The simplicity of backpacking can be both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, you learn to live with very little, carrying only the essentials like food, water, and shelter, all on your back at all times, and there's a charm to this simplicity. But on the other hand, you must survive with these things exclusively for the duration of your journey, however long that may be. Losing something small like a lighter or pocket knife on a short overnight excursion may prove a bit bothersome, but stretch that trip out over a few weeks or months, and this inconvenience gets multiplied considerably.
On the Appalachian Trail, which passes through many towns along its nearly 2200-mile span, getting a ride to one of them may be your only option to replace a lost item, assuming the town actually has what you need. Dropping, misplacing, or forgetting things is part of the AT experience, and as unfortunate as this may be, many hikers swiftly learn to be vigilant and keep track of everything. Note how I said "many," not all — my penchant for losing things became routine early on and stubbornly stayed with me throughout my hike, creating headaches that cost me time and money.
It started innocently, with a handkerchief I lost right after crossing into North Carolina. I used it mainly as a dishrag, so it wasn't a significant loss. But things escalated when a good pair of gloves disappeared without a trace. This loss stung much more when chilly rain and a windy day numbed my hands and fingers and made the day a mostly miserable slog. Still, these experiences were more of an inconvenience than a significant setback.
But the first real scare came at Newfound Gap in Tennessee, where the A.T. crosses US 441 in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I remember it well. There were plenty of visitors that day, and some were handing out snacks and drinks to thru-hikers passing by. That was a welcome break. Not only that, but I was also fortunate to get a ride down into Gatlinburg. Unfortunately, my trekking poles were not as lucky as I was. I only realized this after getting to town, too. Thankfully, the outdoor store where I got dropped off had someone offering shuttles as well, and after a few calls, my poles were able to hitch a ride a little while later. Reality hit me at that moment. After nearly parting with a very nice set of REI trekking poles, I thought, "Man, lesson learned, this can't happen again; I'm going to do a better job from now on inventorying my things." Oh, how wrong I was.
Everything went pretty smoothly for the next few weeks. But then, shortly after Erwin, Tennessee, I met up with my family for the first time since I started the trail. I was excited to see them, but I got careless. I'd spent most of the day with them, so by the next morning, I was eager for an early start to make up for the shorter mileage the day before. The weather that day was beautiful, and the hike over Unaka Mountain, one of my fondest memories of the trail, started like any other day.
It wasn't until I got into camp later that night at Cherry Gap shelter that I made a horrible discovery. Here's the thing: the palatial five-pound, two-person Kelty tent I called home up until this point on the trail came with two small bags to store the tentpoles and stakes. These two bags were lichen-green in color, which made it easy to lose track of. They blended in very nicely with the terra firma beneath my feet. Apparently, in my haste to break camp earlier in the day, I abandoned them to the elements. There was no retrieving them at this point either, as they were now a day's hike behind me. To add insult to injury, the nearest place I could pick up a replacement tent was a week's hike away in Damascus, Virginia.
So, for the next week, I'd had to hope and pray that there would be a free spot for me in the shelters. Worse, I still had to carry four pounds of a dead tent weight for 130 miles. The most unfortunate part would be that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the Kelty tent; it did the job and sure it may not have been the lightest tent, but the fact hat I was going to have to cough up some cash I didn't plan for to replace what had been, a perfectly good tent, was frustrating. I finally arrived in Damascus, and yes, I did fork over a few hundred bucks for a new tent, but at least I was still in the fight.
This one event happened as part of a series of things that seemed to conspire against me but also, in looking back, created some genuinely magical moments on the trail. I will write about this in more detail in another post because that week easily became one of my favorite weeks of the thru-hike. So many little things just worked out exactly how I needed them to.
So yeah, in the end, I reached Damascus just fine, and the Big Agnes tent I bought there would serve me well the rest of the way. That whole experience of losing my tent poles and giving free passage on my back to an utterly useless piece of gear taught me a valuable lesson about being responsible and respecting the slim margin of error that came with backpacking the A.T. So much so that for the next thousand miles or so, I was without incident, keeping diligent track of all my belongings.
I'd become the picture of carefulness and vigilance. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to lose something too. But, old habits are hard to break. This time, it involved my old, reliable headlamp. It appeared that it decided to book an indefinite stay at the last hostel I stayed in. But, aside from this one mishap, I was still doing pretty well at keeping up with my stuff. But as the story goes, losing things has a funny way of catching up with you at the most inconvenient of times. I guess the A.T. inevitably decided that I needed one last lesson in responsibility.
So there I was, steadily climbing the slope of Wyman Mountain in Maine. I'd just passed Surplus Pond, where two hikers had already set up tents. I considered joining them but knew I had some daylight left and could reach the next shelter before dark, so I kept going. A little while later, though, I stopped for a short snack break that wound up stretching into about half an hour. "No problem," I thought, "I still have plenty of time." I got up, hoisted my pack, and started moving again. I felt good, and everything seemed to be going great... until I came upon yet another Surplus Pond. "Wait, what?" A quick inspection of my guidebook revealed that this second Surplus Pond was, in fact, the first Surplus Pond. Immediately, the realization that I'd gone the wrong way hit me like a ton of bricks. A whole mile the wrong way, I know. "Ok, ok, no big deal, just turn around and get moving," I told myself. But, as the evening set in, so did the cold, so I stopped for a minute to pull my warm weather gear out and bundle up for the remaining push to the shelter.
A bit later, when it became too dark to see without some light, I reached for my fanny pack, where I'd put my above-mentioned headlamp. The fanny pack was my go-to for everything as it offered easy access to things I needed all the time. Except this time, there was no fanny pack. "Wait what? How could I be so careless?" Anger and then fear came over me. Not only was I without a headlamp. But my phone and wallet too. Uh oh.
A tide of panic began to rise in me, and I concluded, "It had to be where I had sat down to put on my coat!" I frantically turned around and began diligently retracing my steps. With daylight all but extinguished now, I wondered how I could spot the pack that now blended so nicely into the scattered rocks and foliage along the side of the trail. Eventually, I made it back to the Surplus Pond--a third time. To my great fortune, I was able to get the help of another hiker, who generously lent his light to me. Not only that, but he also took the time to help me search for it. Thankfully, this story had a happy ending, and we found the fanny pack sitting next to a log on the trail, right where I left it. Wow!
Looking back, this may have been the closest I'd ever been to a full-blown panic attack. I think about it too, and I don't know if losing the fanny pack would've ended my hike then, maybe? I do know that if I had not been able to find it and kept going, finishing the trail would undoubtedly have been far, far more difficult without a phone, wallet, or my I.D., not to mention the foreboding thought of all the hassle and cost it would have been to replace all those things afterward.
I rolled into camp that night, emotionally exhausted, utterly humbled, but entirely thankful. Thankful for the shelter and the kind hiker who saved me in my hour of need and that I found my fanny pack. I also became extremely grateful that my head is so firmly attached to my shoulders, lest I find a way to lose it, too.
Big Ramen
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