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The trail鈥檚 hodgepodge of kindred souls provided solace and fellowship.
The trail鈥檚 hodgepodge of kindred souls provided solace and fellowship. (Photo: Chris Bennett/Aurora)

The Appalachian Trail Murder Won’t Stop Me from Hiking

Despite an attack that left one hiker dead and another injured, the experience and fellowship of the trail perseveres

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The trail鈥檚 hodgepodge of kindred souls provided solace and fellowship.
(Photo: Chris Bennett/Aurora)

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Three years before the recent attacks that killed Ronald Sanchez and injured another hiker, I聽attempted a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. I went by myself because my boyfriend didn鈥檛 like hiking and I couldn鈥檛 rope anyone else into joining me. Setting out from the trail鈥檚 southern end at Springer Mountain, Georgia, I encountered mostly solo hikers. It鈥檚 hard enough to decide for yourself to leave behind everything familiar and live in the woods for months; it鈥檚 even harder to talk someone else into doing it with you.

I walked 675 miles before an injury ended my trek. During that time, I was afraid of plenty of things鈥攍oneliness, cold, rain, and bears鈥攂ut not once did I fear another human.

This month鈥檚 attacks should have changed that. They should have proved my fearlessness was naive, and that the trail is not the harmonious space I felt it to be. To be sure, I鈥檓 shaken and saddened. But I鈥檓 going to keep hiking alone.

The trail鈥檚 hodgepodge of kindred souls provides聽solace and fellowship. Many thru-hikers are as I was, searching鈥攚e propel ourselves along the path in order to sort ourselves out. For some聽it鈥檚 a straightforward adventure, but for others it鈥檚 more urgent. For me it was ripping off the Band-Aid of middle-class complacency and seeking deeper meaning. For Sanchez, an Iraq War veteran, it was coping with PTSD.

Hiking alone makes me like people more. Not because I鈥檓 taking a break from them, but because I connect more deeply with the ones I聽encounter. Backpackers might be eccentric聽and in many ways diverse鈥攙arious walks of life, various reasons for hiking鈥攂ut we mostly share a stance of openness, trust, and generosity.

It doesn鈥檛 take long for the trail鈥檚 curative solitude to twist into triggering isolation, so I typically rejoice聽at the sight of another person. My trail friends did the same. This 鈥淵ay, humans!鈥 attitude is an effect of聽the strain of backpacking. A close-to-the-bone, transformative experience, it sands away the guard we wear in civilization, rendering our interactions more immediate and authentic. Because merely surviving requires so much effort, there鈥檚 nothing left over to maintain a wall between yourself and others.

I cried a lot while I was on the trail: tears of joy at a vista after days of rain, tears of despair at the prospect of another frigid night wedged between snorers at a shelter.

One long, lonely afternoon, I had been sniffling off and on for hours when another backpacker鈥攁 stranger鈥攃ame along, heading south. He gave his trail name as Mountain Man. He noticed my distress, offered encouragement, and stepped closer. His bushy beard contained bits of duff. Like me, he was sweaty and stinky.

鈥淐an I give you a hug?鈥 he asked.

Hiking alone makes me like people more. Not because I鈥檓 taking a break from them, but because I connect more deeply with the ones I do encounter.

Imagine this on a city street! Rather than recoiling, I felt my whole body relax, realizing the welcome truth that other humans existed and cared. I nodded and stumbled toward Mountain Man and we held each other鈥攏ot the standard North American A-frame hug, but a real embrace, long enough to ignite some feel-good hormones. Everything was going to be okay.

The trail has no screening protocol or security checkpoints, so bad guys can鈥攁nd probably will鈥攇et on again. As a community, we鈥檙e mourning and lamenting the violation of the trail as a haven; we like to think of the AT as made of magic and angels, not violence. Online, backpackers have expressed fear and dismay, some have argued the merits of carrying weapons against such a threat, they鈥檝e grasped at blame. But mostly they鈥檝e vowed not to give the murderer additional power by altering their itineraries.

Sarah Ruth Bates, a writer in Cambridge, Massachusetts, explained her decision to go ahead with solo hiking the 430-mile Oregon section of the Pacific Crest Trail this summer by referencing two recent assaults on street corners in her ostensibly safe neighborhood. 鈥淕un violence is so common in America right now,鈥 she told me. 鈥淚 actually feel safer on the trail.鈥

Statistics collected by the support Bates鈥檚 intuition; the path is relatively free from crime. There have been ten hikers murdered on the trail in 45 years, including this most recent incident, according to Brian King, a conservancy spokesman.

Even if聽statistically聽it鈥檚 not that risky, we never know what鈥檚 in the mind of a lone stranger approaching us on the trail, but that鈥檚 true of anywhere we go. Few places in civilization offer what long-distance backpacking does: extended time in nature, the release from digital dependence, the shearing of our defenses that allows us to be present with each other as we seldom are back home.

These truths and my memories of deep trail friendships occupy more space in my mind than the knowledge of a murder鈥攅ven one that hit so close to home. The crime was truly terrible. The loss of Sanchez is crushing. But such horror is the exception. I鈥檒l be back on the trail, alone, and when I am, I鈥檒l hug the next Mountain Man I meet.

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