My Worst Day on the Appalachian Trail

Everyone tried to tell me.

Hiking in White Mountain National Park was hard. SO SUPER HARD. I would only be able to do, like, 8 miles a day.

“That’s ridiculous,” I thought, “I can walk 20+ miles a day; certainly 13-16 miles a day in the Whites would be cake.”

This is what I thought about as I hauled my way slowly and painfully up Mount Kinsman. It was my second day in the Whites. The previous day, I had pushed up and over Mount Moosilauke with an elevation gain of over 3000 feet. As we reached the bottom of the mountain, the sun was starting to set and I was completely exhausted. I had only hiked 10 miles.

I had been hiking with Mac. We decided to stick to our original plan and push another 3 miles that day. Looking at the elevation profile that night, I told myself the worst was over. Mount Kinsman lay ahead with a much smaller elevation gain. The plan was to get over the mountain and make our way into Lincoln, NH for the night. It would be another 13 miles, but if I could do today, certainly I could make it though tomorrow.

Mount Kinsman was more difficult than I could have possibly imagined.

My neck hurt from looking up at the trail that loomed above me. As I was in such great shape, I had a hard time believing that people could come out here for day hikes. I felt like I was rock climbing but without a rope. I grabbed each handhold above me and hauled myself up, my pack threatening to drag me backwards. My trekking poles were essentially useless. As I reached the top of the mountain, I spied Mac waiting for me.

I laid down, completely exhausted. I felt like crap. Maybe I was fighting a cold; maybe I was in an enormous calorie deficit. Maybe both. I didn’t know the reason, but I knew I definitely didn’t feel right. I pulled a Snickers bar out of my pack and solemnly ripped it apart. Mac talked excitedly about getting to town that night. For me, though, the thought of hiking another 6 miles and then having to hitch into town made me fight the urge to throw up.

As I readied myself for the descent, I again told myself that the worst was over.

Again, I was wrong.

It hadn’t rained that day, or the day before for that matter, but in the Whites everything is always wet. As we traveled down the mountain, I realized that those wet, slick slabs of rock that some maniac deemed a trail were even more treacherous on the descent.

For reference, imagine a sheet of ice at a 45-degree downward angle. You have to go down it. You can’t go around it and you are carrying about 25 pounds on your back, about the weight of a small child. Now do that over and over again for MILES.

The fact that this trail could even be considered open to the public was beyond me. I grabbed trees for balance and gingerly lowered myself down over each slab of inexplicably wet rock. I fell once. I fell twice. I slipped hundreds of times, my heart beating in my chest. I was overwhelmed with frustration. I was tired, hungry, and hurt. All I wanted to do was hike faster so we could get to town, get a warm meal, and get a good night’s sleep. The faster I hiked, the more often I fell.

My third fall wasn’t so much a fall as a slip-n-slide gone awry. On a particularly large slab of rock, I decided to sit on my butt and slowly slide down. It was so steep and slippery that I still kept sliding. I landed hard at the bottom and added a fresh rip in my shorts, not to mention a few scrapes on my ass. I burst into tears. What the fuck was I doing out here? I could be at home with my husband watching Game of Thrones and eating Chipotle, but here I was, torturing myself.

I cried on and off the rest of the way down the mountain. I ran into a few day hikers who wanted to chat, but I pretty much completely ignored them because I was afraid of bursting into tears if I opened my mouth. I still feel bad about that. Sorry, day hiker guys.

Three miles short of town, I caught up with Mac who had very strategically stayed well ahead of me for the last few miles. He convinced me that the next 3 miles would be easy and that I could do it. If I could just stick it out, we would be in town that night eating Chinese food and sleeping in someone’s garage. Luxury.

Mac was right. We cruised to the highway and hitched/walked our way into town, eventually making our way to Chet’s hostel.

I wanted to quit.

I wanted to go home and never hike again. The thought of returning to those mountains nauseated me.

I ate. I rested. I slept. The next day, Mac and I took the whole day off and hung out at Chet’s place. We ate more. The weather was nice. We caught up with other hikers. I called my husband. I called my mom. I bitched and complained, and then ate some more. I felt better.

When I set out hiking again with Mac by my side, we made a deal to aim for only 10 miles a day. It seemed short, but in the end it was the best decision we could have made. The Whites became a much more enjoyable experience.

Over-hiking is a common mistake in the Whites and I found my limits pretty quickly. I will always remember that shitty day on Mount Kinsman as one of my most difficult and frustrating days on the trail.

Was I ever actually in danger of quitting? I don’t think so. I had a great support system and all I really needed was a break and a lot of food, but my resolve had never been tested so soundly.