mountain

I generally respect other folks’ opinions, however, for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why my patchwork thru-hike was so important to the critics. The vast majority of comments I was receiving on social media were very encouraging, but there were quite a few regular onlookers who had taken up the cheer “Go home, you’ll never make it.” I would like to say reading those comments didn’t bother me, but the truth is, they did—very much. At that point in my hike, I had absolutely no intention of going home. I had no idea how I was going to make it to Katahdin by October 15th, but I still believed the way would present itself.  

After the first day’s hike in West Virginia, I knew I was in trouble. I couldn’t keep up with my tramily and I fell behind. What was supposed to be a six-mile moderate hike, turned into an eight-and-a-half mile, extremely draining hike after I got lost—twice. I was eventually reunited with my crew at the Cross Trails hostel in Knoxville Maryland. It had become blatantly obvious that it would be a struggle to stick with them. To make matters worse, I had taken a fall coming down into Harper’s Ferry, jolting my lower back. I was in tremendous pain. Still, I didn’t want to go home.

My morale was at its lowest the next morning as my friends loaded up in a shuttle and headed off to the trail without me. I had to take a zero on day two of arriving at Harper’s Ferry because of the back pain. Little did I know a trail angel of a different nature would pay me a visit.

The girl in the arena

After the fellas left, I made a call to my best friend to vent. I stood looking out over the Potomac River rambling on about everything from the pain in my back, to getting lost, to the trolls who had it in for me. As I was engaged in my conversation, I noticed a man watching me. He had stayed at the hostel the night before, however we had not officially met. I was on the phone for a good hour as this man just kept circling the yard like he wanted to say something to me. Finally, he approached me, shook my hand, and said “I just wanted to say goodbye and good luck.” He then walked to his car. I finished the call with my friend and noticed that the man was still sitting in his car watching me. Against my better judgment, I decided to approach him and ask if there was something I could help him with. He replied, “No, I just feel compelled to tell you that you are where you belong.” And to “Keep doing what you are doing.” A little misty eyed I asked him if he was a YouTube subscriber. He said no, and that he had never heard of me. He just felt compelled to pass on the message.

Now this is where I tell you that I am a firm believer in “angels unaware”, and that God puts us in people’s paths for a reason. There that stranger sat, in his Honda Accord, dead in my path. We talked for a few minutes about faith, and God and that there were no chance meetings. He then asked if he could give me something. He reached into a satchel and pulled out a photocopy of a speech by Theodore Roosevelt and read it to me.

                                                                                      The Man in the Arena

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.  

He handed me the paper and asked me to carry it with me as a reminder that I was exactly where I belonged. Those words, shared by that stranger, came exactly when I needed to hear them. To remind me, that yes—I was in the arena. And even though I was slow at it, I was climbing mountains – standing on summits, far above the good opinion of others.

I would part ways with my tramily less than a week after arriving in Harper’s Ferry. They all went home, for various reasons, but I still wanted to hike. I would go on to complete sixty miles of the Appalachian Trail in Northern Virginia, including approximately one-third of the Shenandoah National Park. I did this with the help of a wonderful couple, David and Danielle, who own the Stumble Inn Hiker Hostel in Front Royal Virginia. I stayed with them for two weeks and they slack-packed me until I reached my mini goal of 100 miles completed. I was so proud that day, and so grateful to David and Danielle, and the hiking community who helped me achieve those one hundred miles. It was far from my original goal of thru-hiking the entire 2,197 miles of the A.T., but nonetheless, it was a remarkable feeling.

Course correcting a failed thru-hike

I returned home after completing my one-hundredth mile with the intention of returning to the trail after a couple weeks of rest. Health issues would hinder those plans. I had developed a chaffing rash that resulted in a double staph infection which pulled me out of the game. I tried to return to the trail at Grayson Highlands Virginia three weeks later but could barely make it one mile without crashing. I was drained. I returned home with that measly mile under my belt and a defeated spirit, as well as a second round of antibiotics. I was out of commission with just 101 miles completed on the Appalachian Trail. But as it would turn out, those 101 miles would save my life.

Post trail depression

It wasn’t long before a case of the blues set in. I attributed the depression to the fact that my thru-hike had failed. I didn’t accomplish my goal and that had me down. The depression got progressively worse, to the point that I could barely get out of bed. I had zero energy and zero enthusiasm for anything. I was losing days. It became extremely difficult to carry out the simplest of tasks. In a nutshell, it was horrible.

I remember breaking down in front of my mother and telling her I needed help. She immediately contacted my doctor’s office and set up a Zoom call with my primary care physician. Within a few minutes, my doctor recognized that I was suffering from major depression and prescribed me an anti-depressant. She also indicated that my symptoms could be a sign of ADHD, so she referred me to a psychologist for testing.

The anti-depressant medication worked a little. It took the edge off, but it wasn’t enough to alleviate all of my symptoms. I was still suffering. I had a very hard time concentrating and completing tasks. Conversations were difficult for me, and I was extremely agitated. I had all the symptoms of ADD – attention deficit disorder.  

It took a month to get an appointment for evaluation, which consisted of an entire day filled with numerous tests. I was assessed on everything from math skills to verbal communication, and puzzle solving. This battery of tests is commonly used to detect ADHD, amongst other things. To add insult to injury, this bombardment cost me $1,000! My insurance, which I thought was pretty good, did not cover any of the testing. Thankfully I did not know that before showing up, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. Master Card flipped the bill. A week after the test I went back for the results and received the shock of a lifetime.

After sitting through nearly an hour of review over every aspect of my test, I learned that I did not have a learning disability, nor were my ADHD symptoms an absolute sign of ADHD, but something much more serious that shared the same symptoms. The psychologist turned to the final page of my encyclopedia-sized evaluation where the words jumped off the page and hit me in the face like a brick – bipolar II disorder, with a side of general anxiety disorder. I think I said it out loud – “I’m fucked.”

Hello, my name is Peaks and I have bipolar II disorder

You know how they say that when something really bad is happening, your entire life flashes before you? Well, sitting there across from the psychologist who just introduced me to what felt like Frankenstein’s monster, my entire life came into question. I was in such a state of shock that I couldn’t understand anything he was saying. His voice sounded like the parents’ voice on the Peanuts cartoon – whaa whaa whaaaa whaaaaa whaa whaa.

After leaving the psychologist’s office I sat in my car for a while, going over the evaluation again. Part of me was in disbelief, the other part was absolutely terrified. The reflection in the rearview mirror had become that of a stranger.

Going through the emotions

The feeling of shock was followed quickly by that of curiosity. I wanted to know everything about bipolar disorder. I made the mistake of turning to the internet for those “truths”.

I’m sure I’m not the first newly diagnosed person to Google “famous people with bipolar disorder”. After all, one does need to know the company they keep. I personally wanted to know who I was like. The results of my inquiry were literally a who’s who of the creative world—Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, and Amy Winehouse were some of the front runners. At first, I was impressed, but the luster wore off quickly when I realized that they were all dead, by suicide, overdose, or other tragedy. My thoughts turned to “Is this what’s in store for me?”. I tried to rationalize with myself over my future fate. The problem was—I wasn’t rationalizing with a rational mind. I was new to mental health disorders, and I was soaking it all up like a sponge—the good, the bad, and the simply untrue. This curiosity soon turned to anger, and the anger turned to despair. It was a downhill spiral. I questioned everything. Every decision I had ever made, every relationship—every single move of my life. My own judgmental mind was just looking for a reason to say “Aha! I knew it.” Self-discovery sucks.

Longing for the trail

As I was discovering my truth, all the while I was missing something much simpler. Something that required nothing of me other than to put one foot in front of the other—the trail. It wasn’t just any trail that called to me; it was my trail—the Appalachian Trail. A trail that I had become very connected to. A trail that remained unfinished.

Coming off trail affected me deeply. I’m sure that initially some of it was post-trail depression. Some of it was undoubtedly a chemical response. The reduction in physical activity meant a reduction in endorphins, the “feel good” chemical in the brain. While all of these things were in play, the biggest obstacle in front of me was the demon that I had just been introduced to. I couldn’t just ignore it. My mental health had to take priority. The Appalachian Trail would have to wait.

Finding my path

I turned my full attention towards my mental health. I sought out the help of a psychiatrist who prescribed medications that worked extremely well for all of my symptoms. My depression is in check, and I am no longer losing days. My ADD symptoms are also being addressed and I can now focus, complete tasks, and effectively communicate with others without becoming highly agitated. My anxiety is a work in progress, but it is also much, much better than it was. I no longer catastrophize every situation. I am thinking more reasonably, and there is more calmness in my life.

In addition to medications, I see a therapist regularly who has been tremendous in helping me to understand all of this. She is instrumental in my mental health journey. Peppered in are books, articles, and research that I have been doing on my own to further my knowledge. I am amygdala-deep in my desire to know and understand my bipolar disorder. I want to shake its hand and say “Listen, I know we don’t really like each other, but can we at least work together?”.

In retrospect

I set out on a 2,197-mile walk to Maine. I ended up with a 101-mile journey that led me to a different path, and a greater journey—one of self-discovery. I did not accomplish my grandiose goal, and I’m okay with that. My short time on the Appalachian Trail brought me to a greater path and it introduced me to someone pretty remarkable—myself.

All the trail asked of me was to put one foot in front of the other. That’s all I can ask of myself—to press onward towards healing and self-discovery. To keep hoping, dreaming, and doing. I’m not finished with the Appalachian Trail. Like an old friend, I plan to return to it, again and again. I still have my eyes set on Maine—and that lobster dinner.