Unspoken Truths from the Silent Appalachian Woods

BY JARROD SCHEUNEMANN

“Their words aren’t heard, their voices aren’t recorded….. Unspoken truth is spoken everywhere.” Psalm 19:3-4

Straight up or straight down, that’s how the Appalachian Trail rolls. The trail undulates so frequently that those who trek its rocks and mud quickly lose track of the number of mountains and gaps they have crossed. Many who flock to the Appalachian Trail every year claim they have come to be found, but I’d argue that all who visit become lost.

Researcher Robert Stebbins would confirm that anyone participating in a form of serious leisure like thru hiking the Appalachian Trail, could become wholly consumed and completely lost within the hike based on the nature of the activity being “interesting and fulfilling” combined with the opportunity to “acquire and express special skills, knowledge, and learning experiences.”

In this same vein, Belden Lane reminds the backpacker that this metamorphosis begins even before one embarks on the trail, “Deciding what to carry and what to leave behind is always the first step.” 

Packing for the Appalachian Trail 

Northern Georgia is black bear country and certain sections of the trail require hikers to carry and store their food in portable bear-proof food canisters. Everyone on the trail was carrying one and everyone hated them. Not only were the canisters heavy, but they also were big, which meant they took up a lot of space in a pack.

Some might say it is weird for backpackers to burn massive calories but arrive at camp without feeling hungry, but if getting out food meant you’d have to unpack and repack your entire bag, you might find eating less desirable too. Especially if the prize at the end of the effort was ramen.

I certainly did not feel hungry on trail. Maybe it was the bear canister, maybe it was the dried food, maybe my relationship with food shifted from addiction to fuel for a moment in time? Whatever the reason, one thing was for sure, I was about to get lost and fasting from normal life (including everyday foods) was part of the pilgrimage.  

Journey to the Appalachian Trail 

This is where I began my journey. However, in my natural gas heated home I was mostly lost in the weather forecast for Northern Georgia’s mountains. Days of forecasted sunshine and seventy-degree temperatures gave way to chilly nights and thunderstorms.

Every backpacker’s blog will tell you that it is critical to stay warm and dry. I packed and unpacked and repacked. I struggled with what to carry and what to leave behind. In the end, my brother-in-law thought I was carrying so much clothing that he christened me with the trail name, “Armani.” 

Treadhead (my brother-in-law) flew into Nashville and I picked him up in route to Amicalola Falls State Park. “Am-Eh-Ca-Low-La not Am-Eh-Cola, our trail shuttle driver chided us with a snicker.” Most north bound (NOBO) Appalachian Trail thru hikers begin their hike at this state park, but it’s not part of the Appalachian Trail. Why? I learned that the Appalachian Trail is considered a peak-to-peak trail.

The first peak and southern terminus, Springer Mountain, can be reached by car. Or it can be reached by hiking the 8.2 mile (600+ stairs and 3,100 feet of elevation gain) “approach” trail to reach the Appalachian Trail first white blaze (trail markers) and starting point.

The overachievers and idiots choose to hike it. I fall into both of those categories, so you can imagine where we started. Later, we met hikers on the trail who spent their first day climbing the 600+ stairs and then spent the night in the Inn at the top of the flight. Now that was smart.

The Hard-Won Hike to the Start of the Appalachian Trail

The morning of our first day was wet from the previous evening’s rain. A chilly mist hung in the air and our first mile was punctuated with icy drips down the neck from saturated branches. Eventually overcast skies gave way to a sunny but brisk afternoon and we started to sweat as we climbed up and up and up to the summit.

After what felt like years of struggle uphill, we sensed the open-air summit approaching and very soon the forest opened ahead of us. An unassuming plaque and solitary white blaze marked the beginning (and the end) of the Appalachian Trail. It was a sacred moment.

The ground here is hallowed by all who take up their pack to embark on the journey of a lifetime. The view itself felt holy. For thousands of hikers this spot symbolizes the first step of deciding what to carry and what to leave behind over the course of the next six months. 

Camp was less than a mile from the southern terminus and we arrived with thirty-five of our new best friends. “Did you take the approach trail?” “Yea, what the $%& was that!” “I hiked 1,600 miles last year and that was the hardest eight miles of my life.”

Night fell and bitter cold settled in. Treadhead pulled out his bougie pump, air mattress, and enormous fluffy sleeping bag to weather the 26-degree night. I wore everything I owned to bed. Treadhead chuckled in the morning as I shared about shivering all night and waking to boots that were frozen solid. With a toothy grin he empathized that his toes had been slightly chilled overnight. 

Appalachian Trail Magic

On day two, we plugged away at climbing up yet another steep ascent and crossed paths with one of many hikers on the trail that day. This one was wearing a blanket and had an eight-foot-tall wooden hiking stick. He looked and spoke like a prophet from the Old Testament. His trail name must have been Charlton Heston.

One deep, soft, southern drawled sentence rolled from his lips in answer to our hello, “There’s burgers and hot dogs ahead.” Dumbfounded we searched for words. “Are you serious?,” Treadhead asked. “Would I lie to you about that?” he responded. We only had a split second to decide if this was Verbal Kint. And poof, just like that…. Keyser Soze was gone.

With each step forward, burgeoning hope waned. The next half mile felt like years. Our shoulders screamed from a long day under heavy pack straps. The eerily silent forest was broken by distant artillery fire from army rangers in training. Finally, we reached a level area opening into an uncharacteristically grassy bald overlooking a steep cliff (later we learned that the same army rangers use this bald and cliff for rappelling exercises).

I had read about mirages and seen them in movies, but I had never experienced one myself. At this point in my hike, I felt like I was seeing a mirage for the first time. At least that’s what I imagine everyone feels the first time they experience trail magic. Sure enough, just as Moses had predicted, four blessed human beings had laid out a veritable feast. For us.

For any hiker. Hot dogs, burgers, fried potatoes, fresh fruit, chips, Gatorade, beer, and water were graciously organized and freely given next to a glowing fire surrounded by camp chairs. It was all the things. Everything we desired but couldn’t have while on the trail. They asked us for nothing in return.

It truly was magical to eat, drink, sit, enjoy good company, and be warm. Many Americans, including me, take these five things for granted every day. We ate mostly in silence. We looked knowingly into each other’s eyes. Each eye gleamed with unspoken truths – after a hard day’s work; food, warmth, and rest are gifts.

Lessons of the Appalachian Trail

It’s an interesting parable with a sharp edge in my mind. Our four trail magic friends knew exactly what we, as backpackers, desired and needed. They prepared and shared it for us with no strings attached. Such is love. 

This situation filled my mind with reminders and questions about work and life. In the parks and recreation world we might say “ideas are useless unless they are used.” So how are we providing products that fulfill the deepest needs and desires of our residents? How do we create an atmosphere at our COMMUNITY centers that make people feel known and loved when they enter the doors? 

There’s a lot of noise these days on the internet, TV, podcasts, you name it. Everyone carries some kind of bias, and everyone shares their opinion these days. Do you want others to change their opinions or actions or join you on your journey? Will a post, tweet, or video do that? Or are you just speaking into an echo chamber?

Is your marriage, your church, your kids’ school, so desirable, so irresistible, or so beautiful that it knows and meets the deepest needs of others – even before they ask? Maybe it’s time to get our own houses in order – to be the change we want to see in the world, instead of saying it. Trail magic providers are typically past hikers.

Have we placed ourselves in situations to better understand all poverties of life – no just food insecurity, but also mental illness, the lack of social capital to foster ability to change one’s life, general hopelessness, etc.? At a basic level, do your actions look like a feast, warmth, and rest to life’s hungry and weary wanderers? Is your path marked with love and kindness and hope?

Life’s walk can be confusing. It is crossed by spur trails, intersections, and road crossings. It’s easy to get lost and a wrong turn has dire consequences for those who lack the resources to find their way again. The burdens of life are heavy. Some of us carry heavy canisters for protection. Some of us carry bulky and heavy clothes to find warmth. All of us are weary and hungry for change at times.

We all know what other “hikers” who are behind us on the trail need and desire. Are we willing to give trail magic to others? And at what expense to us? It’s time our half-hearted attempts take shape into what they really should be: life and friendship and warmth and hope and love – or drugs and mass shootings and suicide and alcohol and fighting will continue to be more attractive and more appealing quick fix options. 

Am I adding to the noise? Absolutely. Maybe the actual point of this blogpost is to encourage you to stop reading it. Leave your phone at home or in the car or at your desk and go for a walk in the woods. You’ll hear questions. You’ll find answers. And neither will come from a screen for a change. This is the unspoken truth of the silent Appalachian Forest.