The Approach

Winter in Georgia is golden. The trees lose their leaves and the air grows chilly, but not bone-gnawing, not gray. Still, I suffered during the winter of my senior year of college.

The fall semester had been a whirlwind: a rush of classes, walks through the park, homework and late-night thesis-writing in the library—and then, in October, a thrilling but extremely unwise fling.

I allowed myself to believe that he actually liked me. I lost myself on those late nights in the park, in his apartment, in the car. I tend to fall hard, and quickly, and I didn't see that I was nothing more to him than a little diversion, fun for a month or two until I got too attached and he broke away and moved onto the next unsuspecting target. I still clung, though—to him, or rather to the idea of him, and to everything he brought with him: rock climbing, new friends, and a big wide sense of adventure.

By the time winter rolled around, I was dizzy. Suddenly, it was my final semester of college, and I had a new friend group, a new love of the outdoors, and a heart that was not exactly broken, but not exactly healthy, either. I did not know who I was or what I was going to be in a few months. I had built so much of my identity on those four years, the people I met in college, my studies, and my life in Georgia. I did not want to graduate. I resisted the thought of leaving Emory with everything I had. Who would I be when I left? What would I have to hold onto?

As would soon become my habit, I turned to nature for answers.

As Valentine's Day of 2015 loomed and I tried very hard not to think about my October fling, I searched for hikes within a two-mile radius of Atlanta. What better love is there than the love of the earth? I decided to spend the day alone, hiking the eight-mile Approach Trail to Springer Mountain, the southern terminus of the 2,200-mile Appalachian Trail.

I told two of my friends, Ally and Jess, about my plan, and they asked me if they could join. I resisted the idea at first. I thought I needed time to work out my feelings, think about the semester and the end of it, and enjoy the silence of nature. But, hearing their excitement, I relented. I was just being mopey, anyway. Who wants to spend Valentine's Day alone, even if they are nursing their bruised ego?

Ally picked us up at 5 in the morning on February 14. She drove the hour and a half to Amicalola Falls State Park, while Jess and I tried and failed to stay awake. We arrived at the park just after it opened, and in the visitor's center, we got information about the trail. There were Appalachian Trail themed items everywhere: stickers, books, brochures, patches. I felt emotion gnawing within me. This was the start of a huge something.

We took a selfie at the sign, then started climbing the 604 stairs leading to the top of Amicalola Falls. This cascade of water tumbles down 729 feet from the top of a cliff to the valley floor below. From the base of the falls to the summit of Springer Mountain, it is eight and a half gradual uphill miles. It's a good thing we got an early start—we had a long day ahead of us.

We could not have asked for a more beautiful February day for a hike. The sky was a perfect, crisp blue. As we hiked on, the day warmed up. I shed my puffy, then my sweatshirt and my hat. Sometimes, we talked and laughed and joked. Other times, we were silent, save for the pounding of our feet, the whoosh of our breath, or the sound of plastic packaging opening.

I had never done a day hike this long before: 17 miles out and back, the first half of which was all uphill. It was a gradual incline, but an incline nonetheless. Still, I felt pulled on and upward. I thought about the mountain ahead of us and the thousands of miles of trail that stretched beyond it. I wondered how many thru-hikers had already begun their journey. February is a little early to begin a northbound hike, I knew, but some people do it. I wondered what it would be like to hike this trail and know that so many months of adventure and pain and wonder were ahead. It felt so massive, and it drew me.

The morning wore on. My thick wool socks—complete overkill—rubbed uncomfortably against my boots. My thoughts became less giddy, less energetic, the more we moved on. I thought about the pain in my feet and the pain of ending. I thought about being a senior in college. Soon I would be twenty-two years old. How did that happen? I thought. And where did the fall go? I knew exactly where it went. I tried not to cringe as I remembered how head-over-heels I tumbled, oblivious to everything else. Did I really appreciate the autumn? Did I even think about what I was learning? Why couldn't I shake this stupid desire for someone who clearly did not want me?

I grieved for the past as well as the future. Only a few short months until the end of all this. Where would I be this time next year? What would I stake my life on, now that this magical microcosm was coming to an end?

I came back to the present. I looked at the trees around me, smelled the crunch of the forest, the leaves, the bark. It was very much winter, leafless and brown, but it was such a beautiful day that the forest seemed to glow. We navigated around and over rocks as the trail grew steeper and rounded a switchback. Turn, more rocks. Turn, go up. And then we were there: the tree-covered rocky summit of Springer Mountain.

There were a few other people on the mountain when we got there. They were taking pictures and enjoying the bright afternoon. Someone offered to take a photo of us, and we got one at the sign marking the start of the Appalachian Trail and another looking out onto the view of the valley below. We reveled in the satisfaction of reaching the summit, feeling the eight and a half miles in our bones and tendons.

Ally and Jess found a nice rock for sitting. Before I joined them, I located the Appalachian Trail register inside a metal slot in a rock with a plaque reading "Appalachian National Scenic Trail." There had been a few northbounders here today after all. One note read simply: Georgia to Maine, baby!

I took a few steps beyond the summit, and spotted a white blaze: the two-by-six inch spray painted white marker of the Appalachian Trail all the way to Maine. While the Approach Trail and all side trails branching from the AT are marked in blue, only the Appalachian Trail bears this sacred white rectangle.

I found a tree with a blaze and stared at it. I placed my hand over the paint and closed my eyes. I imagined a line leading from beneath my feet, through fourteen states north to Mount Katahdin in Maine, an unimaginable ribbon of space and time stretching in front of me.

I felt something well within me. I didn't cry, but I thought I might. Maybe this would be what was ahead of me. The cracks in my heart felt a little less deep in that moment. The future seemed a little less uncertain. The end of one journey and the beginning of the next did not seem so frightening.

I opened my eyes and looked at the blaze again. "I'll be back," I heard myself promise. "I'll be back, and the next time, I won't stop until I reach Katahdin."

It's hard to leave the summit. We worked for hours to reach it, only to go right back down. But we took our time up there on that mountain: laughing, talking, eating lunch, enjoying the feeling of being alive together. I found myself grateful that I had decided not to come alone. It can be lovely to hike solo, but life is best shared. And what better day to share life than this: Valentine's Day, the celebration of love, on a mountain in the winter sunshine with two good friends.

We made it back to Amicalola Falls before dark, and Ally drove us home. I don't know how she did it—I was knackered to the bone. The next morning I all but fell out of bed, unable to make my screaming muscles move effectively. But it had been worth it. I had stood at the foot of a huge possibility, felt the yawning maw of the future, and I had finally not been afraid.

It took a few years, but I did eventually stand on Springer Mountain again at the beginning of my thru-hike on March 24, 2019. I saw that same rock, the same view, the same white blaze I had made my promise to four years before. I was alone this time, but not for long. I soon made friends along my 2,200 mile hike.

I kept my promise to the white blaze. I stood on Katahdin on September 28, 2019, and I thought about that day in February with my two friends in the sunlight. Once again, I was at a crossroads: the end of one thing and the start of the next. It will never be easy to look the future in the face in such a moment, but after the Approach, I know that I am capable.