It only took six months, but I’ve finally escaped Virginia.
Crossing the Appalachian Trail border into Tennessee, about 3.5 miles south of Damascus (Va.), was a long-coming revelation.
After months in Virginia, this was a welcome sign.
Don’t get me wrong. Virginia is a beautiful state. It has the Shenandoahs and the Blue Ridge mountains. It has charming towns and wonderful people.
But for some reason that I have not yet deciphered, Virginia seems to be my Kryptonite.
When I rode my bicycle from coast to coast in 2021, it was the punishing hills of southwestern Virginia that forced me to shorten my daily miles and reconfigure my plan.
Then in fall 2022, as I hiked the Appalachian Trail south, having completed 1400 miles from Maine, I crossed the border into Virginia on September 27, 2022, and immediately contracted Covid after spending the night in a crowded bunkroom. Six days later, I limped out of my convalescent hotel room and hit the trail again, eager to ramp up miles. Too eager.
One week later, my right foot screamed with pain every time I put weight on it. Stress fracture, I later learned. So I left the trail, back home for the winter and healing.
The famous McAfee Knob, a Virginia highlight.
I returned to Virginia on March 18, 2023, to the exact spot where I limped off the trail five months earlier: Jennings Creek, about 30 miles north of Daleville. I anticipated resuming my AT hike all winter, but the first few days were rough. Freezing nights and mornings. Aching feet from a bad pair of custom orthotics I’d purchased to protect from getting another stress fracture. And, because I wasn’t back in trail shape yet, the hills (always the hills) were killer.
About three weeks of this, I started to regain my trail shape. Then, one fine morning coming out of Marion, Va., I developed an excruciating shin splint in my left leg. Three more days off, hanging out in Damascus. Tennessee beckoned only a few miles away, but I wondered if I would ever be allowed to leave this state.
New State, New Attitude
Finally, on Sunday, April 13, with new shoes, compression socks, a bottle of Ibuprofin and Arnica, I left Damascus and climbed up to the Tennessee border.
It seems far-fetched, but the minute I crossed the border out of Virginia, things changed. My attitude, for one. But also the trail changed, from a green, rocky tunnel through endless Rhododendrons to an open dirt path atop remote ridges overlooking layers of mountain peaks to the horizon. Even the trees suddenly had more leaf buds.
Then there’s my health. The shin splint has continued to improve thanks to Tennessee. I have little doubt that if I were still in Virginia, my shin would have hobbled me by now and probably spread to the other leg.
Finally, your perspective changes in Tennessee when hiking south. You’ve survived a lot by this point, including the fabled Virginia Blues. Now you’re in a new state, one that only takes about a week to get through. And once you do make your way through Tennessee, you only have two states left to complete the journey: North Carolina and Georgia, where Springer Mountain brings you to the southern AT terminus.
Many reasons to celebrate Tennessee.
Virginia Blues
I’m not the only AT thru-hiker to lament Virginia. The state is famous for its mid-hike doldrums. You walk and walk, day after day and the scenery rarely changes.
Or maybe it’s just that Virginia is the longest state on the AT, stretching 556 miles from north to south, nearly twice as long as any other state. We hikers hunger for progress, for variety and landmarks that let us know we are getting somewhere for all our effort. But Virginia just slogs along, week after week, for typically more than a month.
Or, for me, more than six months. I mean, not literally, since I spent the winter at home in western Massachusetts. But mentally, I never really left Virginia. All winter, my thoughts remained stuck to that rural road crossing at Jennings Creek where my cracked toe disallowed further progress.
Kelly and Linda Mulheren, trail angels extraordinaire.
I traveled back to Daleville and had a hard time escaping that town. The whole state has been one setback after another.
Yet, for all that, I love Virginia. I met wonderful trail angels Linda and Kelly Mulheren there. And I have many amazing Virginia memories.
Still, six months is enough time to spend mentally strapped to that state.
It was high time to have moved on. I’m happy to be in Tennessee.
My first night back on the Appalachian Trail, March 18, it became apparent I had erred. I hiked 10 miles from a rural trailhead at Jennings Creek, about 30 miles north of Roanoke, Va. The hiking was awesome all day, around mid-40s and sunny. I stopped at a shelter named Bobblet’s Gap and humped a quarter-mile down switchbacks to the structure. It was around 5 p.m. when I arrived and the temperature was dropping fast. It wouldn’t have been too bad except for the icy wind, which picked up intensity through the night.
I bundled up, confident in my 20-degree sleeping bag’s ability to withstand the cold assault. I’d slept in cold weather before.
But not like this. Not with this freezing wind buffeting my thin layer of nylon. Not exposed on the slatted wood floor of a three-walled shelter with nothing holding off the wind. And not without having prepared for freezing weather with base layer, sleeping bag liner and, sometimes, insulated gloves.
At around midnight, I was remembering my errant rejections of those cold-weather supplies as the temperature dropped below 20 and seeped into my sleeping bag. My double-socked feet were the first to let me know this would be a fitful night as I struggled fruitlessly to get them warm and comfortable. Then I felt the frigid draft on my back every time I turned on one side as it snuck in the open top of my sleeping bag and wheedled down lower and lower like a snake seeking warmth. Eventually, the shivering began. I restrained myself from checking my watch every few minutes to see if this interminable night was working its way toward morning sun.
It wasn’t.
Move or Stay?
I considered getting up, packing my things in the midnight dark and start hiking again. It probably would have been the prudent thing to do. And if it were any colder and if I were not able to snag a few moments of sleep here and there I would have opted for that dire choice.
Instead, I hunkered tighter from the cold, curling into an ever tighter fetal ball and waited it out. Morning would come. Eventually.
Welcome back to the Appalachian Trail.
Smart Packing
Packing for a backpacking trip is an art in itself. It’s a fine balance between stripping down your list to the barest of essentials and anticipating must-haves and levels of comfort.
Some thru-hikers prance down the trail with a pack weighing only 12 or 15 pounds, equipped only with a plastic tarp for shelter, no changes of clothes and a handful of energy bars. I admire them but it’s not for me. I’m not the heaviest of packers, but I insist on an enclosed shelter like a tent of hammock, a sleeping bag and things like rain gear, eyeglasses and actual meals.
But when I’d set the date for my return to the AT, I checked weather forecasts for the central Virginia region I’d be returning to, and they looked reasonable. Lows in the 30s, highs in the 50s. Sounded quite ideal for hiking.
My main error was not considering the elevation. A rookie mistake that I’ve sufficiently berated myself for. My shelter mate that night, trail named Cayenne, told me about a site named ATweather.org. Plug in the shelter you’re aiming for and it’ll give you the weather forecast at that location, rather than, uselessly, down in the towns 3,000 feet below.
That would have been good to have when I was packing. I might have thrown in my sleeping bag liner. Definitely would have packed my base layer. That surely would have yielded me a better night’s sleep.
Tough Morning
As long and uncomfortable as the night at Bobblet’s Gap was, the morning was even more intense.
Cayenne, a hardy Vermonter, rose at 5 a.m., well before daylight, and headed out into the dark. He’d been hiking since January and was equipped for the cold.
That left me alone in the shelter, deep down in the gap where, even as the sun rose above, its rays would not penetrate into this gully.
Sunset at Fullhardt Knob.
The most mundane of morning chores were a quick dash out and back into the sleeping bag to warm frozen hands. Brushing teeth. Retrieving water. Making breakfast. Each time, back inside the sleeping bag to recover. I was dreading the moment when I’d have to pack up the sleeping bag, my only source of refuge.
To make matters worse, all my water had frozen. No morning tea. And I’m a cold-soaker, meaning I don’t carry a stove to heat up water for meals. Eating my cold-soaked oatmeal was like chomping ice.
MacGuyver Time
Okay, I was caught off guard on my return to the trail. Made rookie mistakes. I certainly should have put a bottle or two of water inside my sleeping bag. That would have saved me from dehydration in the morning.
By the time I departed and climbed back up out of Bobblet’s Gap and the AT, it was mid-morning. At least I was moving, and my hands would thaw before long.
I climbed and built heat, the sun warmed the trail and gradually my layers came off. A pleasant hiking day ensued, for 13.5 miles, to a mountaintop shelter named Fullhardt Knob.
I took a sunset picture and checked the forecast, properly this time, on ATweather.org. Another frigid night, down in the low 20s.
I placed two water bottles inside my sleeping bag, along with my gloves. A childhood fan of the TV show MacGuyver (the old one, haven’t seen the new one), I considered everything at my disposal. I stuffed my tent rain fly inside my sleeping bag to simulate a liner. I zipped myself up inside my tent. I put on every layer of clothing I had, including rain gear. And though my sleeping bag zipper chose to stop working and wouldn’t close up at about midnight, I adjusted and slept restfully for nearly nine hours.
The forecast for the coming week looks perfect with highs in the 60s and lows in the 30s and 40s. I survived the freeze.
As an Appalachian Trail thru-hiker, once you’ve trekked southbound through Maine’s gnarly trails and into New Hampshire’s White Mountains, attitudes and perspectives change dramatically.
You gain a new kind of street (or, in this case, trail) cred. Fellow thru-hikers look at you differently, talk to you with a heightened respect and seek your knowledge in a way they never would have when you were a newbie back in central Maine.
View of Mount Washington in the clouds, from summit of Mount Pierce.
In those nascent days of first stepping into the 100-mile wilderness, the few northern-bound thru-hikers (NOBOs) floated by like battle-worn soldiers, having survived the Whites and the maddening, rocky, rooty climbs of southern Maine – not to mention 1,700 previous miles of AT. You nearly genuflected to their experience and superior knowledge, like a rookie thirsting for nuggets of wisdom.
I was talking about this with my hiking friend Grills on a recent descent down from the Franconia Ridge. Grills completed thru-hikes of the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) and the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) and has hiked the Colorado Trail, the Arizona Trail and other rites of passage. His successful completion of an AT thru-hike will net him the vaunted Triple Crown, a rare accomplishment of having thru-hiked the AT, PCT and CDT. These people are regarded like hiking gods on the trail.
“It’s like everything changes once you get into the Whites as a SOBO,” Grills said. “Like all of a sudden you got respect.”
I had to agree, and said so. “I’ve noticed,” I said. “Now, NOBOs ask me for advice about the trail coming up and listen to what I have to say. It wasn’t like that in Maine.”
100-Mile Test
There’s no name for this phenomenon that I know of. It’s just a shift, a subtle accumulation of worldliness by virtue of having gone through something difficult and survived to continue on.
This is an earned respect, to be sure. Hiking the AT south through Maine is, by popular consent, a trial by fire, a grueling 280-mile test of will in which your body and mind will be pushed to their limits of ability, resourcefulness, patience and endurance.
On my first day heading into the 100-mile wildnerness, back on July 1, I stopped by a convenience store at Abol Bridge, the northbound entrance to Baxter State Park, to chat with a few fellow hikers. One 19-year-old NOBO was giving us SOBO newbies an account of what lies ahead.
“The 100-mile wilderness is a test to make sure you can even survive out here,” he explained. “Then you make it through there, and you climb up White Cap Mountain, your first ‘real’ mountain. That’s a warm-up for what’s coming up in southern Maine. And that’s a warm-up for the Whites in New Hampshire. It just keeps getting harder and harder, man.”
With each word me and my fellow SOBOs slunk deeper, our chins lowering heavily to the ground, daunted by his admonition. What were we getting ourselves into?
Earned Respect
That young NOBOs words turned out to be punishingly precise, and rang in my head every time I pushed my body to take another steep step upward climbing through the mountains of southern Maine and New Hampshire’s Whites.
Now, on the other side of the White Mountains, about to walk across the Connecticut River from Hanover, New Hampshire, into Norwich, Vermont, I understand with a rearview lens what all the admonitions were about.
Main intersection, downtown Hanover, NH
Hiking the AT SOBO will require grit right up front before your body and mind realize the need for it. The way I see it in retrospect is that I went into a kind of shock in which my brain became hyper-focused on the task – i.e. making it through Maine, surviving the seemingly impossible climbs of the Whites.
Once you do – once you survive that rite of passage and come out on the other side, that is, here in Hanover, NH – you have earned a certain aura of hard-earned respect based on your experience. NOBOs have not yet gone through this grinder, though they have survived the long-term slog to get this far north on the trail.
But at this trail transition, from the straight-up climbs, rocks and roots of Maine and New Hampshire, to the relatively smoother, dirt and pine-needle trails with vastly milder inclines of Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York, we SOBOs and our northern counterparts are clearly on more even ground. The mere whiff of superiority from those NOBOs of Maine doesn’t exist here. We are closer to brethren, mutually respecting what each other has achieved.
Hiking the Appalachian Trail in Maine is a matter of submission. When and how long it takes are the only questions.
Summit of Katahdin: the beginning of a southbound AT thru-hike.
I began my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail with a summit of magnificent Mount Katahdin on June 30. I opted to take the Knife Edge trail to the summit, where the northern terminus of the AT begins. The Hunt Trail down Katahdin is also the AT, and thus began my thru-hike all the way to Georgia.
Following the Katahdin summit, a southbound AT thru-hiker (known as a “sobo”) then heads south through Baxter Park to Abol Bridge, the south park entrance, and the official beginning of the 100-mile wilderness. This is a trail stretch known for its isolation, lack of towns or amenities, comforts and exit routes. It’s just wilderness.
What the 100-mile wilderness also offers are breathtaking vistas, countless water bodies, no limits on serenity, peace and nature.
Hiking in Maine
I began my thru-hike into the 100-mile wilderness with the arrogant thought that I’d done a lot of hiking over the years, pretty much knew what it was about and would be the controller of my hiking destiny. That worked for a couple days. I had outlined a hiking schedule in advance, knowing it would be a flexible plan.
If you look closely, you can see a trail under all those roots.
What I learned fairly quickly is: hiking in Maine isn’t like hiking in most other places. Hiking in Maine is rugged, gnarly and slow. The environs are spectacular, but Maine’s trails feature massive, boa constrictor-sized roots that snarl up to snag your ankles and trip you at every opportunity. And not just every once in a while; constantly, and bunched together relentlessly. And in the few areas where there are not roots, there are rocks. Not evenly sized rocks, but all different sizes, cluttering the trail haphazardly so you can never take two steps the same, you’re always varying your speed, step and pace.
It’s always either roots or rocks. And that’s the easy part of hiking in Maine. That’s before the mountain climbing starts, heading south. Then it becomes all of the above except now you’re ascending a steep (no switchbacks in Maine) slope for two thousand vertical feet.
Who’s in Charge?
After a few days of pushing along imagining that I would cruise through Maine according to my schedule, insisting that I was in charge of my own hike, I soon learned that that was not the case.
I wasn’t in charge. I’m not in charge. Maine is in charge.
Spectacular summit of Saddleback Mountain
As soon as I relented, slowed down and agreed that I was subject to Maine, not the other way around, I began to enjoy its trails more.
Maine sets the rules, not you as hiker. Maine tells you when you will be able to cruise along for a few miles, when you will get tired, and when you must go very slow.
The sooner you realize that on this state’s trails, the more you will enjoy the experience.
Just let Maine have its way.
Praise to Maine
I’m relieved I gave in to Maine and recognized its natural dominion over me. Thankful I genuflected early on to its obvious authority and relaxed into it.
Hammock camping next to Little Jo Mary Lake, a highlight of the 100-mile wilderness.
Now, as my unwritten pact states, I accept what Maine agrees to grant me. I appreciate the precious few moments when the hiking is smooth. I slow way down to a single mile an hour on numerous occasions, to get up tall, unforgiving mountains, to pick my way intentionally through the maze of tree roots and sharp rocks strewn across the path. I respect the dangers of being hasty and trying to move through this state too quickly. That’s a recipe for injury.
Maine has been one of the hardest places I’ve hiked. In a way, I look forward to working my way beyond this state. In other ways, I will miss it.
Anyway, it’s not like getting through Maine offers any great reward heading southbound on the AT. Next up: New Hampshire’s White Mountains.
As any of us know who have taken big, protracted adventures: it’s more of a mental endurance test than it is physical.
Not that we won’t be tested physically. If your next adventure is going to push you beyond where you’ve been and deliver the kind of emotional triumph you seek, it will likely challenge you physically, maybe more than anything you’ve done before.
But even as we are pushing our bodies and wringing every last ounce of our energy to complete a day’s goal, the mental game will be the bigger test over the long run.
Once your body adapts to the daily grind (which it eventually will), that’s about when the mind games begin. When you settle in for the long middle section, and the novelty of the road or trail or river starts to wear off. When the change of scene starts to slow down and revelation turns into monotony. I’m talking about when that dangerous little question starts to seep into your mind: why?
Why am I doing this again? What’s the point? Why am I putting myself through this pain? Why did I imagine I could conquer this challenge?
No Reason
I’ve heard and had to overcome the whys before, we all have. They can be incessant and self-destructive, eating away at your aspirations from the inside.
I expect to hear the whys again on my own upcoming adventure, a north-south thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail.
These whys attack when you’re at your weakest. When things hurt the most. When your feet are burning with every step. When your quads are refusing to power up that next hill. When you want to curl up in a fetal position and go to sleep but the mosquitoes are buzzing loud in your ear.
It’s at those moments when you must remind yourself: you are not responsible for answering that question. There is no answer. There is no reason. You are simply doing what you are doing, end of story. Nobody needs to know why, not even your nagging inner voice.
6 Tips
To ease such moments of questioning amid adventure – to help mitigate the draining effects of the whys and prepare your mindset for your next long-haul endeavor – I offer these six mental training notions. These concepts are intended to be incorporated into your pre-departure routine, as part of your run-up to adventure readiness.
Visualize. This is a vitally important first step. It sets up your mind for building toward success and making happen what you set out to achieve. Look toward your upcoming journey and create detailed scenes of what you imagine it will look and feel like. Close your eyes for best effect and take a few deep breaths. Imagine yourself in the scene as you want to be, to feel. Strong. Joyful. Successful and triumphant. Fill in as much detail as you can. The more specific your imagined picture of the near-future is, the more you will assist your mind in making that picture become reality in the moment.
Project. This exercise is similar, but more practical than the visualization step. Again, look ahead through your adventure, but this time take into account all that could happen, the dangers, the unexpected mishaps, even worst-case scenarios. This will prepare your mind for resiliency in the moments – and there will very likely be some – when things don’t go your way. This is an exercise to gird your mind for dealing with whatever happens, and not crumble when something goes wrong. If nothing unfortunate happens, wonderful, you won’t need to deal with setbacks. But it’s better to be mentally prepared going in.
Chunk it Down. Big goals are made of small goals strung together. You may have a big aspiration in front of you, but when you’re in the middle of it, it’s best to break it down into smaller goals, daily, weekly, monthly, the next town or the next big meal. It can be daunting and overwhelming to always be thinking about your big end goal. Chunking it down into bite-size pieces eases the mental burden. All you have to do is make it to the next rest stop. Then the next one, and so on.
Build in Flexibility. From the outset of planning your adventure, adopt a mindset of flexibility. Be ready to shift your goals on any given day, and adapt to realities on the ground. Listen to your body and allow your plans to change as necessary, when you’re simply too tired to achieve a goal, or the weather turns bad, or you’re running low on food, or you discovered the perfect camping spot right next to a refreshing mountain lake. Know that your short-term goals will have to be malleable and that on any given day things can change. Allow that change. Be willing to give yourself permission to adapt.
Don’t be a Hero. Go at your pace, hike your hike, not anyone else’s. Everyone has different abilities, strengths and weaknesses. Go into your adventure knowing that you may not comfortably align with the pace set by someone else. You may be a faster hiker than your hiking buddy, or you might cycle a little slower than your companion. It’s fine to slow down or move ahead and separate momentarily or for a day. If you want, make a plan to meet at a designated place down the trail or road and regroup. But if it’s creating a drag on your experience, don’t push too hard just to keep up with someone else.
Enjoy it. That is, after all, at least part of the point. Aim to be in the moment as much as possible on your adventure. Take in your surroundings, engage all your senses and absorb the full experience. Appreciate each moment (even the painful ones). Don’t become so consumed with finishing the task that you forget to enjoy getting there. You are lucky to be taking this adventure.
When I started my current day job back in the 20th century as a news and public relations writer and event planner for a private college, I had no intention of spending 25 years doing it.
It’s not even like me. I crave variety in life, of experience, geography, flavors, relationships and knowledge. Spending 25 years at one place didn’t fit with my life narrative.
It was 1997 when I joined the college, armed with some newspaper and freelance writing experience, having spent a decade traveling and living around the world. The U.S. was on a roll, guided by President Bill Clinton and an economy that lifted all boats. I had entered matrimony and invited a new child, Elliot, into the world the year before, with a second, Olivia, on the way. Raising them to adulthood has been its own, wonderful adventure.
I’ve never viewed spending 25 years at the same job (basically) as any kind of adventure. But I can allow how I might be corrected on that spurn now. Adventure? Not sure, but it has certainly been a time of personal and professional growth.
Now, after 25 years at the same job, it is beyond time to move on, to begin real adventure, new horizons. When I recently announced my retirement from this quarter-century employment, I viewed it as a grand step toward that endeavor.
Let the adventure begin.
Sunset at Dog Pier, Ocean Beach, San Diego
4 Elements
To explain what I mean, I refer to my four conditions of adventure, four tenets that I define must be present in order to refer to an experience as adventure:
Challenge – it must include some kind of challenging goal, something to overcome and achieve.
Risk – let’s face it, without at least a dose of risk, an activity isn’t an adventure.
Out of the ordinary – it’s got to be something that you don’t do routinely, something distinct from everyday experience.
Movement or travel – some kind of transportation from one place to another, whether that is virtual or actual.
Working the same job for 25 years is a lot of things. It’s a living, it’s a platform for professional advancement and a source for funding life’s necessities. It also includes aspects of adventure, such as challenge and, at times, some risk.
But, I argue, it does not meet the definition of adventure per se because it lacks important defining characteristics of that term. Movement, for one. My day job has not involved a lot of movement or travel, not enough to term it adventure. And as for being out of the ordinary? Well, remaining in the same job for 25 years is the antithesis of extraordinary. Rather, it defines ordinary by its nature of repetition.
Onward to Adventure
The way I see it is, I am leaving the ordinary for the extraordinary. Adventure is what lies before me, beyond retirement. This will be the chapter that includes challenge, risk, most certainly, living out of the ordinary, and lots of movement.
The challenges of my next 25 years will be multiple, intentional and unforeseen. I will purposely plot and tackle physical challenges, beginning with a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. And because it’s life, I know I will encounter challenges that I can’t imagine from this current vantage.
As for risk, there’s no question that the act of stepping off the financial cliff of a regular paycheck and venturing into the unknown is risky. Though I will maintain and pursue other forms of income, there are any number of ways I could fail and return to destitution I once knew, in my youth.
Shifting gears after 25 years of doing the same thing is the definition of living out of the ordinary. Moreover, my next 25-year chapter plans aim to avoid things from becoming too ordinary, to keep it fresh and malleable, to always invite change and new experience.
And movement. This is perhaps the most important aspect of adventure for me. Moving is my element. When I’m on the move, I am most fulfilled. Therefore, my next quarter century will be a series of movement, travel and various forms of locomotion: walking, hiking, biking, driving, boating, riding, flying and training.
Crossroad
Retirement is a demarcation. It marks the end of one road and the beginning of another. I know what is ending, but unsure what is beginning. Within that transition is always opportunity for adventure. The unknown. The abyss.
That is where I’m voluntarily heading. Into who-knows-what and where. Wide open.
I’ve been treated to both perspectives in the past year, most recently in late March when I drove from San Diego, Calif., to Easthampton, Mass., in two and a half days.
July 7, 2021, Long Beach, CA, after riding from Easthampton, MA
This was at least my sixth time driving across the entire U.S., and I can’t count how many times I’ve driven partially across. But I’ve never made the trip in such a compacted time frame, and wouldn’t necessarily recommend it. Before this drive, the last time I traversed the country was via bicycle, in summer 2021.
Across the United States by bicycle: 68 days. Big country.
Across the United States by car: 2 ½ days. Maybe not so big.
There was something beautiful and fluid and thorough in this exercise of sprinting from coast to coast by car in a truncated period. It allowed for a nearly uninterrupted portrait of the country – of the narrow strip through which I traveled anyway. From the Pacific’s glow to the desert’s aridity, the spectacular mountains bifurcating the middle, the interminable flatness of the vast Midwest, and finally the infinite trees and rolling hills of the eastern states.
This quick trip also allowed for a survey of radio stations across the land, from the Mexican music of the southwest near the border to the broad selection of country music, endless religious proselytizing across the Midwest, rock, bluegrass, pop, hip hop, talk, and a small dose of classical and jazz, in that order.
Across the Mojave Again
This drive was a functional traverse. It followed a wonderful three-day excursion with my daughter, Livvy, from Phoenix to San Diego in her Honda Fit, which she has appropriately named Buttercup. The plan was to get her to San Diego, from where she would work her way to the terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail to begin a five-month thru-hike. I was to then drive her car back to Massachusetts for safekeeping while she hikes.
Livvy and me in the middle of the Mojave (Buttercup in the background).
Our three-day drive took us across the Mojave Desert, along the same route I happened to bike last summer.
This was a surreal experience for me. When I biked last summer, from Parker, Arizona, to Twentynine Palms, California, a 111-mile stretch through unforgivingly hot, exposed terrain, it was a daylong ordeal through the 107-degree heat of July. It stands out as one of the most intense days of riding – of my life! – I’ve ever had.
Driving along the same route with Livvy took less than two hours, in an air-conditioned capsule with windows closed and a podcast piped over the speakers. Crossing the desert in a car gives no hint to what it’s like on bike. Crossing the country in a car is equally as distinct from a coast-to-coast traverse by bicycle.
Alien Encounter?
Traveling with my daughter was a true joy that went by far too fast. Our senses of humor are ridiculously in sync and we laughed our way through California.
Except, we weren’t laughing on our second night, when we camped out on Bureau of Land Management land outside Joshua Tree and were buzzed by either A) a highly experimental, but human-made, flying device that looked and sounded like nothing I’ve ever seen or heard; or B) an alien ship. Read the story here.
Still flummoxed but seemingly undisturbed the next morning, we drove three hours to San Diego and stayed in Ocean Beach, where I lived as a younger iteration in the late 1980s.
Driving Through the Night
To drive coast to coast across the United States in 2 ½ days, you’ll need to put in some long stretches.
I set out from San Diego on March 18 at 10:15 a.m. and drove through the day, passing through Albuquerque at 11:30 p.m., then through the night up into Texas, across the Oklahoma panhandle and into Kansas on a small, deserted highway. In Kansas, I spotted a pullover picnic area at 5:30 a.m. and stopped in for a snooze. One hour later, the sun blazed on me through the windshield and the snooze was over.
I took the wheel again and headed east through the day. By the time I stopped for a needed overnight and a bed, outside St. Louis, I had driven nearly 30 hours interrupted only by the one-hour nap in Kansas.
I should mention, my energy was fueled by a succession of convenience store coffee. I’m not a coffee drinker, so when I drink that caffeine-injected liquid, it jolts me for many hours. Cheap date.
Fortified after a solid hotel sleep, I headed for home at 8 a.m. on March 20, arriving in Easthampton, Mass., at close to 2 a.m. the morning of March 21, a 15-hour drive.
Waiting to Move
Thankfully, I love to drive. Give me open road and a tank full of gas and I’m gone. Add in coffee and decent tunes and I’m good for hours on end, even days.
But it’s more accurate to say, I love moving. The mode of transportation is secondary. Bike, car, walking, paddling. Give me constantly changing scenery, the sensation of locomotion and the notion of covering ground and I’m happy.
That’s how I arrived back home following my whirlwind excursion to California with my daughter. Happy. To have moved, to have spent time on the adventure road again.
The time in between is simply waiting for the next chance to head out and move.
I wish I had pictures. Or a recording. Or something more credible than described memories of my encounter in the desert. But as with many mysterious and occult occurrences, it happened so fast there was no time for witness or capture.
My daughter, Livvy, and I had visited spectacular Joshua Tree National Park during the day on March 17, 2022. We drove and hiked around the park and looked for a camping spot with no luck.
We knew there was Bureau of Land Management (BLM) territory outside the town of Joshua Tree, and that was our fallback. About an hour before sunset, we exited the national park and drove to the BLM land. We took a right off the paved road and drove in about a half mile on dirt road surrounded by open, flat, sage-brushed desert terrain, and found a spot to pitch our tents for the night.
Camping on Bureau of Land Management land outside Joshua Tree, CA
As we got out and stretched, perusing our surroundings, Livvy said, “What the heck is that?”
Across the desert expanse, maybe five miles to the east, hovering over the distant mountains, was a black, vaguely roundish object. Not sitting still in place, but not flying either. Rather it was moving slightly side to side. Hovering. It was far away and difficult to see. It remained there for at least an hour as we set about pitching our tents and preparing dinner.
A weather balloon, I offered? Livvy didn’t think so. She could see the strange object better than I.
Flying Train
Darkness fell. We went about our business, having dinner, softening our tent interiors for slumber. We shelved thoughts of the mysterious object for the moment.
A full moon shone, and around 9:30 p.m. Livvy and I retired to our respective tents. I laid down and pulled up a Netflix movie. Around 9:45 a sound unlike anything I’ve heard before entered my auditory field and gradually grew louder. I lifted my head to listen better.
The only way I can think of to describe it is like a train flying over us. It sounded like a flying craft, slightly and quickly undulating but not like wings. The sound didn’t resemble jet propulsion either. Like a loud train growing closer and closer.
As it became quite loud, something close overhead, I began to push up so I could see outside my tent. The moment I began pushing up, the loud train sound whooshed and was gone in a split second. I looked all around the desert and in the sky. Nothing.
“What in the heck was that?” Livvy said from her tent. “What in the hell…” I said simultaneously. We were both glad each other heard it, too.
The entire occurrence lasted about five seconds.
Unexplained Freaky Occurrence
I lay awake after the noise for at least two hours before I was able to drift off. Wondering.
Livvy and I talked about it, mulling what it could have been. A drone? Definitely not a personal drone, and not like any drone I’ve ever seen. Military drone? Quite unlikely that a military drone operator would risk the danger of buzzing a couple of desert campers. Perhaps an experimental, high-tech flying craft, or some sort of surveillance operation? Possibly.
I’ve since heard about high-tech companies with labs in the desert experimenting on future air and space craft. By some accounts, the Mojave has become what Area 51 used to be: a hotbed of experimental flying technology that inspire stories like mine from visitors to the area.
Perhaps the flying object, whatever it was, came from one of those experimenting companies. Or…? Something not of this world?
A Mystified Cynic
To explain emphatically, I am not nor have I ever been someone to believe in things beyond what can be proved. Nearly all occurrences in my life can be explained. On the other hand, I am also open to possibilities in the universe beyond what our science can yet encapsulate. Sometimes I’ve been witness to very strange coincidences that speak to an energy that our human imagining has not yet identified.
But our encounter with…whatever it was in the Mojave Desert was a rare one in which I still have no explanation.
When we arose to the sunrise in the morning, the black object we’d seen the night before, hanging over the distant mountains, was gone.
One other thing, maybe not so strange: my watch was 10 minutes slow the next morning. It is a cheap, traveling watch, and it has since been dragging slightly, likely a dying battery. Still, it hasn’t once lost an entire 10 minutes in one night.
Cocktail Party Fodder
What was it that buzzed us out there in the desert? Was the noise related to the black object in the sky? Is it worth spending time in contemplation?
I’ve since related the incident to many people and have yet to hear anyone offer any slight knowledge of what it might have been.
Livvy and I remain mystified. But what the hell, it makes for a good story.
If anyone has knowledge or guesses as to what might have swooped near us in the desert, please comment below.
Once wasn’t enough for Joan Young. The 74-year-old hiker from Minnesota is taking on the 4,800 miles of the North Country Scenic National Trail (NCT) for a second time. Her first NCT traverse took her 20 years to complete in sections. This time she’s shooting for a shorter timeframe.
The NCT is the longest of the 11 scenic hiking trails in the United States. It’s not as famous as its counterparts, such as the Appalachian Trail, but its length passes through more diverse terrain, covering eight states from North Dakota to Vermont.
Marge Hickman
Can’t Get Enough of the Leadville 100
Last August, Marge Hickman, 71, returned to the Leadville 100 for the 28th time. The legendary race is known as the first ultra-marathon, a 100-mile race over brutal Colorado terrain taking racers over more than 15,000 feet of elevation. Hickman has finished the race 14 times, more than any other woman.
She didn’t end up finishing the race in her 28th attempt. Didn’t matter. She proved once again that age, gender and other preconceived limitations are only self-imposed. The real race takes place between our ears.
May 2022
Adventure Inspiration
This past April, South African runner Jacky Hunt-Broersma, not only set a world record by completing 104 marathons in 104 days – an unbelievable mark in itself – but she achieved this feat as an amputee, running on a prosthetic leg.
Broersma has been running most her life. But when she lost her left leg from the knee down in 2001 due to a rare form of cancer, she didn’t allow that to stop her.
Broersma began her goal on January 17, 2022 by running a marathon in Arizona, near her home. She proceeded to run 26.2 miles every single day until she set the world record 104 days later, having run a total of 2,672 miles. Along the way, she raised $192,000 to help fellow amputee blade runners.
A Celebration of Life, Age and Adventure
In a follow up to Adventure in the News February 2022: Kane Tanaka, the oldest person in the world at age 119, died on April 19. Tanaka leaves behind an inspiring spirit for life, remaining spicy and funny till her final day.
Born on January 2, 1903, in Fukuoka, Japan, Tanaka, was known for her sharp wit and humor. Many reporters visited and interviewed her in her final years, which she enjoyed. When one young reporter asked her what kind of man she preferred, she answered right away: “A young man like you.”
Sister André of France, 118 years old, is now the oldest living person.
Rest in peace, Kane Tanaka.
April 2022
The Endurance, Ernest Shackleton’s Fabled Ship, Found
The Endurance, Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated ship, became lodged in thick ice in the Weddell Sea off the coast of Antarctica in 1915.
Ernest Shackleton, arguably the greatest adventurer of all time, lost his ill-fated ship, the Endurance, in 1915 while attempting to be the first to traverse Antarctica. The Endurance ground to a halt in the thick ice of the Weddell Sea off the Antarctica coast, and the entire crew debarked, spending weeks on the ice until it crushed the ship and it sank into the sea. Shackleton’s crew lived for months on Elephant Island, subsisting on seal meat, while he and a crew of three set off across the Antarctic Ocean in a small boat, eventually landing on South Georgia Island and saving his entire crew. It’s one of the greatest adventure stories of all time.
Now, 106 years later, the Endurance has been found, about 10,000 feet underwater, by the expedition Endurance22. The wooden ship, lodged in the sea bottom about 10,000 feet underwater, is surprisingly intact.
More Exercise = Better Sleep, Research Finds
It’s not exactly earth-shattering news, but it never hurts to hear this again: getting more exercise can improve your sleep and decrease health risks, such as heart disease, stroke and cancer.
A new study in the British Journal of Sports Medicine analyzed data from 380,000 middle-aged men and women related to weekly physical activity and sleep quality. The study concluded that increasing physical activity can counteract health risks such as cardiovascular disease. It also found that people with lower sleep quality were at higher risk for heart disease and stroke.
There you have it: better sleep equals better health; and increase physical activity translates to better sleep.
March 2022
Running Across Mexico at Age 54
Mexican runner Germán Silva (pictured above), who gained fame three decades ago when he won two New York City Marathons, is nearly finished with an epic, 3,134-mile run across his home country. Over mountains, across desert, through dangerous, narco-controlled territories, Silva began his impressive jog in Tijuana last November. He was scheduled to finish in Tulum, on the eastern Yucatan coast, in late February.
Silva went through more than 18 pairs of running shoes and averaged about 30 miles a day, often in temperatures over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Toenails falling off, strained calf muscles and hamstrings. Nothing could stop Silva from this impressive feat, documented recently in the Washington Post.
Inn-to-Inn Hiking Comes to the U.S.
Walking from inn to inn has long been the dominion of Europe. The continent’s centuries-old landscape, dotted with castles, verdant hills and enticing pathways, has attracted tourist hikers for decades, hoofing their way each day between quaint accommodations.
Inns like this one, Kirkstone Pass Inn, England, have attracted trekking tourists for decades if not centuries. Now this mod of tourism is gaining popularity in the United States.
So it’s a notable development that walking from inn to inn is now becoming more popular in the United States. Walking tour companies have popped up in Colorado, Oregon, California, Maine and other states offering European-style trekking packages. Typically, these outings allow walkers to carry only a light daypack with water and snacks while the company transports their heavier bags with daily comforts to the inn for them. When they arrive at their destination after a day of hiking, everything – including a congratulatory glass of wine – is waiting for them.
It’s easy to understand why this mode of tourism is gaining popularity here. Walking is one of the best ways to experience a place, whether it’s a city tour or a trek in the hills and forests. The slow-motion pace gives time to take in views without hurry, and stopping to smell, touch and taste, is as simple as taking a seat on a bench or a log.
February 2022
Kane Tanaka at 20, in 1923
Talk About Aging Adventure
Kane Tanaka, born January 2, 1903, turned 119 years old last month, making her the oldest person in the world, recognized by Guinness Book of World Records.
Among her lifetime achievements was carrying the Olympic torch at the Tokyo 2020 Summer games, and working in the family rice shop for 74 years, from age 19 to 103.
Kane Tanaka at 119
Tanaka’s birthday was posted on Twitter by her great-granddaughter Junko Tanaka. Kane’s grandson, Eiji Tanaka, told CNN, “She’s very forward-thinking – she really enjoys living in the present.” According to family members, Kane keeps her mind and body sharp, partly by practicing math.
An aging inspiration.
A Bike Path Across the United States
The Rails-to-Trails Conservancy, a nonprofit that develops rail and multi-use trails throughout the United States, announced a 3,700-mile Great American Rail-Trail path that will span the entire country from Washington, D.C., to Washington state. The trail will cross 12 states, and will provide a 3,700-mile path for biking, walking and other nonmotorized forms of transport.
Section of the Rails-to-Trails Conservancy path
The GART, as it’s called, will patch together some existing trails, as well as new sections, crossing paths at times with well-traveled paths such as the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route, the High Plains Byway and others.
Between the GART and the East Coast Greenway (Maine to Florida), adventures before long will be able to crisscross the United States east-west and north-south. Exciting times.
January 2022
Adventure is always in the news, though it may not always be obvious. This is a monthly scan of adventure-related headlines in national and world news.
New Study Finds that Nearly 6 in 10 Britons Take Life Too Seriously
Is anyone surprised?
These days, most people, British or not, seem to be taking life a little too seriously, forgetting how to have fun and losing their spirit of adventure.
In a study announced by The Independent, researchers surveyed 2,000 citizens of the United Kingdom, and found that most feel they are not getting the most out of life.
Among regrets, participating Britons noted “not traveling more widely when younger.” Others wished they spent less time working.
A lesson for us all. More adventure, more fun.
December 2021
Adventure is always in the news, though it may not always be obvious. This is a monthly scan of adventure-related headlines in national and world news.
This month in adventure:
750 Miles of Biking/Hiking Path Through New York State
In November 2021, headlines splashed across regional media, including the New York Times, announcing the completion of the Empire State Trail. This is a 750-mile trail in the shape of a large T, stretching from New York City north to the Canadian border, and from its intersection at Albany all the way to Buffalo.
Image: Wikimedia Commons
The Empire State Trail is actually the convergence of three trails: the Hudson Valley Greenway Trail (New York City to Albany), the Champlain Valley Trail (Albany to the Canadian border at Rouses Point, NY), and the Erie Canalway Trail (Buffalo to Albany).
The path is open to bikers and hikers of all ages and abilities. It wends its way through a diversity of surroundings – urban, rural, small villages and remote backroads.
I have heard from a few others that this is a wonderful trail for the most part, minus a few imperfect stretches of road. Personally, I can’t wait to hit this trail for some Empire State adventure!
A Little Walking is a Powerful Life Extender
We’ve all heard about the benefits of walking for healthier life and aging. But a massive recent study led by the American Cancer Society, after following 140,000 older adults, concluded that walking a mere six hours a week lowers fatality risk from cardiovascular, respiratory and cancer illnesses. Even walking two hours a week, you can lower your risk of disease, the study found.
Image: Pixabay
“Going for a walk at an average to brisk pace can provide people with a tremendous health benefit,” says Alpa Patel of the American Cancer Society, and the study’s lead investigator. “It’s free, easy, and can be done anywhere.”
The average age of study participants: 69. Even those who participated with a little walking at a moderate pace had decreased risk of death compared with those who did little or no activity, the study concludes.
Time to get walking!
Dark Sky in New England
It’s not easy these days to find a truly dark place, especially in the United States. The proliferation of night lights, getting brighter all the time, is crowding out spaces in which to access the stars in the night sky with the naked eye. A few dark places, called Dark Sky Sanctuaries, remain: Canyonlands National Park in Utah, Death Valley, California, Denali Park in Alaska, and George Washington and Jefferson National Forest in Virginia.
Last year, another Dark Sky Sanctuary was added to the list: Katahdin Woods and Waters National Monument in Maine. The designation as a Dark Sky Place by the International Dark Sky Association will help protect this pristine area amid Maine’s 100-mile wilderness from encroaching light pollution.
Good news for anyone hiking the Appalachian Trail (as I intend to do next summer!), which traverses right through this area.
It’s never easy getting up and out on a cold, dark January morning. Even harder if it’s by choice, not of necessity. I had taken the day off and could have slept in. What am I doing up before the sun, I kept asking myself as I sipped a hot green tea.
Twenty minutes later, all the doubt had vanished as I watched the sun peek up behind Mount Tom and cast a beam of light across the Oxbow perfectly aligned with where I stood on its bank.
A morning icy bike ride had been a good idea after all on this mid-January morning. I crossed the blocked off bridge at Old Springfield Road, over the Oxbow, and rode into the Northampton meadows, taking care to steer into the few frozen dirt patches I could find, for the traction.
Most of these back roads were covered in hard caked snow and slick ice, tricky for riding. Worse, car and truck tire grooves had been ridged into the surface so that a bike path could be yanked in any direction at any time by the hardened ice. It was impossible to trust what you’re riding on.
I rode slowly past the Oxbow Marina and toward the the dirt and gravel Potash Road. Almost no one in the Meadows this cold morning, which lent it a mystical, far away nature, as if I had traveled a long distance to get here. I was relieved nobody was there to see me go down on the back woodsy Manhan Road. The iced tire groove I had been following crossed with another. My bike tire decided on a different path than the one I intended. The bike won, its front tire jerking to the right. I didn’t adjust quickly enough and rolled onto my shoulder, almost chuckling, “you finally got me.”
I continued riding until I popped out on Pleasant Street just above the bowling alley. I worked my way across the street and took a right on Hockanum Road to continue through the meadows, this time on the other side of Route 91. I took a left on Nook Road and rode out into the middle of the fields, where there’s a barren intersection with Valley Field Road. I know these roads well, having run and walked them in warmer weather. But again, in mid-winter, completely alone at this crossroad amid the dormant fields that sweep down to the Connecticut River and over to the Northampton Airfield, it feels surreal and exposed. Like a desert. Except cold. Too cold to stand for very long marveling at the exquisitely still isolation.
I moved on. Past the airport, under Route 91 on Old Ferry Road, left on Cross Path Road over to Ventures Field to begin making my way back home. Pleasant Street to the bike path, through downtown, behind Smith College and along Route 5 and 10. The path was crusty with ice and pocked with boot prints, making for a rough mile before the bridge over Route 5 and 10.
From there, the path cleared, where sunshine had done its job melting away ice the day before. Final smooth mile.
The perfect way to start the day, especially when you don’t have to.
