The scraggly beard and the backpack were badges of honor along the Appalachian Trail. Both served me well as I walked from Georgia to Maine. The honor slowly faded on the long hitch home.
In South Carolina, I was seen as just another homeless guy in need, so Samaritans pressed dollar bills on me, gave me food, and spoke v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y, using the simplest of words.
“We are leaving you at McDonalds. You can get something to eat. They will let you use the bathroom,” the woman patiently explained while her friend eyed me with suspicion. “That road over there will take you to the Interstate.”
I thanked them for the ride. And laughed.
Two men in a pickup stopped as I shed my pack and asked if I need money for lunch; another gave me two dollars and a lift to Summerville in the back of his truck. Two young guys in a truck pulled over later and handed me a carryout chicken dinner.
I was a quarter-mile from I-26 and two hours from home, but a ride was unlikely, so I ducked into the trees beside the Hess station and made camp for the night.
What a trip!
Since leaving the Appalachian Trail, I Occupied Maine, dined with a diplomat, was rousted by a Maryland state trooper, and busted by a Florence county sheriff’s deputy for doing something that was common on the trail. I camped behind a shopping mall, near truck stops, and under a tree between an on-ramp and I-95.
Easing back into the world on my long journey home, I stopped in Charleston for classes with my Boston tai chi master and then worshipped with the monks at Mepkin Abbey to thank God for His many blessings.
Nearly seven months after taking the midnight bus from Columbia to Atlanta for the long walk to Maine, the thru-hiker known on the trail as “Grasshopper” is almost home.
I have restored my faith in the Lord and in myself and have laid many burdens down along the way. Thanks to the fellowship of other hikers, support from friends at home and the generosity of countless strangers along the way, I hiked the Appalachian Trail and lived to tell the tale.
The end was bittersweet; the hike took its toll. Proud and humbled, I was awed by the accomplishment and filled with melancholy that the journey was almost over. Six months in the woods brought isolation, exhaustion, doubt, and pain, but I came home physically, mentally and spiritually stronger than at any time of my life.
I would head to Georgia and do it all again if I could. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
My heart was glad, and I was ready for what comes next, nourished by a recurring lesson, my mantra from the trail – “Patience, Grasshopper. And trust in the Lord, thy God.”
There and Back
It had rained every day for a week when I reached the west bank of the Piscataquis River, and the guidebook warned that this knee-high fording could be dangerous after heavy rain.
At another crossing earlier that morning, I had foolishly chosen to wear sandals and keep my boots dry. Unable to see my feet through the dark and swirling waters, I slipped on the rocky bottom and nearly went under, but while my backside got wet, my backpack stayed dry.
Lesson learned, I kept the boots on for this fording, but struggled to find stable footing and force my way across the current as the icy waters of the Piscataquis fought hard to push me downstream. I grinned and whooped and savored the moment.
I made it safely to shore. And then I got lost.
The sun was setting when I found myself back at the river where the afternoon had begun. Irritated at having somehow turned and hiked in the wrong direction, I camped alone, tired, and discouraged. I had the wilderness of Maine much to myself.
I left Georgia in the spring, hiking through North Carolina and Tennessee as the trees and flowers came alive and then through Virginia and the Mid-Atlantic states in the heat of the summer. Jumping ahead of Hurricane Irene into New England, I hiked above the tree line and through ice and snow in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Mount Katahdin and the lake country of Maine were reaching their autumn finest in late September when I reached Baxter Peak and the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. Red, silver, and golden leaves shimmered across the 100 Mile Wilderness and covered the footpath like falling snow.
My Appalachian Trail journey was ending, but more adventure lay ahead on the re-entry to the civilized world – a hitchhike from Maine to South Carolina. I had promised my trail companion “Strider” that I would hitchhike home with him; not yet ready for our adventures to end, we put out our thumbs on Highway 201 near the Kennebec River at Caratunk, trusting in the Lord that we would get home safely.
Given our 40-year age difference, most assumed Strider and I were father and son, though someone in Massachusetts asked if we were brothers. Nope, we were hiking buddies who shared the trail and adventure since meeting in North Carolina many, many miles before.
A young lady in an SUV went 15 miles out of her way to take us to Bingham, and, after a short wait, an older woman in a sedan happily carried us 23 miles to Skowhegan and within striking distance of I-95. On the trail, all we needed was a flat spot with room for our tents, but this world had other rules and we knew the authorities might quibble with our choice of campsites. Options limited, we slipped into the tall weeds behind a strip mall, pitching our tents out of sight of security guards who might be making late night rounds.
After breakfast at Burger King and browsing a discount warehouse, we walked into town looking for thrift shops and bargain clothes more appropriate for the highway than our hiking gear. Ten dollars bought almost-new corduroy jeans, a shirt, and a belt, all fit for a man smaller than the one who left South Carolina in the spring.
We waited barely a minute in town before getting a ride to I-95 and one exit south to a truck stop where we dined at Subway and talked strategy to get us to Strider’s home in Virginia Beach and me home to South Carolina.
We used a Sharpie and rummaged cardboard to make signs – 95 South – and talked to a trucker who said insurance forbids riders, but we already knew there was little chance for two of us (with packs) to get a ride in a big rig.
Pedestrians are forbidden on the Interstate, but hitching is OK at on-ramps and access roads, so we put out our thumbs and waited, hoping our smiles and backpacks signaled we were interesting companions – not evildoers.
The Subway manager ferried us down two exits where we waited for nearly an hour before a young woman, a yoga instructor, took us south to Portland, Maine. A cold drizzle and reality set in as we stared at the city skyline and wondered where we might stealth camp and get out of the rain.
We found refuge at the Miss Portland Diner, a converted railroad car, and the local newspaper answered our silent prayers -- Occupy Maine was camped in Lincoln Park and our home for the night was six blocks away. Sweet!!
The protester who welcomed us said ours were the 25th and 26th tents in the park. We never mentioned that we were thru-hikes hitching south. We happily stayed for a lazy day off in Portland.
The next day, a retired used bookseller in a station wagon saved us from the morning rain and took us 50 miles and into New Hampshire. We were walking away from the interchange looking for shelter from an approaching storm when a man in a Honda offered to drive two hours south. He was a hiker and jobless and had the time to be a Trail Angel.
Accustomed to hiking 10 mile days in Maine, we now quickly covered 200 miles and made it from Maine into Connecticut, our wilderness memories stoked by a driver who knew where we had come from and what it had been like.
Still attuned to a world where 8 p.m. is “hiker midnight” and where hiking starts early and ends early, we spent the evening in the Pilot truck stop restaurant and gift shop, met the uncle of a thru-hike we knew, and then camped in a spillover truck lot behind the depot.
Ten minutes at the on-ramp the next morning brought us a screaming man, who hollered “Come on! Come on!” as we struggled to force our packs into the back of his late model Cadillac. Mostly deaf and screaming to hear himself, he was 85 and he drove 80 and angry, weaving through traffic one-handed for a scary two-hour ride into New York.
“I’m going to the Tappan Zee Bridge so I’m going to drop you here,” he said, pulling to the shoulder outside Rye, NY, and dumping us into the buzz of traffic at a busy freeway off-ramp.
We were in the New York City suburbs, no longer thru-hikers and wilderness adventurers, just two guys with packs beside the road, barely visible to the families out running errands on a sunny Saturday morning.
But the Lord takes care of thru-hikers — and hitch-hikers. Jann and Nicole raced by, but knew we had no chance of a ride at that suburban on-ramp, so they went one exit down 95 and circled back to take us 200 miles and into Maryland.
Jann is a Czech national and cultural attaché at the embassy in New York; his wife is an American jewelry designer and silversmith.
She invited us to join them at their cabin on the Susquehanna River, but we decided to keep moving south and bade them farewell at a rest area. A state trooper soon rousted us for hitching, and ran our IDs through his computer to check for outstanding warrants. We both were clean, but he made us sign a trespass notice, saying, “If anybody complains about you, I’ll have to take you to jail.”
Nicole was a phone call away and happy to come back and rescue us. Their rustic cabin in the woods offered us our first beds in weeks. Valerie and Linda, neighbors from down river, joined us for pizza and a raucous Saturday evening beside a roaring campfire.
We were back at a lonely on-ramp by nine the next morning and waited barely 15 minutes before three Latinos in a jeep offered us a lift. We shoved our packs into the back, and I squeezed into the backseat and rode the hump between two guys who smiled a lot but didn’t speak English. Strider rode in front, sharing stories of faith with the driver who spoke some English, but was difficult to understand.
They were planning to go just to Washington but happily volunteered to take us on to Richmond, where Strider’s stepdad, Bill, was waiting to take us to Virginia Beach.
Strider’s mother and I had met by phone and text, and I was her path to her son when his cell phone died. She was eager to meet Grasshopper, the old guy who had shared the trail with her son and had helped convince him to keep hiking when he had nearly quit just short of halfway.
I considered taking Greyhound home but did not like the notion of 25 hours on a bus, so Bill and Strider hauled me back to 95 on Wednesday morning.
“I love you, Grasshopper. God bless you,” Strider said as we hugged a quick an emotional goodbye before they drove away, leaving me quite alone for the first time since the spring.
A
n old man with a dog gave me a ride to Fayetteville, and a young mechanic carried me to Lumberton. The sun was dropping at a busy cloverleaf and I sought my bearings over a Waffle House omelette. With no good options, I pitched my tent under a tree between I-95 and the on-ramp and slept like a baby, a good day’s hitching from home.
Fortified by two large cups of gas station coffee and pair of frosted blueberry pop tarts, I had my thumb out early and a young Latino man soon answered my silent plea. We didn’t talk much, but he said he had nowhere to be and could take me into South Carolina. He didn’t ask why I was on the road. The Appalachian Trail was so far out of context that I felt no need to share my tale.
The coffee caught up with me and I began to fidget as we passed South of the Border. With no exit in sight, I finally begged him to pull over soon. Having lived six months in the woods, I was no stranger to outdoor relief.
“Hurry. Hurry,” he said, waving urgently as I turned back to the car. I saw the patrol cars in the median a few hundred yards away, but didn’t think much of it until the blue lights came on behind us at the next exit. Welcome to South Carolina.
The Florence County Sheriff’s Deputy approached my window and said he had seen me beside the road a few miles back. He asked for my ID and for the driver’s license. I explained that my ID was in my backpack and asked to get out of the car and retrieve it; the driver said he did not have a license.
The deputy gave him a $150 ticket for driving without a license, but I was let go with a written warning (and terrific souvenir) for public urination and the admonition “don’t do that again.”
I felt terrible that my bladder had caused problems for someone who had helped me. The deputy said I should drive because was licensed, so I took the wheel for the first time in months and turned back north to get the Latino man headed home. Feeling guilty, but not so much as to offer to pay his ticket, I gave him $20 and an apology and walked down to the on-ramp in search of my next ride.
A man heading to Florida with a backseat filled with fruits and vegetables took me to I-26 and then one exit toward Charleston, and two rides later I was reunited with a friend I had met on the trail in Virginia.
Tai chi with old friends at a dojo in Mount Pleasant helped ground me and ease my reentry, but I was still drawn to the woods and not yet willing to let my adventure go. I went to Mepkin Abbey and prayed with my monastic friends before finding the Palmetto Trail, potentially a hundred mile walk through the woods to Columbia.
But the lakes and South Carolina flatlands were tame after the wilds of Maine, the highway now was more appealing than the woods, and home was more appealing than the road.
After 3000 miles to Maine and back, the journey was over for the thru-hiker turned hitchhiker turned hobo. It was time to put down the pack and to lay that burden down, trusting in myself with faith to guide me as my journey continues.
“Patience, Grasshopper. And trust in the Lord, thy God.”
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