TAKE A HIKE!
Stories from the Appalachian Trail
Ottawa’s Judy Scott began hiking sections of the 3,500-kilometre Appalachian Trail by herself in 2012, shortly before she turned 73. She hikes nine to 11 days each year and so far has covered around 1000 km of the trail, which stretches from Maine to Georgia.
“What drew me to the trail were the woods, an anticipated sense of solitude and the challenge,” says Scott. “I’ve experienced all of that in spades. I love being in nature, I am comfortable doing things alone and I thrive on challenges.”
Scott is already planning this year’s hikes on the Appalachian Trail; she’ll likely hike in Tennessee and Vermont, with one trip planned for spring and one for October.
Here are some of Scott’s experiences on the trail, in her own words:
“Would it be rude if I ask how old you are?” the hiker at the hostel asks. “Seventy-eight,” I say.
“And you hike alone?”
“Yes.”
Turns out the 50-something-year-old is beginning to day-hike sections of the trail and is meeting her boyfriend the next day to hike with him back to her car. We discuss food and gear and plans for future hikes, which include, for her, extended periods of hiking with her boyfriend.
“You’re doing it!” I say.
“We both are,” she says.
I’ve bagged the food the homeless folks who use this shelter left on one of the upper bunks, put the bag on the nearby bear pole, set up my tent and cooked my dinner by the time the young hiker arrives. We each go about our business which, for her, includes scrambling to find a spot for her hammock outside of the shelter. As the evening shadows lengthen and the clouds thicken, she decides to move inside the shelter in hopes of staying dry. I mumble a “good night,” crawl into my tent, write in my notebook and read for a while.
In the morning she’s filled with questions which, of course, include how-old-are-you-you-don’t-looka-day-over-60. Maybe the megadoses of oxygen from the trees are freshening me up, I think, or maybe the pink beanie I’m wearing hides my white hair and makes me look young — though I learn at the next shelter that this hiker gets pretty high on pot and likely doesn’t see straight!
“You have no idea how you inspire me,” the runner says as she breezes by me on the northern section of the notorious Roller Coaster in Virginia.
“It’s you who inspires me,” I call to the runner as she bounds away — and I take a moment to recognize and celebrate mutual appreciation and respect.
This section of the AT is notorious because it’s thirteen and a half miles of endless, various elevation changes, including one section so steep I use my hands to pull myself up. To be clear, I’m hiking four miles of the Roller Coaster, which is more than enough for me. That sentiment is shared by a hiker I meet at the northern terminus who tells me the Roller Coaster has “kicked his butt.” But, it’s Sunday and even this arduous part of the trail seems crowded with day-hikers who carry light — or no — packs, who appear to know the trail well and have little trouble traversing it. There is, though, an older Oriental couple who, like me, stop every few steps to catch their breaths.
The day-hiker, a regular it seems on this part of the AT, is behind me and tells me as she blows by that I have lovely, long legs. No mention of my white hair which is dripping with sweat and stuck to my head.
“I don’t think I could hike alone,” the mother of the three children says as she and they scamper down the granite boulder as nimbly as can be, and I huff-and-puff my way up.
She looks at my white hair, smiles, and says, “Good for you.”
“Are you OK?” the concerned-looking day-hiking couple ask as we meet on the summit of Bear Mountain — which makes me wonder how I look after climbing 900 feet.
“What a gorgeous view,” I exclaim, hoping to ease their concerns that I’m way over my head on this section of the AT.
“How far are you going?” they ask.
“Laurel Ridge campsite. How about you all?”
“Under mountain Road, back to our car.”
“Enjoy the rest of your hike,” I say.
“You too. And be careful.”
“She must be every bit of 80,” Greeter says, addressing his handheld camera as he begins the 13-mile hike from the Pine Knob Shelter to Raven Rock Shelter.
“She” is Snail, my AT trail name. Greeter and I shared the Pine Knob Shelter with Goose Down Under (from Australia) and Groot from Georgia, which is also Greeter’s home state. The hike Greeter is starting in the rain is the one I did to arrive at Pine Knob. My hike today is a four-miler back to my car which is parked in Washington Monument Park in Maryland.
As I hike, the rain becomes a torrent, which makes the trail a river, and the gale-force winds do not blow the fog away, so as I walk on the bridge over I-79 I cannot see the highway below though I can hear the cars. My mind drifts back to the night before at Pine Knob. It was only the second time in my five years of hiking sections of the Appalachian Trail I had shared a shelter with three other hikers. All men, this time. All decades younger. The camaraderie and conversations flowed easily, though, as trail sections, distances, experiences were shared. As we talked, a trail maintainer for the Pine Knob section arrived to shoot the breeze, receive heartfelt “thank you’s” for the cleanliness of the shelter and privy, and to warn that there were reports of a male masturbating in a shelter south of Pine Knob in which one lone female hiker had stopped.
“She was young, though,” the maintainer said as he looked directly at my white hair.
Young I’m not, except at heart, I thought, but I was, nevertheless, glad to be sharing Pine Knob with three males.
“You’re strong,”’ the hikers said as I heft my pack onto my back, cinch it tight around my waist and shoulders, pull my rain jacket hoodie over my white hair and head off on the AT back to my car.
“Can you walk up stairs, dear?” “Yes, if they’ll take me as far away as possible from the rooms for smokers.”
“Room 306 is as far away as you can get,” she promises.
“Perfect,” I say, not bothering to tell the woman who’s checking me into the Day’s Inn that I’ve just hiked on the Appalachian Trail up and over Bear and Race mountains which included multiple ascents and descents of 600 to 1000 feet, plus carrying a 25-pound pack on my back. I know I’m looking every nanosecond of my 78 years and that my white hair and makeup-free eyes and cheeks and lips make it doubtful I can manage three flights of stairs, no matter what I say.
One, two, three, I count in my head as I ascend. That counting is a habit I’ve had since 1975 when I started running and began keeping a log of my mileage. The years I ran marathons, I logged as many as 1300 miles per year. Since I tangled with that van in 2006 while on a run I’m lucky to log 500. That I run at all is a bit of miracle since the van ran over my right foot. Thankfully, it got put back together, minus its dorsiflex, and so I keep on “running,” which today is more like a stroll than a run. But I get my heart rate up somewhat. And I get to wear youth-size basketball shorts and one of those wicking, neon-green running shirts that sets off my white locks perfectly.
As I start up the stairs, I note the senior’s rate is cheaper than the hiker’s rate so I cheerfully take my overnight bag and climb with my spirits as light as my feet striking the stairs.