Why It’s Hard To Be Queer on the AT

In the dimly-lit toilets of a popular trail town diner, a bible lays open on a small wooden table. Someone has helpfully highlighted the following passage:

“If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.”

I take a picture with my phone, show it to my friends – they laugh, and I laugh with them, brushing it off. A joke, nothing more.

Some weeks later, already in another state, I receive a message from a friend back in London: Have you seen the news? A journalist and LGBTQ rights activist was shot in Northern Ireland. She’s dead. That day, I find myself trembling on the trail, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with how many miles I’ve covered. It does not occur to me to reach out to Hufflepuff for comfort; after six weeks on the trail, I have already lost the reflex to grab their hand, to casually touch their back as I walk by, to give them a quick kiss in the mornings. Instead my body has become rigid, as if by tensing my muscles I could keep the world out.

***

I have written a lot about the amazing community on the AT, and I’m grateful to all the friends and strangers we’ve met, the countless small acts of kindness scattered along our path. In writing this, I’m aware that most people, both on the AT and in the towns it passes through, are good and caring people – the problems I’m addressing are less about individuals and more about those systems, norms and processes that make the trail a less safe space for some of us. The AT, of course, is not only one community but a set of diverse trail cultures and experiences. But the truth is that the trail is permeated by a culture of toxic masculinity and heteronormativity, which can make it a complicated matter to be a queer hiker in the woods.

It’s still the early days of spring and the temperature drops below zero nearly every night. At a shelter, a young woman and two older men are huddled around a fire pit, leaning in to catch the last heat of the dying flames. They are immersed into a discussion about camping stoves – a popular topic during those first weeks in Georgia. We join in, more for the warmth than the conversation, and as usual, our accents spark a series of questions. “Oh, Finland and France”, the young woman exclaims, surprised. “So how do you two know each other?” “Oh, we are actually married”, I respond and instantly regret my words as everyone around us freezes. Skilfully avoiding eye contact, the young woman steers the conversation back to camping stoves.

It requires no particular effort to recognize prejudice through the most direct cases – those that involve a threat to one’s physical safety or explicit verbal abuse. But by focusing only on the most extreme cases, we risk missing the wider dynamics of marginalizing queer people; more typically, homo- and transphobia lives in the subtext: the unspoken assumptions, the silences in between words, the sudden hardening of someone’s expression. The uncertainty, always questioning: Should we come out or not? Is this person likely to be queerphobic? If yes, do they seem threatening, or will it just be awkward? If they are ‘gay-friendly’, does it mean they are also trans-friendly? Are they acting strange because they noticed we’re sharing a tent? Privilege, my friend, is never having to ask these questions.

As a queer person, visibility is rarely a simple question of yes/no but rather a constant process of negotiation, a source of anxiety, and at times, a matter of survival. As a queer, non-binary couple, however, these dynamics could get even more complicated. Quickly learning to present by default as two ‘very good friends’, the pairing of two perceived ‘females’ seemed to nevertheless invoke in fellow hikers an unabating need to clarify the exact nature of our relationship. If I had gotten a penny for each time someone asked if we’re sisters, I’d had no trouble financing my thru-hike (hint: sisters are usually from the same country!) On those occasions when we did present openly as a couple, people would sometimes go to amusing lengths to avoid seeing the obvious (once, after talking exhaustively about the different countries we had lived in together, and our shared future plans, a man seemingly confused asked if we worked in the same professional field).

It was going to rain that night, and we briefly hesitate in front of the half full shelter. Eventually, we walk further down the trail to pitch up our tent on a small clearing– it had kept storms out before. Once inside, the soft thudding of the rain drowns out every other sound, as if the forest was completely still. Lying there, I look back to the countless nights spent in our tiny, over-priced London apartment months earlier. An hour upon hour of googling about sleeping bags – synthetic or down? minimum R ratings? – finally settling on a 10 degree Enlightened Equipment double down quilt specifically designed for couples – one of our most expensive items of gear. It did not occur to either of us that this purchase would effectively out us every time we slept in shelters. I remember the first storm arriving, and tentatively laying the quilt on the cold shelter floor, both of us crawling inside. I remember the looks and the whispers, and I shudder.

It was only to a select few – our closest friends – that we came out as non-binary. The trail community is extremely gendered, and even “LGBTIQ friendly” people usually read us as a lesbian couple. It didn’t feel like it was worth the effort and the risk to correct them. In a way, on this front we didn’t even exist on the AT. Gender dysphoria affects most non-binary/trans people, and can range from a vague sense of discomfort to extreme anxiety. For Huffle, who already experiences frequent dysphoria in their normal life, being repeatedly misgendered could get particularly overwhelming with few chances of relief. In our everyday lives, we tend to surround ourselves with people and spaces where we can be ourselves, allowing a momentary break from a cisnormative world. On the trail, we ultimately learnt to find those spaces in nature; in the end, the trees and the bears care very little about gender indeed. But it’s not worth pretending the AT is not ultimately a social experience – after all, it is the vivid stories of comradery and friendship that people still remember years after their hike.

***

I don’t think that most people who are not part of a marginalized group, including those who are allies, realize the mental and emotional effort it can take just to exist in a world that is inherently violent towards you. Day after day of convincing myself that it’s just a joke, all of it – if I just try hard enough, it will bear no impact on me. Because to get upset is to be weak of character. I used to envy the ease with which some people, white men mostly, carried themselves through the woods, never questioning if they belonged, and, always taking up exactly as much space as they wanted.

At the campsite, I notice a man looking at us weirdly and I feel the hair at the back of my neck stand up. We pack up, hike on and do our first 20+ day. That night, my sleep is dreamless and heavy.

I hope my hiker friends won’t get defensive. This is not an attack against you. I loved my time on the trail and in the US – rarely have we experienced so much kindness, and met so many great, smart, surprising people. It is a wonderful community – and yet the issues I and many others are talking about are real. A part of the problem is that a common reaction among those who have no personal experience of the issue, is to deny what does not correspond to their personal perspective. Perhaps, it is because of the need to cling on to the idea of a good community, made of good people. But why is pointing out problems perceived as an attack against the community itself, rather than a call to make it better? What happens when entire societies refuse to listen, instead choosing to villify those who choose to share their struggles?

***

If you are queer person considering hiking the AT and concerned about your well-being, all I can say is, be prepared, for the trail is not the inclusive utopia it is sometimes made out to be. But know there are others out there; what I ultimately found was that we shared a sense of solidarity and belonging that enabled friendships to emerge, growing deeper with each step as we made our way towards Maine. I found that we strived to build our own communities, carving out safe spaces in the mountains we all loved so much. And somewhere along the way, my body became viscerally free and newly mine in a way it had not been before. Treading a narrow footpath covered by roots and dead leaves, we leave ourselves behind and momentarily glimpse beyond what we thought we knew. Don’t let fear stop you from trying – there is so much more out there than what can be described in words. But don’t allow pride to take precedence over your safety and well-being either – it is equally important to know when it’s time to take a break, when the trail no longer serves you.

***

Yes, it was often tiring to be queer on the AT, and undoubtedly, the same holds true for other marginalized groups. Yet, I still cherish those moments several months after finishing the trail, and I would not exchange my experience on the AT for anything in the world. By getting out there, whether it’s for a thru-hike or a quick overnighter, you are constructing an alternative narrative, redefining the outdoors and what it means to be a hiker. I’m immensely proud of every one of you who despite the odds finds themselves in the woods. Wishing you all the best of luck for your adventures!

Various Forms of Poison, or What Doesn’t Kill You… (Miles 340 – 472)

After Erwin, the terrain is distinctively beautiful with windswept balds, spruce forests, sharp rock ledges, and deep, dark blue rivers running far below us. Crossing over Roan Mountain, there are still patches of snow covering the higher peaks, and at night a cold wind blows through the thin fabric of our tent making us shiver inside. At daytime, we walk on the vast, endless balds, scorched by the sun and surrounded by deserted mountains as far as one can see. I find this barren landscape beautiful but melancholic, strangely void of meaning in a way that I can’t explain.

A week before our departure, I sat in my office when it suddenly struck me that I could not remember the last time I felt happy. The days seemed to pass futile, and brought no purpose with them. It was that kind of half life that I had grown tired of, fearing death and yet not fully here. Perhaps this is what trauma does to people: it’s not so much a desire to die but an inability to be alive. Now as I walk through the silent forest, I ask myself whether I’m happy on the trail either?

With such thoughts stuck in my mind, I am particularly eager for distractions. When a hiker named JJ decides to tell us about what he calls ‘ramps’, I’m excited to learn more. “It’s a delicious plant”, he says, “and real expensive too if y’all go looking for it in the supermarket”. Determined not to be the kind of person who is too scared to eat anything not pre-packaged, I pick up few of the plants he shows us, and carry them back to the small campsite we are staying at that night. It’s a clear but windy and bitterly cold evening – we are the only people present at the campsite, apart from a shy teenage couple who quickly disappears inside an oversized yellow tent. Later that night, we watch a pale moon rise over the mountains, and while Hufflepuff is lighting up a fire, I carefully chop the ramps into our Alfredo pasta. To our disappointment, the taste is bitter, nothing like wild onions as JJ described. Hufflepuff refuses to finish their plate but I’m too hungry to throw away a whole portion of what is my favourite Knorrs pasta side.

I’ve barely eaten half of my plate when the first wave of nausea hits. It’s already dark – I run into the forest and bend over, nearly falling on my knees as the vomit rushes out. My stomach is burning and I gasp for air, suddenly certain I’m going to faint. It is hard to breathe, and I now find it nearly impossible to stay awake; I briefly wonder if this is what dying feels like. I try to remember when was the last time we passed a road but can’t – there is absolutely nowhere an ambulance could reach out here. Half conscious, I simply lie down on the ground as my body continues to retch and dutifully expel every piece of the poisonous plant I’ve just eaten. Hours pass and I lose track of time; I am only half aware of Hufflepuff leaving and then returning with the two nervous teenagers. The three of them grab me by the arms and legs and slowly carry me back to the tent. By then, I’m no longer vomiting, ready to let go and fall sleep. That’s when Hufflepuff starts vomiting, and so the night goes on.

The next morning, I wake up tired and slightly weakened, but to my surprise, I feel no signs of the mysterious poisoning. Hufflepuff is still feeling nauseous; wearing nothing but our pyjamas we stagger to a nearby stream and do our best to wash our clothes that are still covered in dried-up vomit. It’s nearly 11 am when we finally start walking, just as we hear the first sounds of thunder. Two things seem to occur nearly simultaneously: a text message alert informs us of a flash flood warning, and seconds later, it starts pouring. Soon, a dense white fog has descended over the forest and underneath our feet, the trail has turned into a roaring river. One of the streams we cross is so overflown that we are forced to remove our shoes and somewhat unsteadily wade through the murky, knee-deep water. It doesn’t take long until I am soaked underneath my rain coat, and water is also slowly making its way through my supposedly waterproof goretex boots.

Perhaps because of the storm (or the ramps), I don’t notice it before it’s right in front of me, a modest stack of sticks on the trail, neatly arranged in the number 400. I had compleptely forgotten we were passing mile 400 today! I abruptly stop in front of it, and then the tears come out of nowhere, inexhaustible. It takes me a moment to realize that they are not tears of sadness but of joy. I cry and cry until Ana shows up and then we laugh together in a moment of exhilaration, suddenly at utter disbelief at what our life has become.

The rain doesn’t stop the next day, or the day after that. On the third day, despite the fact it is mid-April, the temperature suddenly drops and the rain turns into snow. We have no other choice but to keep moving, setting up a wet tent at the end of each day, cooking dinner in the tent vestibule, and holding onto a futile hope that our clothes will somehow dry during the night. The wood is too damp to make fires at camp; instead, I wear every single item of clothing I have, grateful I didn’t decide to mail my winter clothes back home just yet. The morning we arrive in Damascus, the rain finally stops, as if knowing that soon we’ll be out of its reach. Exhausted and sleep-deprived, with every single item of my gear wet, I have never felt as relieved to arrive in town.

I used to imagine I was fragile, my body a ragtag doll that could too easily be pulled apart by the mundane forces of life. From the outside it looks the same as always – I have barely lost any weight, my hair still the same, if faded, red of the DIY box dye I bought in February. Looking in the mirror, it is hard to believe this person has walked 460 miles; patiently carrying my modest and not-quite-ultralight set of belongings across windy ridge lines and flooding rivers, long after my misshaped, swollen feet have gone numb. It’s hard to believe a couple of days ago I thought I was dying on the dark, damp forest floor, and yet here I am, still walking north. And then it occurs to me, if my body can recover from all of this, surely the mind and the soul can too?

(Later, it becomes clear that the plant we ate was indeed not a ramp. Comparing it to the images on google, there is in fact very little resemblance between the two plants. We even learn about another hiker who got sick as a result of eating the same plant as us after listening to JJ. Curiously, JJ himself disappears shortly after these events, and we never see him again. Perhaps he is on the run from angry hikers, or maybe he succumbed after a meal of ramps. Sadly as a result of all of this, I am never able to eat Alfredo pasta again.)

For the next 400 miles, we’ll be in Virginia!

Miles 274.9 – 344.2 Thoughts From A Lonely Trail

We leave Hot Springs late morning on Monday, and by the time we start the ascent back to the mountains ominously rising over the small town, the sun is mercilessly beating down on us. For the first time since we started, we are hiking on our own and it feels strangely disorienting. It’s not just that we are not hiking with Grocer and Raven anymore, but suddenly it seems like there is no one else besides us on the trail. On the first evening, we set up camp in a small gap, and build our first fire. As the sun retreats and the darkness falls on the mountains, there is not a soul in sight, with only the soft glow of the flames breaking the blackness of the forest.

As we continue to increase our miles in the pressing heat, the days start feeling more repetitive. The simple monotony of walking from sunrise to sunset means hours spent alone with my thoughts, and often, there is a familiar anxiety lingering at the back of my mind. To stay focused when my mind starts its never ending racing, I try to compile lists of things I love: early mornings when I feel like we are the only people in the world; the way the pine needles make the ground feel soft and reassuring under my feet; the nearly overgrown, long abandoned log roads. I make the list go on and on, but the anxiety rarely fully disappears, merely retreating under the surface. What the object of this anxiety is, I never know for certain.

One evening, I walk into a shelter – as usual, I’m a little bit ahead of Ana – empty apart from a single older man with silver hair. There is something about his look that makes the hair at the back of my neck stand up, or perhaps it’s the way he gets up and walks just a bit too close to talk to me. Fortunately Ana is not far behind, and we decide to push on a couple of miles more and camp a bit further. Over the next days, the only other people we meet are a group of particularly obnoxious young men. I can hear them several minutes before they emerge out of the woods and march onto the small clearing where we are having lunch. They are making sexist jokes followed by a loud laughter, and I am suddenly reminded that this is part of the majority trail culture. We pack up and leave without saying a word, feeling relieved as soon as they are out of sight.

Neither of us realizes how much we need a break from the trail until the opportunity suddenly presents itself; the day before we reach Erwin, a section hiker makes a passing comment that we should visit Asheville – apparently the queer capital of the Southern United States. Without thinking, we post a last minute request on Couchsurfing, and within 5 minutes, someone has already offered to host us! Its only 50 miles from Erwin to Asheville, and we set out to hitchhike in front of McDonald’s. While we’re waiting, we get a text from Raven: she has decided to fly home from Asheville, and we agree she will join us at our Couchsurfing place.

But the people of Erwin, it turns out, are not used to hitchhikers. Old ladies roll down their car windows to get a better look as they skirt past us to the drive-thru. A boy who must not be older than 8 years, bare chested on his bicycle, leers: “I can give y’all a ride if you want!” After 20 minutes, a police car pulls over and a plump officer gets out, explaining that someone made a call about “people holding a sign”. When he realizes we are hitchhiking, he bursts into laughter and promises to give us a lift if we still need one when his shift is over. In the end, we skip on his offer as moments later, another car pulls over and takes us all the way to Asheville.

Our hosts Steven and Emily and their two cats live in a lilac coloured house near the centre of the city. The three of us get a room in the basement, and are offered a set of clean clothes to wear while our pile of stinking laundry is tackled by the washing machine. After settling in, Steve takes us on a tour in town: we get dinner in a vegan restaurant, and afterwards I get somewhat tipsy at a queer steam punk cocktail bar. Surrounded by flawless young people with meticulously quirky hairstyles straight from an East London warehouse, I feel overwhelmingly underdressed. Instead of miles and pack weight, we talk about how many countries we’ve been to and what languages we speak – a switch to a different if equally arbitrary set of social rules about what is considered cool.

The next day is Easter Sunday and the streets are busy – we walk around town aimlessly, visiting shops and drinking coffee, watching people do the kind of ordinary things they would on a drizzly weekend. The city with its coffeeshops filled by art students has a familiar air to it, and yet I feel removed, as if I was an alien observing the scenes unfolding from a considerable distance. I think about how people seem to feel the need to not only follow, but to truly believe in the rules and norms that govern their lives, unbothered by the fact that they create distinctions between them and others. This need seems universal, and it should not surprise me that the trail is the same as any other human community.

Because of severe storms and a tornado warning up in the mountains, we end up staying an extra night at Steve and Emily’s place. When we finally return to the trail on Monday morning, the earth smells fresh and damp after the storm; frequently, we have to hop over muddy puddles that have appeared on the path. The trail is no longer deserted – there are plenty of new faces and I observe them with curiousity as I move along the narrow path. It’s 125 miles to our next stop, Damascus but with our increased pace we hope to cover the distance in just over a week. The following week will also see us pass mile 400 and reach the fourth and longest state on the AT, Virginia.

Miles 238 – 274.9 Springtime Farewells

After leaving the Smokies, the world has suddenly turned green; the new leaves sprouting from tree branches already the size of my thumb; flocks of butterflies doing their delicate dance above the purple, orange and red flowers; golden sun filtering through the canopy. On Saturday morning, we stop to resupply and have breakfast at Standing Bear Farm. Arriving, we see hikers in t-shirts and shorts, drinking coffee in the secluded garden – with the sun out, the snow from just days earlier feels like a distant dream. It’s only 40 miles until Hot Springs, and, surrounded by the sudden beauty of the springtime forest, I am in high spirits as we head out into the late morning sun.

The days that follow are hot and heavy, as if to prove that winter is truly over. We are now walking between 14-16 miles per day – a long way from the 8 mile days we started with, if still equally far from the +20 mile days some of the more ambitious hikers do. On some days, there is a new ease to my hiking and I barely notice the mountains I’m crossing. On others, I’m exhausted and by lunchtime I feel as if someone has filled my pack with stones. On those days, with the mountains turned into insurmountable beings, I face them with a determined rage, as if the only way to conquer them was to run to the top, never stopping.

Just before crossing over the famous Max Patch, we run into some particularly impressive trail magic: a group of previous thru-hikers have set up a full pop-up breakfast diner, serving hot coffee, orange juice, mimosas, turkey sandwiches, vegetable casserole, hot dogs, fresh fruit and berries, natural yogurt, and cookies. One of these brilliant trail angels comes out as trans, and we talk for a long while while getting second and third servings of everything. I realize how nice it feels like to have trail magic without the sense that if the people knew more about us, they would be way less friendly. After 2h, we finally say goodbye and with our bellies full, slowly tumble up to Max Patch to admire a perfect 360 view of the surrounding mountains.

On the day we finally arrive in Hot Springs, the sky is a uniform grey colour, and the air stands unbearably still and heavy. Lately, it has become clear that our schedules and paces are starting to diverge. Raven wants to go home for one week, and Grocer is starting to do bigger, faster miles. As we get ready to check in at Elmers guesthouse, I wonder whether this is the last time the four of us are together. However, I quickly forget about this concern as we make our way past the blooming cherry trees, and climb up the cold stone steps to enter the house. A Victorian villa, each room is decorated by antique furniture and a collection of various curious objects. There is a sitting room, a large wooden porch with rocking chairs, a library full of anti-capitalist literature, and a room dedicated to musical instruments. And every night, the owner Elmer cooks vegetarian dinner and entertains the guests with his stories.

The window in our room, overlooking the garden

Named after the natural hot springs underneath, Hot Springs itself is a small, quiet trail town with a drowsy sense of slowness lingering somewhere between the wooden buildings and the well-kept flowerbeds. In fact, the entire place is so chilled out I immediately lose motivation to do anything but eat cheap ice cream cones from the Dollar General, lazily staring into the creek that runs by the town’s only street. The idea of hiking suddenly appears preposterous, and we decide to stay for another night at Elmers. This means goodbyes are inevitable sooner rather than later, as Raven and Connor want to get back on the trail the next morning. It feels strange to sit down for dinner together, not knowing when we might see each other again.

On Sunday morning we exchange quick hugs and say goodbye to our first trail family. Dark clouds are gathering above the mountains as they slowly walk out of town, and I feel a familiar sense of loss as I often do when traveling; far away from home, friendships form faster and yet they are inevitably fragile as people are eventually pulled apart by time and geography. It starts raining as we head out for lunch, and we hurry to step inside the restaurant, grabbing a table overlooking the creek. After ordering burgers, we sit in silence, both of us immersed into our thoughts. In this rather somber moment, a lady approaches us, smiling and asking if we are thru-hikers. When we answer affirmatively, she offers to pay for our lunch! Her name is Mary, or “Angel”, and she is a trail angel who is in town to do some short section hikes in the area. Immensely moved by her gesture, we invite her to join us, and the three of us eat together while laughing and exchanging trail stories.

That same night, I lay awake in our 100 years old bed, feeling like we are entering a new chapter in our hike. I wonder what the trail will bring next; it seems like it will throw at me exactly those challenges I don’t want to face, but it also contains tiny miracles, those fleeting moments of grace that are impossible to capture in words.

Obviously, we could not leave without testing the famous hot springs!

Smokies Part II – Hell Is A Place On Earth

Such is the contrast between the trail and the wider American society in its market-driven individualism, that it’s easy to become removed from what happens in the world beyond. Yet the stories woven in these mountains and in these woods also make up America – stories of sharing between friends, strangers relying on each other, acts of kindness with no expectation of a payment. Perhaps, it’s only in a society that makes you pay for everything that something like trail magic can emerge. It’s a strange tension between two seeming opposites that only sometimes finds its delicate balance.

I have rarely been as aware of this contrast as when I arrive in Gatlinburg. On Wednesday morning, we are picked up by a friendly Mexican family at Newfound Gap – to my surprise, all four of us with backpacks and trekking poles fit in their already fully packed car – and only 20 minutes later we are in Gatlinburg. We check into the first motel on sight, already dizzied by the neon signs and the disorderly flow of tourists in strikingly casual outfits: pairs of jeans, snickers and colourful sun hats crowding the narrow street space in front of Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.

Made of plastic, theme parks, fake European villages, fast food restaurants, souvenir stores, and, of course, churches, Gatlinburg is a town built solely to rid tourists of their money in a thousand different ways. With our hiker budget, we are unable to afford any of the main attractions but Raven gets to try the “world’s hottest sauce” while Ana and I visit some Christian tourist shops. A shock of horror passes on our faces as we spot a sexy confederate flag swimming suit placed carefully in a vitrine, among other ‘great southern gifts’ to bring home.

It quickly becomes clear that Gatlinburg exists in perfect oblivion to snowstorms and frozen mountainsides, such unpredictable forces not quite reaching its carefully polished facade. “Snow? Yesterday? What trail did you say you were hiking? To Maine?!!” people ask us in polite disbelief, one of them even wanting to take our picture after such an exchange. We awkwardly pose for the picture, and then excuse ourselves in order to do what any thru-hiker would: find the cheapest all-you-can-eat buffet in town (unlimited pasta, pizza and cinnamon buns for 8.99$!)

In the evening, we head to a pub downtown for Woodchuck’s leaving drinks. In two days, she would be sitting on a bus back home, just in time to prepare for the CDT, the hardest and the least travelled of the long-distance trails in the US. By the time we get to the pub, the others have already had a couple of drinks and are in an emotional but hilarious mood. Johanna is explaining the story behind her new trail name: one unfortunate night she peed herself in her tent during a particularly dramatic thunderstorm, thus becoming “Thunderpee”. We all laugh, until Woodchuck becomes silent, and then says this is the most amazing group of queer hikers she has met on the trail. I feel moved, and genuinely sad she won’t be staying with us. Eager to get some of her super hiker wisdom before she goes, Ana asks what is her secret; how can we ensure we make it to Katahdin? She only has two pieces of advice:

1. Never go anywhere that’s more than 0.3 off trail.
2. Just don’t quit!

The next day, we do a quick resupply in a pharmacy that also hosts a grocery store (another weird US thing) before hitching a ride back to the trail. From the backseat of an old Chevrolet, I stare out into the woods and, strangely, feel like I’m going home. By now, the snow is slowly melting, transforming the path into mud and a thousand streams running underneath our boots. In the end, the trail is just as oblivious to all the noise in the world, as Gatlinburg is to life up in the mountains. We walk the remaining 30 miles to Davenport Gap with clear, blue skies, and by Saturday morning, we are out of the Smokies.

Before leaving, I get to briefly enjoy the motel’s jacuzzi!

As we leave the Smoky Mountains behind, I sense that something – I don’t know what yet – is emerging from within me, unpredictable like the slow march of spring in the mountains. There is a new vulnerability to my being that I can’t quite explain; like finding something long-lost and fearing to lose it again. I keep thinking about Woodchuck’s advice – she makes hiking the Appalachian Trail sound like the simplest thing in the world. But I already sense the trail is about to get harder; while my body is getting stronger day by day, the mental and emotional exhaustion is only beginning.

The Smokies Part I: Song of Snow and Ice

The Great Smoky Mountains National Park – one of the few places on the AT I had heard of prior to starting the trail – is known for ridge upon ridge of breathtaking views and an exceptional diversity of plant and wildlife, with 65 species of mammals and over 200 varieties of birds residing in the area. Up until now, I had been reluctant to believe I would ever make it this far; it is thus with a sense of giddy excitement I get up on Friday morning, ready to leave Fontana Village. First, we cross over Fontana Dam, staggering under our overloaded backpacks (with 7 days worth of food, mine is the heaviest it has ever been), and then begin the steep ascent as the trail leads us further and further up, going from just above 1000 to nearly 5000 feet within the span of a few miles.

Walking deeper into the mountains, I quickly sense I’ve entered another world, unmistakably different from the one we’ve been inhabiting, holding traces of the arriving spring and a lingering sense of timelessness. The forest floor is covered by a veil of wildflowers; tiny, white, star-shaped things shyly emerging from amidst the dry, dead leaves of the old year. And the woods themselves seem more ancient; distorted tree skeletons lay barren in the undergrowth, as if some giant monster has made its way through moments earlier. The nights are bitterly cold, and the air filled with unfamiliar bird noises: the soft hooting of owls, followed by the long, wavering calls of brown creepers. One morning, a white tailed deer makes a visit to our camp, observing us with curious seriousity before disappearing back into the undergrowth.

The country’s most visited national park, the Smokies are not only known for its natural wonders, but also for some curious rules for hikers. Visitors get a maximum stay of 7 nights, and are required to stay in or near the shelters – wild camping is strictly prohibited. Due to a confusing reservation system, section hikers are allowed to reserve a spot in the shelters in advance – if the shelter is full, a section hiker with a reservation can basically kick out a thru-hiker. Moreover, running between two states with different regulations, only the shelters in the North Carolina side of the park have privies, while the ones in Tennessee don’t, resulting in tales of notorious ‘poop fields’ waiting for unsuspecting hikers to step on.

The shelters in the Smokies are also distinctive from the ones we’ve seen before: sturdy and made of stone, each of them has two sleeping levels, a fireplace and a piece of tarp hanging in the front to keep the elements out. But we rarely arrive in camp early enough to enjoy this luxury and end up setting our tents in the cold wind outside. On the third morning, I wake up feeling chilly in my tent, and as I open the side zipper, I soon find out why. The ground is covered in two inches of snow, with more piling up on top of our tent as I watch. All around us, hikers are frantically packing up and rushing through the icy, white gusts of wind to the confines of the shelter.

There is a warm fire ablaze inside, drawing in a wet crowd of hunched figures. Determined to get a spot in the next shelter, we however ignore the temptation of the fire, and instead step back into the snowstorm. The forest is wrapped up in layers of white and grey, the smaller tree branches bending under the weight of snow and ice. Large snowflakes fall slowly from the bleak, leaden sky and get stuck in my wet hair as I walk through the frozen landscape in silence, with not another soul in sight. We are the first to arrive at the next shelter, followed by Grocer, Raven, Woodchuck, Johanna and Jason, and the 7 of us take over the upper level of the shelter. As the sun slowly retreats behind the ice covered mountains, a freezing draft makes its way in through the cracks in the old stone walls, and the cold becomes almost unbearable. We all huddle together, not caring if we are strangers or friends, as the temperature drops to 7F (-15C).

No one gets much sleep that night, and in the morning we get up groggy and exhausted, struggling to pack away sleeping bags and lit up stoves, fingers and toes turned numb by the cold. However, the view outside makes me forget about my state of misery in an instant. The early morning sun is shining from a cobalt blue sky, creating sparks on the ice and snow that cover every inch of the ground, and colouring the trees with a thousand shades of white, blue and gold. That morning, we climb up to Clingman’s Dome – the highest point on the AT – and get to enjoy spectacular views to every direction. Woodchuck tells us that, on her previous thru-hike, she waited for 5 days to get a view from Clingman’s Dome – without success. It’s not called the ‘Smoky’ Mountains for nothing!

The way down is less spectacular, as we quickly discover the entire north side of the mountain has frozen over, and the trail itself bears resemblance to an ice skating rink. As we start descending, we run into a confused looking couple calmly asking if any of us know how to put back a dislocated shoulder; the man is holding his arm with an expression of pain. Unfortunately, none of us do and we leave the couple behind after giving them some painkillers. The way down is tediously slow – all of us slip several times, occasionally falling down on the treacherous ice – but we make it without anyone getting injured.

Cold and exhausted, we decide to hitch a ride to Gatlinburg from the parking lot in Newfound Gap to spend the night indoors. Yet I feel a quiet happiness, grateful for the beauty we’ve just seen unfold.

FONTANA (Mile 164) Finding My Inner Hiker (Trash)

We decide to take a zero and spend not one but two nights in Fontana for Ana’s ankle to have time to heal. It soon turns out that “Fontana Village” (population 33) is not in fact an actual town but rather a holiday resort that likes to think of itself as a town. Fortunately, they have a special thru-hiker rate (a room with two queen size beds for 80$) and welcome four stinky hikers with open arms. We look rather out of place with our dirty clothes and sunburnt faces, standing happlessly in the posh lobby; for a moment I wonder if we may have come to the wrong hotel. But the lady at the reception nods in recognition when hearing our names, not questioning our presence there.

As it’s still the low season, the place is mostly empty apart from hikers who wander on the spotlessly clean, carpeted corridors, blissfully exploiting the free coffee on offer. There is a bistro, a swimming pool (closed for the season), a game hall, and a shockingly overpriced general store (fortunately, we chose to pay 20$ to mail ourselves a resupply box from Franklin). I imagine how the place must look like at the height of summer: a van selling ice cream cones, old couples jovially arguing over the wine menu, the young children jumping into the turquoise water of the pool, the older ones fixed on their iphones with a bored look on their tanned faces.

In the room next to ours, another trail family is loudly settling in: a fellow Nordic Johanna from Denmark (she passes my test by showing an adequate amount of excitement about Eurovision); Woodchuck, who has impressively hiked the entire AT and PCT in crocs (and is now on the AT training for the CDT); Jason, who has an impressive amount of knowledge about feet from his previous thru-hike attempt; and Gunner, a friendly 20-year old with an easy smile. We spend the evening with them, chatting while sharing snacks and cheap wine. The staff, clearly used to hikers, barely bat an eyelid as we proceed to wash our swollen feet in the pool and set up our pocket rockets on the patio to cook dinner.

Hiker trash” is a word that until now I have not strongly identified with (perhaps because the accommodation we’ve chosen has not always been much fancier than a tent) but, in this environment, the term suddenly feels like a scarily accurate description. Put simply, being hiker trash is the transformation of standards, expectations and what is acceptable that occurs when hiking long-distance. Brushing your teeth almost every other day? Extreme commitment to hygiene! A t-shirt that has not been washed for 2 months but is only worn in towns? What could be cleaner! Ordering another main course after a starter, a burger and a dessert? Commendable restraint! It’s strange to notice how quickly standards around what is considered normal change as we get used to our new lifestyle.

Pyjamas are a perfectly appropriate outfit for the restaurant, right?

In “Fontana Village”, I also finally get my trail name: Sneaky Pockets (courtesy of Raven). I have a habit of stealing small items from restaurants and cafes, discreetly slipping them into the large pockets of my hiking dress. I also strongly believe that, whatever gear and food I carry in my pockets, does not count towards my base weight (as a result, my pockets tend to be massively overpacked).

Equipped with a brand new trail name, I am starting to feel more like a real hiker, rather than an imposter in a pair of gore tex boots. Hopefully this new confidence will help me to get through the Smokies where snow and extremely cold temperatures are to be expected!

MILES 109 – 164 – Misfortune Is Just Another Word for Adventure

It’s 3 PM on Friday afternoon, and we are standing on an empty parking lot waiting for a bus that never arrives. Returning to the hostel, the owner begrudgingly agrees to drive us back to the trailhead, and we throw our packs at the back of his SUV. A big, chatty man, he entertains us with a long tale that involves gun shows and his grandparents cheating on each other during the war – because of his strong accent, I’m not entirely sure how the story ends. We only do 3 miles that day and stop at the first campsite after Franklin. As the night falls on us and the cold sets in, Grocer builds a big campfire to keep us warm until it’s time to creep into our sleeping bags.

It’s handy to be hiking with an Eagle Scout!

The next day, I wake up with my sleeping pad almost completely deflated, shivering against the cold ground. I have dutifully been carrying a thermarest repair kit with me exactly for this situation but it has never once occurred to me that in order to fix a hole, I would first need to find it. Unfortunately, it turns out that the standard solution is to submerge the entire pad in a bathtub, looking for a stream of bubbles. (Who uses a sleeping pad in places equipped with bathtubs??) Instead, I decide to ask for help at the NOC – an outdoor centre with a gear supplier and a restaurant, through which the AT conveniently passes – that we should reach within the same day. However, even equipped with a bathtub, the staff at the NOC are unable to locate the invisible hole, but they offer to send the pad back to Thermarest to be fixed. They even give us another sleeping pad for free, simply telling us to pass it on to another hiker in need once we get ours back (only on the AT!) On the plus side, we also get to have veggie burgers, and feel considerably happier afterwards.

While most other hikers have chosen to spend the night at the NOC, the four of us push on afterwards, stubbornly ignoring the thunderstorms forecast for the night. We don’t get further than 4 miles in – still another 5 miles until the next shelter – when the storm hits. One moment, I am climbing up a ridgeline with sweat running down my bare neck, arms and legs as I quietly contemplate investing in a tube of sunscreen. But as we reach the top, the day suddenly turns dark, and a white fog, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, eerily rolls over the woods towards us. Moments later, the sky cracks open and it starts pouring rain and hail relentlessly.

Crouching on top of a narrow ridgeline, unable to see further than a few metres, we quickly note there is absolutely nowhere to camp. While me and Ana are still disoriented after the sudden change of circumstances, Raven takes charge of the situation, telling us to get off the trail, and we follow her down the nearly vertical hillside. I’m wearing only my hiking dress, and hastily throw my rain poncho on top but the gusts of wind keep pulling it off, leaving me soaked in a matter of minutes. By the time we reach the bottom, I feel like I’m getting dangerously cold. We pitch our tent at the first flat-ish ground we find, quickly retreating inside and wrapping ourselves in dry clothes. In the night, I lay still listening to the rain pounding against the thin fabric of the tent, hoping it will hold. At the same time, I feel a sense of belonging growing inside of me, grateful that, at least for this moment, we aren’t facing the trail on our own.

It rains all night but, in the morning, we wake up completely dry in our tents (and Grocer in his hammock), with a slight sense of victory. The following two days are sunny and pleasant with not a drop of rain in sight, and somehow the trail feels reassuringly familiar. Everything goes smoothly until about 8 miles before Fontana: tripping over a root on the path, Ana twists their right ankle. They are hiking last on that day, and it takes them over an hour of painful limping to catch up to me – as I carry the first-aid kit, I have all the painkillers (something which in retrospect seems like a stupid decision). A strong prescription painkiller subsides the pain enough for us to slowly cover the remaining miles to the road crossing near Fontana Village. There, a section hiker who is waiting for a friend offers us a lift to the lodge where we have a reservation – and so we have successfully covered another 55 miles of this unpredictable journey.

Beforehand, we both imagined it was going to rain every single day of the hike; that all of our gear would break or prove unfit in the first two weeks; and our bodies would suffer unimaginable agonies. Our friends fairly ask, somewhat perplexed, why did we choose to do it? I’m still not sure of the answer; I just guess that until now in my life, comfort has failed to provide me with any answers. We are lucky that for now, the misfortunes on the trail have been small, and the kindness of the community around us definitely makes dealing with these setbacks much easier. As they say out here, “the trail always provides”!

Franklin (Mile 109): Politics and Pancakes on the Appalachian Trail

At mile 109, Franklin is the first (slightly) bigger town the AT passes by, and known as an extremely hiker-friendly spot. 3$ minibuses shuttle hikers from the trailhead to the town centre 3 times a day where they can enjoy an abundance of accommodation and food options. We stay at a sympathetic little hostel called Baltimore Jack’s (a private room is 40$ and a bunk in a 4 person dorm 20$). Like the other towns we have passed through, Franklin is dotted by several symbols of small-town America: humble looking methodist churches painted flawlessly white, enormous SUVs with Make America Great Again bumper stickers, old-fashioned gun and hunting stores, a Walmart, and an absolute absence of sidewalks.

With the current administration in the US, it’s impossible not to think of politics when visiting the towns along the trail, especially while in the southern states. (I’ve read you have to hike 800 miles before reaching a town that didn’t vote for Trump). As a foreigner hiking the AT, I was always as interested in the idea of walking through a section of American society as I was in the actual, you know, living in the woods for 6 months -part. So in addition to resupplying and visiting all-you-can-eat buffets, I welcome every town stop as an opportunity to look for “the soul of the American nation” (much for the amusement of our American friends).

Food tends to dominate most people’s town stops

To my disappointment, one of the golden rules of thru-hiking is the principle of avoiding politics on the trail, which, at times, has been extremely hard. So far, guns have been the most recurring topic. On my first night on the trail, we ended up sharing a shelter with a young man whose serious, round face was made even rounder and more serious by his narrow-framed circle shaped spectacles. After introducing himself, he calmly informed us he was carrying a weapon and then proceeded to rant about his devotion to guns, recounting the less-than-thrilled reactions of some poor Europeans he had met before us. I felt like it was not a good idea to disagree with the man with a gun and decided to instead focus on inflating my sleeping pad. I was only slightly relieved to find out he got off the trail the next day; apparently, he was offered his dream job – at a gun union.

Another recurring topic on the trail is religion, as a lot of the trail magic one encounters on the trail is done by churches (and they aren’t always the cute Jesus loves everyone -type). One of the strangest experiences on the trail so far arrives on Friday morning. We have set up our alarms ridiculously early – 6.45 – in order to climb onto a minibus that takes us and a dozen other hikers across town to one of those modest-looking methodist churches. This particular church has a tradition of offering unlimited pancakes and coffee to hungry hikers every single morning. For the sake of free breakfast, we spend the morning listening to a preacher tell us we’ll all go to hell while nervously eyeing an anti-abortion poster on the wall. At the end, a woman who is aggressively friendly in the way very religious people often are, takes our pictures and we get a chance to send them home with a letter. Afterwards, I wonder why choose hikers from all people – surely we aren’t God’s priority with all the actual misery going on around here.

In a way, we have come to embody the persona of the “thru-hiker”, a character that seems to have a very specific position in the American imagination. Curiously, it doesn’t matter we are not from here – everyone wants to help us all the same, and by hiking on the AT I feel like I’m part of constructing a very American narrative. But what is so difficult about politics out here is the fact that even people with the worst beliefs are just people, kind and warm to us. Yet I’m constantly aware that there are limits to this kindness. We only come out very selectively, pretending to be friends to most people. And at times, people say “welcome to our country!”, in a way that makes it clear that there is always a but, the option of unwelcoming. (Sadly, we have seen a Chinese hiker receiving none of the welcome that we get as white Europeans)

After the first 109 miles, I’m not sure if I’m any closer to finding the soul of the American nation. And as Raven refuses to steal a Make America Great Again sticker for me, I leave Franklin with nothing but a slightly uneasy feeling about a church in North Carolina now having my name, photo and the contact details of my family. (GDPR, anyone?) Meanwhile, the good news is that Grocer’s got a new pair of shoes and his ankle is doing much better after a full 24h of rest. With all of this, we should be ready to take on the next 55 miles until Fontana and the Smokies!

Miles 70 – 109: From Hiawassee to Franklin

After resupplying in the town of Hiawassee and spending the night at the Budget Inn (the four of us could share a room for 60$), we decide to increase our miles and cover the 40 miles to Franklin in just under 3 days. Since the thunderstorm last week, the skies have been clear with a pleasant early spring sun warming our days. At night, however, the temperatures drop well below freezing and inspite the 10 degree quilt we invested in, we wrap ourselves in all the layers we can find. In the mornings, the ground is covered in frost and there is ice on our tent – shivering, we pack up and cook breakfast in a rush (a cup of rather underwhelming instant coffee + bagels with cream cheese). Only once we put our packs on and start walking, do we get warm.

By now, weekdays have lost their meaning and time is suddenly more relative, measured in miles rather than hours (and each mile is wholly unique and incommensurable). It is around mile 78 when we cross over our first state border, hopping from Georgia to North Carolina in one step. The point is marked by an unimpressive wooden plate with faded out letters – still, all of us are excited about what feels like the first real milestone of our journey. Just a couple of days later, we pass the 100 mile marker. This time, there is no sign to indicate our progress and our plan to have lunch at mile 100 ends with us missing the right spot by about a mile.

While these milestones lift up everyone’s spirits for a while, it soon turns out our plan to get to Franklin is too ambitious as we struggle to finish what is our second 16 mile day. Grocer’s ankle has gotten very sore and everyone is tired and in a low mood. The trail very quickly teaches you that it’s futile to plan further than a day – how many miles one can do in a day or a week depends on the weather and the quirks of one’s body.

In the end, it takes us 3,5 days to make it to Franklin. By the time we finally reach the parking lot that serves as a shuttle pick-up point, everyone is pretty much ready to get out of the woods. Grocer has trouble walking, and we are luciously dreaming of hot food, a shower and a bed. Since we left Hiawassee, I have been consumed by very specific and overwhelming thoughts of breakfast burritos. When we climb down the final stretch to the road crossing, the first thing I see is a group of people doing trail magic. “Hey y’all, who wants some breakfast burritos” a cheerful lady shouts as we approach and I almost cry out of joy. In a split second, I’ve already forgotten all the troubles from moments earlier.

On the trail there is little choice but to keep going forward. Therefore, we walk and walk until our feet are sore and knees hurt, never knowing where we might end up. At the same time, there is something liberating about this self-imposed obligation and not once have I felt like quitting yet. The next stop is Fontana, just before entering the Great Smoky Mountains National Park where the temperature is predicted to drop even lower with potential snowstorms!