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I’m tempted every year to through-hike the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. While I never took the trip, I used to frequent the archway, which is the starting point for thousands of people who start their attempts in the spring. The last time I went was in the middle of April. The last time I went was the most memorable. 

“Springer Mountain: 8.5 miles,” I approached the archway and read the sign. I couldn’t help feeling a spark of reverence looking at the waypath to the Appalachian Trail. Below the first sign, another read: “Mt. Katahdin: 2108.5 miles.”

Almost all through-hikers had already started their trip by this time of the year. As I walked up to the archway, I saw a young, college-aged man tying his bootlaces in preparation for his trek. A couple armed with hefty backpacks bid farewell to some friends. An older, bearded man sat on the short stone walls that bordered the trail behind the archway. A father and his son took pictures with the archway signs. 

As I walked under the archway and started on the trail, I couldn’t help thinking: maybe I wouldn’t make it if I tried.

I grew up hiking and trail running, and kept at it into my adult years. For a long time it was my only hobby. But that day, I only walked a mile or so before I turned around again. I had to get back soon. As I went back, I passed the young man, marching along with a spring in his step. 

I noticed that he didn’t have a backpack. We exchanged our nods and smiles. I saw the married couple a few minutes later. 

“How’s it going?” the husband asked me. 

“Good, it’s a good way to start the day!” I replied, looking at sunlight piercing through the trees above him. “Are y’all doing the whole trail?” 

“Oh goodness, no!” The wife laughed. “We’re just camping out here for a few days.” 

“Well, enjoy!” The couple and I walked past each other. No through-hikers today. 

I had another half mile left until I reached the archway again. I watched a pair of squirrels chase each other up and through the trees. 

When I reached the archway again, the father and his son were gone. But the bearded man was still there. Now he sat at a bench in front of the arch. He was a thin man, clad in hiking boots and a thin jacket. His backpack sat on the ground next to him. He was crying. I walked up to him and did my best not to startle him.

“Hey sir, you doing ok?” 

The man sat up and looked at me. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said, clearing his throat. A little smile appeared on his face. “Just a bit emotional.”

“I’m Casper. You mind if I sit?” 

“I’m Jerry,” he responded. “Be my guest, I could use the company.” 

Jerry’s tears quickly dried from his friendly eyes as I sat with him. 

“You doing alright?” I asked again. 

Jerry inhaled and spoke slowly. “Yeah, I’m alright. My wife died eight months ago. We were married for 27 years. She was…” he smiled wide as he remembered her. “She was the love of my life. When she died, I didn’t know what to do with myself. I realized that I had a lot of free time. A lot of emptiness. So, I decided to hike the trail. I just finished a little while ago.”

I was taken aback. “The whole thing?” 

Jerry nodded. “Yeah. The whole thing.”

It took me a minute to digest all of this. Most people started right where we were sitting, at the archway in Georgia, where the April weather was milder. Not only did Jerry start in Maine, he started at the wrong end of the calendar. Jerry spent his first few months on the trail fighting for his life against the relentless New England winter. 

“And now I’m done. And I just realized how empty I am about to be again,” he started choking up. I sat with him for a bit. 

“Wow.” It was all I could think to say for a minute. I thought about my own wife. I thought about how I would handle it if I lost her. “Do you have any kids?” I asked after some time. 

“Two daughters,” Jerry smiled as he thought of them. “But they’re all grown up now; they have families of their own. Busy people, those girls. Both of them are working mothers. I couldn’t be prouder of them, but they just don’t stop moving.” 

I smiled with Jerry. “They probably got that from you, huh?” 

“Ha! Definitely not. And they didn’t get it from my wife, Mary, either. Their mother and I were slow souls. Maybe we made them restless, I don’t know.” 

“You must have missed them while you were out here,” I said. I thought about my own children.

“I always miss them. But I only see them a few times a year anyway. They both moved to the west coast. Their husbands had found some jobs out there. Enough about me, though. What brings you out here, Casper?”

I told Jerry about my frequent trips to the arch, and my longing to hike the trail. I told him about my wife and two children, and how I wouldn’t think of leaving them for so long to seclude myself in the forests. It seemed like escapism. I told Jerry I was afraid that my love for hiking was like a college drop-out who likes weed and drinking. There was no goal in hiking aside from my own pleasure.

“My family is my purpose,” I argued. “Maybe I’ll do the hike in another life.”

To my surprise, Jerry agreed with me. “Too many people decide to follow their dreams too late in life. And too many people are caught up in finding out who they were meant to be, that they fail to become who they need to be.”

I let Jerry’s words sink in for a minute.

“Jerry, you know that you did the hike backwards right?” 

 Jerry’s eyes lit up. “Exciting, isn’t it? Those first few months nearly got me.” 

“Why would you do it that way?” I looked intently at Jerry. “Doesn’t that seem like you’re setting yourself up for failure?”

“Failure is a strong word, friend. If there were any point where I really wanted to stop hiking, I would have stopped. And I started in Maine because I live up there. I started in the fall because that’s when I wanted to. What was I going to do with my time up until the spring if I waited?”

I didn’t have a good answer. Instead, I asked, “What made you want to through-hike in the first place? I mean, as opposed to doing anything else. Why hiking? Do you hike a lot?” 

“Not a bit,” Jerry chuckled. “Well, I guess I’m a big hiker now, but I didn’t do this sort of thing at all before this trip. That might have been what attracted me to the trail. Totally new.”

Jerry and I kept talking for a while. I learned that Jerry was a homebody. He and his wife didn’t travel often. They had a small house and a cat up in Maine. He had a good enough job that was nothing to brag about, which he quit in order to hike. He adored his wife. “I’m one of the lucky ones,” Jerry said, beaming a smile as he thought of Mary. “I had an ordinary life, and it was lit up by an extraordinary woman.” 

“She sounds special,” I said. “I’m glad you were lucky enough to find such a good fit for you.”

“I still am,” Jerry responded

“What?” 

“Lucky. I’m still lucky. I’m lucky that I found the love of my life. I’ll always be lucky for that.” 

We parted ways before lunchtime. I haven’t been back to the archway since. I think if I went back, I would be sad to find that Jerry isn’t there.