On Collective Effervescence and Pooping in the Woods, Part 2
Day: 176 | Total Miles Hiked: 2,197.4 | Miles Remaining: 0
I summited Mt. Katahdin on August 30, 2024, thus finishing my 2024 Appalachian Trail journey.
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I wish everyone who dreamed of hiking the Appalachian Trail could do just that, because some sections of it are best discovered by those curious enough to venture through them. Unfortunately, it’s not possible for lots of folks for a myriad of reasons. I know that’s why some of you really appreciated my day-to-day reflections. I can’t share those anymore, but if you’ll bear with me, I’d like to tell a few stories about the people and places that made all of this feel so special.
“Remote for detachment, narrow for chosen company, winding for leisure, lonely for contemplation, the Appalachian Trail beckons not merely north and south, but upward to the body, mind, and soul of man.” Harold Allen
![Hey, Rabbi.]()
Winding through the Appalachian Mountains is a footpath nearly 2,200 miles long dedicated to those who seek fellowship with the wilderness.
This path floats up into spruce fir forests and alpine bogs. It meanders through dairy pastures and open prairies and endless wetlands. It snakes through boulder fields, invites you to rest upon moss-covered earth. Beckons you to pause and gaze up through the protective arms of snow-white birch trees into the sky above.
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Along the Appalachian Trail, there are peaks with views so expansive you might feel like a bird, and valleys so dense that it feels like dusk at noon. There are places remote enough that you must sit very, very still for a long time before a deer will feed nearby without fear. There is rain; there is fog. There is snow, hail, and sometimes, there is sun.
Dotting the trail are small towns with trail angels who let you shower and watch My Cousin Vinny on their televisions. Some days you’ll find yourself hiking slowly up a mountain near one of these towns behind a group of day hikers, then smile when you remember that after you finish this thing, that’s exactly who you’ll be again. And you’ll be so, so clean.
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Holy Mirrors
Hiking the Appalachian Trail — especially near the end — is a physical, mental, and emotional challenge.
![Hiking down Mt. Moosilauke, my first 4000-footer in the Whites. Photo by Jordan "Digit" Mongell.]()
But all of this I could bear because walking along the trail with me were some of the most tender-hearted, jolly, and generous souls I’ve ever met. As I’ve started opening up about the past six months with family and friends, I find I’m dwelling most on my memories of these people:
How I’d catch Cinderella’s contagious laugh all the time — especially when she and I kept falling butt-first into mud on that boggy blue blaze. My first hitch to the New River with Ramen Bomb Tom. The time Outlaw slowed his quick pace and encouraged me as I climbed up some sketchy rebar. Llama’s joyful enthusiasm for foraging mushrooms.
![Rabbi, White Claw, and Outlaw hiking up Baldplate]()
The way Hero befriended everyone. Sparks’ reminders to “hike at the pace of guidance.” Stingray, always staying awake long enough to make sure the campfire was totally out. Tin Man’s safe and easygoing presence grounding me on days that felt overwhelming. Digit’s boundless determination to hike long days even in — perhaps especially in — the rain he so disdained.
![Following Outlaw, Rabbi, Tin Man, Cinderella, Llama, and White Claw through bogs and dirt roads forever]()
That sunny afternoon Banjo and I took a break on a ledge in the Smokies to sing into the valley below. Honeybun calling, “See ya, shuuuug,” every morning as I hiked out of camp. Plantasia’s empathy and steady friendship. Coyote, who canoed all the way across a lake with me just so we could swim near the sandy beach.
![Greg the ferryman taking Outlaw and Rabbi across the Kennebec River in Maine.]()
When White Claw turned around to find me in the fog on the way to Lake of the Clouds.
Rabbi whispering the first line of one of my favorite poems as he squeezed me on top of Katahdin.
![Appreciating the undercast from Vince's camp, which is a whole story in itself. But what happens at Vince's stays at Vince's.]()
I often hiked alone, but the memories I cling to now include the people I met along the trail. Holy mirrors, reflecting our humanity back to one another.
The Little Moments, They Are Not So Little
On August 29, my last morning in the Hundred Mile Wilderness, I woke up to a gray-blue dawn. It was cold, so I curled up in my sleeping bag between White Claw’s and Rabbi’s tents to watch the sun rise over Mt. Katahdin. Together with my friends, I kept vigil as morning fog swirled in wide, lazy circles over Rainbow Lake. A loon called from somewhere I couldn’t see and gentle waves rolled over the pebbles on the beach.
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We were quiet for a while before Rabbi said he wished he could recite Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” from memory. I’d saved the poem on my phone — maybe for this exact moment — so as the sun crested over the horizon like it does every morning and illuminated the mountain, then rippled over the lake, then warmed our skin, I read it aloud.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
We sat for a while longer, but eventually it was time to pack up our gear and hike the last twelve miles out of the Wilderness.
Though I’m still parsing through my memories and feelings trying to identify some Very Important Lesson to carry into the next chapter, I think this is what it comes back to for me: Noticing these rich moments of shimmering togetherness when they’re happening. Being human beings, shoulder to shoulder.
![Watching the loons from a trail angel’s dock. Photo by Anna “Cinderella” Davis.]()
Now What?
Transitioning to life off the trail has been a challenge. My loving and well-intentioned parents and friends keep referring to this as “real life.” But in many ways, stripping away the excessive noise of society and walking thousands of miles carrying only what I truly needed to survive made my life on the trail feel even more real than what I’ve returned to.
![My friend Bryce took me to the coast for a few days after summiting Katahdin. I highly recommend having your friend Bryce take you to the coast for a few days after summiting Katahdin, too. It was good to have this time to transition away from the AT and back into civilization.]()
There’s a lot up in the air for me right now, and that’s uncomfortable. But just like the rain, this discomfort is also fleeting. I recently accepted a job at an outfitter in northern Michigan. I might hike the Pinhoti with Sparks this spring. My tramily is talking about taking on the PCT in a couple years. Maybe one day I’ll get a dog and move to the mountains where I can watch the storms roll by from the comfort of my front porch.
Thank you to all the trail angels, friends, and family who made this journey possible and meaningful. The trail has a way of illuminating the good in people; I strive to pay your love and generosity forward.
Hiking the Appalachian Trail was the biggest, best thing I have ever done. It shook up my life in beautiful and unexpected ways, and showed me the infinite depths of my own strength, of my love. I am immensely proud of and grateful to the woman who embarked on this journey alone just over six months ago. What a gift I’ve given myself—to be in fellowship with the wilderness both outside and within myself.
For now, in the words of Gandalf, “May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks.”
Onward to the next unknown.
![Clockwise from top left: Outlaw, Rabbi, White Claw, Digit, Korok, Llama, Tribute, Coyote, and me (Hummingbird)]()
I wish everyone who dreamed of hiking the Appalachian Trail could do just that, because some sections of it are best discovered by those curious enough to venture through them. Unfortunately, it’s not possible for lots of folks for a myriad of reasons. I know that’s why some of you really appreciated my day-to-day reflections. I can’t share those anymore, but if you’ll bear with me, I’d like to tell a few stories about the people and places that made all of this feel so special.
“Remote for detachment, narrow for chosen company, winding for leisure, lonely for contemplation, the Appalachian Trail beckons not merely north and south, but upward to the body, mind, and soul of man.” Harold Allen
Winding through the Appalachian Mountains is a footpath nearly 2,200 miles long dedicated to those who seek fellowship with the wilderness.
This path floats up into spruce fir forests and alpine bogs. It meanders through dairy pastures and open prairies and endless wetlands. It snakes through boulder fields, invites you to rest upon moss-covered earth. Beckons you to pause and gaze up through the protective arms of snow-white birch trees into the sky above.
Along the Appalachian Trail, there are peaks with views so expansive you might feel like a bird, and valleys so dense that it feels like dusk at noon. There are places remote enough that you must sit very, very still for a long time before a deer will feed nearby without fear. There is rain; there is fog. There is snow, hail, and sometimes, there is sun.
Dotting the trail are small towns with trail angels who let you shower and watch My Cousin Vinny on their televisions. Some days you’ll find yourself hiking slowly up a mountain near one of these towns behind a group of day hikers, then smile when you remember that after you finish this thing, that’s exactly who you’ll be again. And you’ll be so, so clean.
Holy Mirrors
Hiking the Appalachian Trail — especially near the end — is a physical, mental, and emotional challenge.
But all of this I could bear because walking along the trail with me were some of the most tender-hearted, jolly, and generous souls I’ve ever met. As I’ve started opening up about the past six months with family and friends, I find I’m dwelling most on my memories of these people:
How I’d catch Cinderella’s contagious laugh all the time — especially when she and I kept falling butt-first into mud on that boggy blue blaze. My first hitch to the New River with Ramen Bomb Tom. The time Outlaw slowed his quick pace and encouraged me as I climbed up some sketchy rebar. Llama’s joyful enthusiasm for foraging mushrooms.
The way Hero befriended everyone. Sparks’ reminders to “hike at the pace of guidance.” Stingray, always staying awake long enough to make sure the campfire was totally out. Tin Man’s safe and easygoing presence grounding me on days that felt overwhelming. Digit’s boundless determination to hike long days even in — perhaps especially in — the rain he so disdained.
That sunny afternoon Banjo and I took a break on a ledge in the Smokies to sing into the valley below. Honeybun calling, “See ya, shuuuug,” every morning as I hiked out of camp. Plantasia’s empathy and steady friendship. Coyote, who canoed all the way across a lake with me just so we could swim near the sandy beach.
I often hiked alone, but the memories I cling to now include the people I met along the trail. Holy mirrors, reflecting our humanity back to one another.
The Little Moments, They Are Not So Little
On August 29, my last morning in the Hundred Mile Wilderness, I woke up to a gray-blue dawn. It was cold, so I curled up in my sleeping bag between White Claw’s and Rabbi’s tents to watch the sun rise over Mt. Katahdin. Together with my friends, I kept vigil as morning fog swirled in wide, lazy circles over Rainbow Lake. A loon called from somewhere I couldn’t see and gentle waves rolled over the pebbles on the beach.
We were quiet for a while before Rabbi said he wished he could recite Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” from memory. I’d saved the poem on my phone — maybe for this exact moment — so as the sun crested over the horizon like it does every morning and illuminated the mountain, then rippled over the lake, then warmed our skin, I read it aloud.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
We sat for a while longer, but eventually it was time to pack up our gear and hike the last twelve miles out of the Wilderness.
Though I’m still parsing through my memories and feelings trying to identify some Very Important Lesson to carry into the next chapter, I think this is what it comes back to for me: Noticing these rich moments of shimmering togetherness when they’re happening. Being human beings, shoulder to shoulder.
Transitioning to life off the trail has been a challenge. My loving and well-intentioned parents and friends keep referring to this as “real life.” But in many ways, stripping away the excessive noise of society and walking thousands of miles carrying only what I truly needed to survive made my life on the trail feel even more real than what I’ve returned to.
There’s a lot up in the air for me right now, and that’s uncomfortable. But just like the rain, this discomfort is also fleeting. I recently accepted a job at an outfitter in northern Michigan. I might hike the Pinhoti with Sparks this spring. My tramily is talking about taking on the PCT in a couple years. Maybe one day I’ll get a dog and move to the mountains where I can watch the storms roll by from the comfort of my front porch.
Thank you to all the trail angels, friends, and family who made this journey possible and meaningful. The trail has a way of illuminating the good in people; I strive to pay your love and generosity forward.
Hiking the Appalachian Trail was the biggest, best thing I have ever done. It shook up my life in beautiful and unexpected ways, and showed me the infinite depths of my own strength, of my love. I am immensely proud of and grateful to the woman who embarked on this journey alone just over six months ago. What a gift I’ve given myself—to be in fellowship with the wilderness both outside and within myself.
For now, in the words of Gandalf, “May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks.”
Onward to the next unknown.
