Editor’s note: This is part one of a continuing series about Logan Miller and Nick Rutecki, both of Juneau, as they hike the United States.
Plastered with a layer of sticky, soggy, powdered mashed potato mix, I stood defeated and bitter on top of a 4,000-foot peak in the darkening evening. The furious wind gusts approached 70 mph, and a barrage of tiny snow missiles blasted horizontally past me before diving into the gray abyss beyond the edge of the mountain. My extremities quickly lost their remaining sensation, and I fumbled with my garlicky-potato-covered pack as the icy wind threatened to fling my scattered possessions into the dark valley.
I desperately surveyed the potato catastrophe and planned my next move. The clammy wet fleece clinging to my arms and chest paralyzed me, as I realize this is not the leisurely stroll I expected when we began walking the southern Appalachian Trail.
Four days earlier, Nick and I walked along damp roads through a warm, moonlit night to arrive at Amicalola State Park, the southern terminus of the Appalachian Trail. At the official trail-head registry we proudly entered our trail names: Nick is Satisfaction, I am Appreciation.
We had no plan, other than to get on the trail, and the park employee took the opportunity to kindly inform us how unprepared we were. With no knowledge of the trail, no water purification system, and backpacks that weigh 60-70 pounds (roughly twice the normal pack weight for hikers), she may have had a point. The first real incline of our entire trip proved this point, as we struggled mightily upward against the gentle slope, realizing that we are walkers, not hikers.
We found our mountain legs quickly, reaching the Springer Mountain shelter in the afternoon, just before a thunderstorm sent a dozen hikers scampering into the shelter for the night. Nearly all of the other hikers in the shelter attempted to “thru-hike,” that is, complete the entire 2,200-mile Appalachian trail in one calendar year (it takes most hikers four to six months). The thru-hikers in the shelter were adventure-seekers in their 20s; some took time off before working, a few were ex-military, and one just quit a banking job in New York.
During the first night of the hike the mood was noticeably tense, as several of the hikers were clearly apprehensive about this commitment. One girl, hiking with her boyfriend, repeatedly joked, “Welcome to the next six months of your life,” followed by nervous laughter.
Nick and I are accustomed to sleeping in our tents, so we find the sheltered accommodations luxurious. We claimed the loft immediately, and invited thru-hikers to play cards and we cooked popcorn, feeding off the slumber party atmosphere of the shelter. In the middle of the night, Nick woke me up, saying, “Yo, there’s a mouse trying to get into your food.”
I popped up and grabbed my headlamp, lighting up the tiny thief as he noisily attempted to navigate through my numerous layers of plastic grocery bags to pilfer my dehydrated rice and potatoes.
“Darn, that is a mouse!” I loudly confirmed as it scurried away.
“What!? Mouse!!?” It may have been 2 a.m., but someone downstairs was wide awake, and he was terrified of mice. The entire shelter started to stir, as people rustled around, quietly echoing the mumbled warning “mice, mice,” worried they are the next target.
I nervously retreated into my mummy sleeping bag, listening to the scurrying squeaks of what I imagined to be teeming hordes of mice, in between torrents of rain bombarding the metal roof. After a restless sleep and several nightmares of mice running across my face, I discovered in the morning that my food remained untouched. However, Nick’s prized edible possession — his bag of chocolate-covered almonds from Costco — had been infiltrated by mice. To our surprise, the mice didn’t seem to share our love of chocolaty nuts, leaving them uneaten but tainted.
Trail morale and enthusiasm intact, we packed up quickly and took off at a run, chanting “AT! AT! AT!” Sprinting down the rocky trail, we eagerly joined the steady trickle of thru-hikers winding north through the foggy woods.
• Logan Miller grew up in Juneau. In 2015, he and fellow Juneauite Nick Rutecki began walking around America with backpacks and no plans. Read more at www.thewalkingtrip.com.
