April 20, 2022 – Springer Mountain, Georgia

Starting the Appalachian Trail was chaotic right from the jump. My shuttle driver wrestled with his dog, a hyper puppy that kept leaping into the back seat, causing the driver to swerve down winding roads. Somehow, despite the pup’s best efforts, we made it to Springer Mountain by mid-morning. As I hiked the mile up to the official start, I took in the reality of what lay ahead: over 2,000 miles of rugged trail, unpredictable weather, and the unknown. I had hiked the Springer Mountain approach trail during my first AT Thru hike attempt in 2019 and this time I decided to start at the summit.

At the summit, I met two hikers who were taking photos by the plaque but didn’t even know what the Appalachian Trail was. It was funny and oddly grounding. This was my journey, and I had my own reasons for being there—no need to explain it to anyone else. I hiked about eight miles that day before coming across a water source where two hikers, Goldilocks and Sidewinder, were talking to a ridge runner named Chelsea. Sidewinder took one look at my zombie raccoon T-shirt and dubbed me “Raccoon Man.” I figured there were worse trail names to have.

That night, I camped with them at Hawk Mountain Shelter. We swapped stories and laughed as the wind howled and military helicopters buzzed by. I felt a sense of camaraderie that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. In the chaos of wind and night sounds, I slept surprisingly well, grateful for the company of my new “tramily” that was starting to form even on day 1.”

The Magic of the Trail

April 21 was my first real taste of the trail’s magic. After a foggy morning that finally cleared to reveal some breathtaking views, I stumbled upon my first bit of “trail magic”—Tom Dunbar at Gooch Gap who had hiked the trail back in 1982, handing out Gatorades to hikers. He didn’t need to be there; he was just celebrating his own memories by creating new ones for us. That drink was exactly what I needed.

Later, I met CJack, an 85-year-old hiker with a truck he was using to support his own “flip-flop” journey. He had a long white beard and the kind of calm presence that only comes with age. Sitting with him at Woody Gap, I found myself motivated to keep going, even though my body was already protesting. There’s something about seeing someone else’s determination that pushes you forward. That night, I camped a bit short of my planned stop but didn’t mind. I shared a campsite with a couple from Kentucky who blessed my journey, toasting with bourbon under the stars. I slept well again, feeling like the trail was slowly working its way into my bones.

The Challenge of Blood Mountain

On April 22, I faced my first major challenge: the climb up Blood Mountain, the highest point of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia. It wasn’t just the mountain itself, but the series of peaks leading up to it that wore me down. By the time I reached the summit, my knees were screaming, and every step felt heavier.

At the Blood Mountain shelter, I ran into CJack again, he was frantically searching for the privy (a trail outhouse). We shared a laugh before I continued down to Neels Gap. There, I connected with a group heading into town for food and drinks: Slaps, Noom Noom, Father John, and his girlfriend. We grabbed Mexican food and laughed over margaritas. Flora, another thru-hiker I’d met earlier, joined us, and we all stayed at a cabin that night. Attempting to do laundry led to the sink pipe bursting, flooding the floor—a “trail mishap” that made for more laughs. But the shower, a good night’s sleep, and a bit of luxury were exactly what I needed to recharge.

Finding Rhythm and Resilience

April 23 started slowly as my muscles reminded me of every step I’d taken so far. Despite the soreness, I managed to push on for about 12 miles to Low Gap Shelter. The trail was challenging but rewarding, with views that made every climb worthwhile. I crossed paths with a few hikers who’d become familiar faces, including “Perpetual Motion,” who offered me some useful advice, and a guy I gave the trail name “Ghost” to because he would randomly appear after you thought he was long behind you.

That night at the shelter, I was surrounded by a wonderful group, including Flora and Nomad, a van-dwelling hiker from Akron with stories to match. We huddled around a picnic table, chatting until we had to lie down. I made the rookie mistake of setting my tent on a slant, so I spent the night sliding around, but even that couldn’t dampen my spirits.

Moments of Antisocial Solitude and Stunning Sunsets

April 24 was a hard day physically, over 15 miles that ended with a steep climb up Tray Mountain. Along the way, I experienced some more trail magic: fresh fruit and hamburgers from a group of kind strangers. By the time I reached Tray Mountain, I was exhausted and feeling antisocial. I set up my tent, ate alone, and watched a breathtaking sunset from my spot. Sometimes, the trail gives you exactly what you need, even if it’s a moment of solitude to process everything.

The Pain of Downhills and the Comfort of Small-Town Hospitality

By April 25, the trail was taking its toll. My left knee was really bothering me on the downhills, and each step felt like a reminder of my limits. I hiked about 11 miles into Hiawassee and checked into a hotel, grateful for a hot shower and a real bed. I considered taking a “zero day” to rest, and I did, spending time with other hikers—Goldilocks, Zoey, Firestarter, and Sidewinder. We laughed, shared trail stories over beers, and for a moment, the physical pain faded into the background.

The next day, I enjoyed the little town of Hiawassee, mailing some gear home to lighten my load and meeting Cargo, a triple-crowner who had hiked in from the Florida Trail. That night, I hit up a local brewery with the trail family I’d come to know, sharing laughs and stories over beers. It was a reminder of how quickly the trail builds connections.

Low Spirits and Familiar Faces

On April 27, I set out with low spirits, feeling the strain of the journey creeping in. Hiking with Meg and Mike, a couple from Alabama, gave me a lift, and they even offered me a ride into town. Lemon Drop, a hiker nursing an injury, convinced me to try slack-packing—hiking without the full weight of my pack—which I tried the following day. After a few miles into town with Meg and Mike, we stopped at an outfitter, had a beer, and took it slow, giving me a chance to rest and recharge.

That night, Flora joined us for dinner, and we spent a relaxing evening at a hotel. It was an ordinary day but a welcome reprieve, and I began to appreciate the balance between pushing hard and taking it easy.

Slack-Packing and Celebrating Milestones

April 29 was my first official slack-pack day, and it felt amazing. I hiked 13 miles with Minda, another thru-hiker, feeling light on my feet for the first time in days. That evening, we shared a meal by the river and listened to reports of bear activity nearby, a reminder of the wilderness that surrounded us.

On April 30, I hit the 100-mile mark, a milestone that filled me with pride and gratitude. I celebrated with Minda and Twisted, a hiker from Germany, at the summit of Mt. Albert. The day ended with a crowded shelter as thunderstorms rolled in, but the warmth of the group, sharing stories and shelter from the storm, reminded me why I was out there.

The Journey Ahead

Those first ten days on the Appalachian Trail were filled with everything from laughter to pain, from shared meals with strangers to quiet moments of solitude. The trail had already started to work its way into my soul, challenging me in ways I didn’t expect. I went there seeking a break from the chaos of my life as a paramedic, but what I found was a deeper sense of connection—to nature, to myself, and to the incredible community of people who made that journey alongside me.

I didn’t know what lay ahead, but if those first days were any indication, the trail was ready to teach me patience, resilience, and the art of letting go. Here’s to whatever came next, one step, one mile, and one lesson at a time