An Introduction

March 24, 2009
The drive here to the airport was all nerves. It was a very nice hug good-bye to Bob, without tears, then I walked through the automatic terminal doors and was on my own. And I'm feeling good. So good. Through that portal, and the journey was mine. The nerves changed- more familiar, apprehensive of an adventure, rather than the nerves around friends and family, reminiscent of anxiety as a child- dread. I'm going to take all the nerves and visualize them as champagne bubbles giving me buoyancy and momentum to go ahead.

I handed the Delta Lady my precious backpack, gleaming with shiny reflectors, stuffed awkwardly with all the finalists from my gear spread that had filled the floor of my parents' guestroom for the last week. The green Stop & Shop reusable shopping bag that was my carry-on held a book (Mountains Beyond Mountains), my phone, the Patagonia R2 fleece my friend Ash gave me, a nalgene, and a few more pounds worth of miscellaneous things that I somehow knew I must not live without in the woods for six months. These did not include three items that were imperative for a successful hike: lighter (illegal), fuel (illegal), chapstick (forgotten). At the gate I listened as my plane was switched from B2 to B8 and back again. I walked calmly, knowing how I was leaving all this commotion, determined to let it slide off my new resilient hide. I called Mariya, my god-sister, to tell her I was going to hike for a while, and hoped to see her in 8 months at Thanksgiving. Then they called my flight to board. Was this it? Was this no turning back?

Off the plane I navigated the huge Atlanta Airport's walking boardwalks and tunnels and shuttles, Boston-speedwalking what takes most people 30 minutes in maybe 20 (I knew this because I remember a LED sign with estimated times to reach various gates and terminals). There were three things I needed to do before I called the woman who would make my thru-hike possible: pee, buy chapstick, buy a lighter. I spent $8 at the newsstand on Burts Bees flavored chapstick, and a lighter that read ATLANTA. I hoisted my bag onto my back, finding myself quite the badass (I was in the Atlanta airport on the 24th of March for Chrissakes, where were the other thru-hikers?? ), and walked out the terminal doors into the warm winds of the city proper.

Connie M is the beautiful, poised, generous mother of my friend Trent. Trent asked me if he could hike the trail with me when I told him my intent (for the record, half the people I told asked me if they could accompany me and the other half told me I was crazy). Then a few months before I departed he decided to one-up me and join the Peace Corps. Yeah, you win, Trent. So Connie is incredibly and deservedly proud of her son, and somehow also willing to pick me up at the airport, drive an hour to her new home, make me dinner, leave me to think about the rain about to pound the region for a while (how long, I could never have guessed), and drive me the two hours to the trail early the next morning. She told me about her decision to move to a new city alone after retiring (I'd never gauge her a day over forty) served me a salad and heated up the stuffed manicotti she'd gotten for me because Trent was kind enough to tell her my (past) dietary restrictions. Ooh, fun aside.

The week before I left for the trail I was a vegetarian, or, if you want to be technical about it, a pescatarian. So I knew I'd need a lot of protein hiking, and because I really, honestly, wasn't sure I had it in me to hike 2200 miles without significant interruption, and didn't want any sort of personal preference against eating animal flesh to handicap me more than whatever shortcomings I possessed but knew nothing of yet would inevitably challenge me. This is how my mind works. So I trained myself to eat meat again. I began with a simple chicken salad: combine a third cup of cooked shredded chicken with 3/4 tablespoon mayonnaise, 1/4 tsp curry, 1 tbsp golden raisins, a sprinkle of salt and pepper, garnish as desired. Then, because I didn't get sick from that (my iron stomach may have been an advantage in the next months), I moved onto some smoked turkey meat. I forget how I ate this, but really, isn't smoked turkey a forgettable food after all?

Once before, I had moved to meat after a bout with mononucleosis left me too skinny. My roommate at the time was so elated at the chance to feed me pork he cooked up his famous collard greens and chicken 'n' dumplin's. My task was to stir the greens and watch the boil. The long handled, wooden spoon I used had a small indent, the kind of spoon you use to stir not scoop. No matter, the smell wafting from the pot, thick steam like flavored air gripped me like shackles and I stood stirring, scooping meager spoonfuls of thick stew, blowing and sucking the broth, like bacon water but better than any memories of bacon anything. I stood there an hour, happily sipping away, then feasted with my dear roommate. All night I laid awake as the digestion pains racked my body like angry, tiny seizures.

Needless to say, I did not want to repeat that history. I started with the white meat for practice. Then, one day I was working at the outfitter I'm perpetually employed at (despite long breaks for travel and a move to the Big City), and decided it was time for beef. A burger joint had opened in town that got a nod from the Times Travel section, and was known for using responsible beef. So I walked in, chatted with the cutie behind the counter, telling him I hadn't really eaten beef in 8 years, so this burger was kinda important. On impulse, overwhelmed by options (dry-aged or grass-fed beef??) I ordered the eponymous Local Burger with sweet potato fries and sat down. Cutie brought me a double patty covered with bacon, mushrooms and cheese. Well, that was cows and pigs in one sitting. I took a picture of the thing to show my friend who never supported my non-meat-eating-ness how I had changed, and dug in. It was sublime. I returned to work. For the remaining three hours of my shift, as a dozen or so customers perused our store, my coworker liked to remind me that from her post some thirty feet from mine, over the alternative rock station on the stereo, she could hear my stomach twisting and gurgling like a baby discovering and tasting a new toy. But I didn't get sick. Back to Atlanta.

After dinner, Connie invited me to watch "On Golden Pond" with her, as we had discussed how it struck her personally. Usually I would be up for a film, but something she had mentioned earlier had me a wee bit distracted: "Sara, I'm not sure you've heard the weather forecast, but it's supposed to rain pretty hard for the next four days."
Four days.
That's a long time without indoors. What do I do? I had selected the 25th as my start date because the flight on the 24th was the cheapest flight I found after the 15th (a very popular start date) and before the 30th (how could I hike fast enough to finish without those extra five days?). Somehow, I had decided how long it would take me to walk these miles, decided not when I wanted to finish by (the northern terminus is a capricious mountain with its own weather system and the great state of Maine closes it, persistently, by the 15th of October), rather when I wanted to start -in order not to worry, and also figured into the plan that I would not want to be surrounded by other hikers starting when I was (I mean, really, what could we possibly have in common?), figured that I would prefer a more isolated beginning.... was all this rain something to avoid? My mind covered my two options, back and forth, a wave over sand and water. Or was tomorrow just the beginning, in whatever form? Eventually, after talking with friends and making them check the weather, I accepted the shitty forecast, embracing that I would invariably walk in rain, why not begin in it.
I slept.

When I woke up to my alarm, the windows were stenciled with gathering raindrops, tinted slightly by the gray morning of an approaching storm. I couldn't eat much, so I let Connie pack me a tuna sandwich for lunch (Hell, I knew it wasn't what I was supposed to eat, but I was carrying 30 frickin pounds on my back, what would another 1/2 lb in my coat matter, right? Right? How little I knew). She got on the highway, wipers moving at that rate above intermittent, and said to me "Are you sure you want to do this today?" Thankful for her to give me the opportunity to ask myself, I privately enjoyed my resolution.
"I'm going to walk in the rain eventually, I guess I just have to start in it. I decided on this day, to delay would feel like quitting a little."
So she kept driving.
"Sara, I don't know you very well, and don't want to say you can't do it, but if you ever feel like you don't want to keep going, you have my number. I can meet you, in Georgia, North Carolina, wherever you might be. If anything happens, I will pick you up."
"Thank you." And so I knew there was an out. As we drove on through the, now driving, rain, I thought: this is it. This is the point of no return. I am delivered to my entry to the woods. There is no turning back now. This is what I chose. I choose to walk in the rain.