A typical thru-hiking day on the A.T., about 2 months in

I’m changing gears for this blog post and talking about my time on the Appalachian Trail. It’s now been 1 year since I left my full-time job of 24 years and spent 2 weeks focusing on final preparations before getting to Springer Mountain in Georgia to start my northbound thru-hike of the A.T. I made it 1,507 miles (the total trail length in 2024 was 2,197.4 miles). I’m feeling nostalgic for the trail as that 1-year anniversary of starting my hike approaches, so I decided to share what became a typical day of thru-hiking by the time I was about 2 months into my journey. I’ll continue to share reflections and stories of my time on the A.T. in future blog posts.

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It’s still dark when I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling of my tent. I check the time: 5:30am. The alarm that I set as a precaution turns out, as usual, to be unnecessary. I deflate my pillow and sleeping pad, hoping the sound doesn’t wake anyone whose tent is near mine.

I start my stretching routine in child’s pose, moving to downward dog, cat/cow, thread the needle (two versions, one for shoulders and one for hips), happy baby, supine twist, all in my tent. It takes about 20 minutes. People in my tramily (trail family), all of whom are in their 20s, have praised my dedication for doing this. I tell them that, as an aspiring thru-hiker in my 40s, this stretching routine is necessary to enable me to hike at all.

I get dressed in the same clothes I wore the day before. My only extra clothes are socks and underwear; hauling everything on your back means that spare outfits are a luxury that my body can’t afford to carry. I pack my sleeping clothes and quilt into a dry sack, unzip my tent door, and go get my bear canister. Depending on where I’m camping, the bear canister is in a bearproof box at the campsite, stashed several hundred yards away in the woods, or in my backpack hanging from bear cables. After several months on trail, many hikers give up on bear canisters and on storing food away from their tent, but I feel safer carrying my food this way. They say you pack your fears, and I can attest to the truth of that.

I eat breakfast. Sometimes it’s a protein bar with a second one to eat while hiking later; sometimes it’s oatmeal (usually cold) with Carnation Instant Breakfast and instant coffee mixed in. I rinse off any utensils I’ve used and repack my bear canister. Once I’ve gotten my snacks for the day packed in a side pocket of my backpack, I can begin to fully repack my backpack, starting with my bear canister and then my sleeping pad and pillow, dry sack, water filter, power bank, hair brush, handkerchief, and phone.

I disassemble my tent. I started the trail with a freestanding tent but switched to a trekking pole tent after a month to reduce my pack weight. I remove the trekking poles and pull up the tent stakes, then I fold the tent and stuff it into its sack. I pack the tent at the top of my backpack and put the Tyvek ground cloth and stakes into the front pocket of my backpack. I adjust the height of my trekking poles to what I need for hiking.

I go to the bathroom one last time, using the privy if there is one, going in the woods if there isn’t (digging a cat hole to poop in if necessary). I sanitize my hands, pack my toilet bag, hoist the pack onto my back, and start hiking.

The first hour is a slow warm-up for my body. The soles of my feet are sore, a constant on this journey, but after a while the pain becomes less noticeable. I listen to the birds and breathe in the smells of the wilderness. The best are the fir forests, since they provide cushioning for my feet, shade, and the best scent. In the spring, I’m delighted by wildflowers that don’t grow at lower elevations, like trilliums. The earlier in the day that I start hiking, the more likely it is that I’ll see more wildlife, but birds, squirrels, and deer are around at all times of the day.

I make mileage plans about once weekly, but these plans are always subject to change. The weather, the terrain, and my body all call the shots over and above any plan. If my pack is heavy, newly loaded with several days’ worth of food, I hike more slowly and tend to cover fewer miles. If I’m near the end of my food supply and heading into a town, where I can eat fresh food and enjoy indoor plumbing, I have a lighter pack and a quicker pace (town food especially is a huge motivator for me to hike faster). I can feel capable of hiking 17 miles in one day, only to be foiled by extreme heat and humidity, storms, rocks, or intense elevation gains over short distances. The combination of making plans and being flexible enough to pivot at a moment’s notice is key for survival.

Sometimes, in the morning, I’m hiking with others who are leaving camp at the same time; other times, we leave at different times and I’m hiking alone. I love the mix of social time and alone time that I get while thru-hiking. Mornings alone are lovely, with time to watch the world waking up along with me, time to let my thoughts wander. Afternoons alone are harder on the tougher days, and those are when I’m more likely to call someone from home (if I have a cell signal) or listen to music to get me through my tiredness. My energy starts out at its highest level in the morning and then tends to slope off as the day progresses. That combined with my body’s weariness means that I’m often in “death march” mode in the afternoons, mainly motivated by the thought of getting to camp and being able to stop hiking for the day. It’s nice to be distracted by conversation in those moments, and even when I’ve been suffering, I’ve been able to appreciate moments of beauty in the scenery around me.

I’ve never gotten comfortable with night hiking. My night vision isn’t great and even with my headlamp, it’s hard to see the ground under me and the world around me. Every sound is louder in the dark, and I get jumpy and scared. I also hate getting to a campsite when it’s already dark; I prefer time to set up my tent, unwind, and eat dinner when I can see what I’m doing. I don’t love hiking before the sun rises, but I prefer that to hiking after the sun sets because at least I know the sun will be coming up soon and bringing light to the rest of my hike.

A thought that regularly occurs to me as I hike is that we get where we’re going one step at a time. It’s a realization that has gotten me through life as well as the trail. If I face a new and difficult task, I can easily get daunted by how enormous it seems. But if I break the monolithic into smaller chunks, I can manage it. To hike 2,200 miles is impossible, but to put one foot in front of the other is possible. I prove that possibility to myself every day.

When I end my hike for the day, arriving at a campsite, I set up my tent first, choosing the flattest spot available that is free from vegetation and making sure there are no dead tree branches looming above. I inflate my pillow and sleeping pad and am thankful for my lung capacity as I do so. I find the water source (usually a spring or stream) and filter water to use for cooking. I’m usually camping with others, so we cook our dinner together and share laughter and conversation as we eat. If I’m alone, I enjoy the beauty of the sunset and the natural world preparing for bed, as I am.

I clean up any dishes I’ve used. I began my hike by using camp soap to wash my dishes each night, burying the soapy liquid in a hole, but I’ve gotten lazy (more efficient?) as my hike has continued. Now, I add water to my dirty pot, swirl it around, and drink it. I dry my pot and spoon and pack it and any trash into my bear canister. I brush and floss my teeth and pack the toothbrush and floss into the bear canister, after which I stash the bear canister for the night.

I get into my tent and try to sleep. Despite my physical exhaustion, I don’t tend to sleep great in my tent. I usually fall asleep fairly quickly—not always, but usually—only to wake up a few hours later needing to shift or to pee. Sometimes I take melatonin to help me sleep and use earplugs to block out any noise. An ear infection in May led me to take a break from earplugs for several weeks after.

Sometimes the noises I hear are other hikers talking, but usually not; most thru-hikers respect “hiker midnight” and are quiet and in bed not long after sunset. Snoring is sometimes an issue, one of many reasons I typically sleep in my tent rather than in shelters. I’ve learned that birds and deer are the loudest animals in the forest, but my imagination in the dark tells me that every sound is a bear. I’m amazed at how loud whippoorwills are and how late at night they’ll make their sounds. I’ve seen and heard very bold deer that come right up to tents in the hopes of finding food. I’ve heard coyotes in the distance and been grateful for that distance. I’ve heard the wind and the rain and a deep, deep silence.

Now that I’m done my hike, I sleep in a bed every night and I usually sleep through the night. Being indoors in a bed is more comfortable for me, and I definitely sleep better that way, but I miss hearing the noises of nature, even when those noises kept me awake. Short-term loss of sleep in exchange for the freedom and beauty of months spent outdoors in nature doesn’t seem like a bad trade.