Piano Jack’s 2019 Solo Southbound Journey: 979 Miles on the Appalachian Trail

October 29, 2019

Day 1

I had made it to the top of the mountain. Climbing for five miles was a definitive challenge, but with nerves shot, and a height yet unreached, it was complete…

No it wasn’t. That was only half of it. Why would I forget the downhill scramble? Why would my mind be so set on a pinnacle just to realize the farce of an amature? I had to climb five more miles back down ledges, rock climb down boulders, resupply my water as it seeped out of the mountain, fend off hoards of mosquitoes as I reached my camp. It was grueling. It was leg shakingly satisfying. No, really, my legs were about to cha-cha their way to another dance floor when I finally fell into my tent. And this was the first day.

Then I began my hike. This summit of Katahdin was a test leading to another larger goal of 100 miles of unrelenting wilderness. Baxter State Park was gorgeous. It was wet. It was flat honestly. Still, I had ten miles to hike out of camp and into the wilderness.

They say that going South Bound is “insane,” or “unreasonably chaotic,” but I’m happy I’m going South for the winter. Like a flock of geese.

Oh! On the trail, I saw a four foot beaver swim by on the Pleasant River as I ate an oatmeal walnut Clif Bar and drank my Mount Hagen instant coffee. No bugs. No bugs!!

It took me eight days to hike through the 100 Mile Wilderness. Each night was another camp or lean-to. These lean-tos each have a log book. At first I wrote what everyone else wrote; My legs hurt, stomach is empty, feet are getting used to this pack on my back. Well after four lean-to log book entries, I began to write a truly random story of Keanu Reeves in each. Hopefully someone follows and reads each one.

Soon to come is an excursion of more mountains. Unfortunately my phone died in the Wilderness, so photos are lacking, but here’s a few to whet that whistle.

And now a game.

October 28, 2019

There’s a skill I haven’t had before. It involves wit and energy plus time and patience. I believe that equals fortitude and perhaps strength.

Patience with my body, patience with my mind, and patience with my breath. It all comes together when one climbs a mountain in the middle of Maine. It also collides when one is doing so alone.

One of the main reasons I began this trek was to find solitude. “Get away from your device and be closer to nature!” is what I had as a mantra leading up to my departure from Philadelphia. Well, one doesn’t truly leave their device at home regardless of how far one is from the next town, for it has a map on it, and one can see exactly where one is at all times with GPS. Technology is lovably incredible.

Also, being closer to nature is a definite truth, but when it coincides with thousands of mosquitoes and flies, the diminishing effect of the surrounding beauty is instant and disheartening. Believe me, the pock marks on my legs, torso, arms, hands, and even my face are beyond what I’ve ever experienced. Constantly slathering DEET all over is only fun for no one.

So this game I’ve been playing from Monson to Caratunk has been one of the toughest games of my life. The game of fixing and tuning a piano? Unbelievably difficult. Video games after a few beers? Fun, but sloppy and laughable. The mental and physical game of hiking miles alone over mountains and river crossings? Darn near impossible.

37 miles is not a lot. It’s minuscule, but it proved to me that this project isn’t for the weak nor the cocky individual. Going at your own pace and finding the sunlight on a dark day is just as important as getting to the next shelter and getting 8 hours of sleep, then waking up and doing it again. That’s a skill not many people get the chance to perfect, and I’m unsure if there is a way to make it so!

Something About Feet

October 27, 2019

Okay. Let’s talk about feet. Why do we have to talk about feet? Gross. Yet. C’mon. Um. Feet.

My feet hurt. My feet feel like they’re in a pinball machine being struck repeatedly by a metal ball the size of a quarter every night. My feet are looking like the face of that old witch one finds in a Brothers Grimm tale. My feet aren’t your new born baby anymore. They are just feet.

And yet they survive. And yet they continue! My feet are dying each day. They seem to flake skin as if Kraft made their Parmesan shakey-cheese out of it. I know. It’s gross. BUT! I have zero blisters almost 200 miles in. Thanks to the Danner boots I have, and those Darn Tough socks I wear. Remarkable.

My feet have feelings. Feelings as if they don’t know what’s happening currently and can’t figure it out. As if the feet in my shoes after twelve to fifteen miles say, “Cool dude! That was a great day!” and then after setting up camp, making dinner, finding my friends for the day, and laying down in my little tent, just to have them throb and wheeze as if they have no idea what just happened…. C’mon feet. That’s not cool.

I’ve lost skin. I’ve dunked them into the cold cold streams and brooks of mountains and have lost feeling to numbness. I have stretched them. Yet they hurt. I was told by a Northbound hiker, “Hey bud, they ain’t never feelin’ right. That’s just the way it is.” I believe it. Rolling over rocks and roots isn’t always easy. Let’s see how far these weird appendages last. Here’s looking forward to another two-thousand miles on these crazy walking pegs. Almost to the 200 mile mark! One tenth there.

Pointless Ups and Downs

October 26, 2019

People on the trail keep saying this strange phrase of “those pointless ups and downs.”

At first I thought it was silly. Why come out here and hike 2,192 miles if you think climbing these ups and downs are pointless? Can’t we all agree that once one reaches the pinnacle of a mountain, or successfully finds the road to a town after 15 or so miles of ascent and descent, it feels like none other? These pointless things they continue to talk of, I always thought were to mean elevation. Now I believe they mean attitude.

My attitude has changed drastically in the past month. It is as if my attitude changes with each week. Remembering that “mind game” I talked of a few weeks ago made me realize how often my mood can shift out here. Maybe it has always turned a corner that quick. Maybe I’m bi-polar? Maybe I have the normal aches and pains emotionally that everyone else out here have?

The Inside of The Human-Nature Hostel Outside of Andover ME Where Ryan Holt of Naked and Afraid Lives and Gives the Best Experience to Through Hikers. (What a title, but look him up on YouTube!)

That latter statement is exactly right. I’ve met most people who share my same woes and concerns mentally and emotionally. Spiritually as well. We can curb the physical torment of aching knees and hurt heels, but what it truly comes down to is a mindfulness of yourself. Most people take this trip Northbound, or from Georgia to Maine. After speaking to a few dozen of northbounders out here, at lean-tos, or along the trail, they all claim that Maine is unrelenting in size and caliber. And they’re almost finished with their hikes.

So! Pointless Ups and Downs. That’s what I’m going to call these bouts of doubt, elation, sadness, jubilation, grotesquely smelliness, pride, and hunger. Between them all together, and I’m sure they will continue, there is calmness, peace, and acceptance for one’s self and everything about the trail; the people, the nature, and of course, the elevation. It’s not even remotely pointless.

Above the Clouds

October 25, 2019

It begins here.

Give it a second. Do you need a second? Can we just rely on one another this time? May I simply grant your person a fraternity?

Have you arrived at the top? Do your legs feel weak and tumultuous? Can they make that next step?

There it is. I’ve been above the clouds without aid of an engine. I’ve seen and breathed the mist of a cloud as if it comes from a faucet. I hardly had to drink water.

Up here, in the mist, one thinks of solitude (yes, again). It sticks this time. No, not because of the moisture… because of the fact that you can’t see a darn thing! (Also because it’s too wet, your shirt just kinda sticks to your back, or side, or hey, you have a 30lb pack on your back! don’t worry…)

Once you’re up there, past the 4K foot mark, it’s different. God is closer. There isn’t a path to follow, but rather a guided hand. Does that make sense?

I was above the clouds almost the entire climb of the Saddleback Mountains. It was gale-force winds. It had the alpine trees leaning to the left.

The cloud cover moved. It became a flight simulator. Where did my feet go? Have they taken off? Can I actually fly?

No. Of course not.

I was 4,000 feet above. I found a little space and sat for lunch out of the wind as it rushed past. There, I found laughter. Ridiculous that the earth could provide such a barrier.

The way they move. The change in texture from just a few hundred feet in elevation. It’s incredible. Clouds just hang, but when and if I do sky dive, I hope to grasp the feeling once more. No need to drink to be hydrated. That was something else.

Old Speck Peak with a Fire Tower (Warped by the Panorama)

Acquaintances

October 24, 2019

As this trip moves along, and it does continue, I meet a lot of like minded folks. Not like minded in the sense that we agree on everything, nor in the way that best friends can talk about anything. What I do mean, is that we all share this burden and opportunity of arduous footwork.

They seem to come and go. I’m sure, and I’ve been told, that I may not see someone for a thousand miles, only to be reunited at some random town. Meeting all of these folks is extremely difficult because of this point. I could hike with them for four days and then never see them again. It’s almost as if I have a blackboard in my mind of people and leave only the faint outlines when I erase. I hope to see some of them if not all again.

A Two Year Old Shelter at Old Speck Pond

The Water Source at the Old Speck Shelter

After meeting at least thirty or more hikers on my same path South, you truly remember each and every name. We all eventually get a “trail name,” from a weird habit, or maybe something that someone said too many times. It could be anything. This was strange to me at first, and yet I received one. Sitting at one of the shelters in the 100 Mile Wilderness, we all talked about what food we would want at that time. Some said “cheeseburgers from McDonald’s,” while others just wanted some ice cream. I could only think of this one obscure thing from my childhood that my mom used to make, and I’m pretty sure hasn’t made in a long time; Neiman Marcus chocolate chip cookies.

So my trail name is Neiman Marcus, given to me by a girl named Burn. She unfortunately had to postpone her thru-hike until 2020 because of fractures in her feet, and that truly is a shame, but she’ll be back to kick this thing’s butt and forreal… thanks Burn!

We all don’t always get along, but almost always we see eye to eye on taking care of one another and making sure we’re all safe. From Drop Bear, to Tammy, to Swan Dive, Pale Ale, Selah, Attrition, Toodles, Toes, Reach, Teradactyle, Joey Dabs, Roo, and even Polly, it’s endless but understood. We have to have one another’s back and will see one another again.

Found the Plane Crash at the Summit of Mt. Sucess

So from here, in New Hampshire, it comes to The White Mountains, The Presidentials, and The Wildcats. The Appalachian Mountain Club employs caretakers at some of the shelters, and there will be huts for tourists and families for us thru-hikers to stay at for the night. Most of the hike will be above 4,000 feet, and we will all have to watch the weather for Mt. Washington, for at the bottom, it could be 75F and at the top, 45F. Therefore, New Hampshire will be defeated and most importantly enjoyed. Maine really took one out of me, and I suspect that sentiment won’t fade fast or ever, but it’s time to really climb some mountains with some friends.

The Dam at the Androscoggin River Dam (One can see Mt Washington in the background)

The Summit of Mt. Hight After a Thunderstorm

The Whites

October 23, 2019

I was confused. “What does ‘The Whites’ mean?” I would ask other hikers. Did it mean all of the mountains in New Hampshire? Maybe it meant just The Presidential Range. I honestly thought it was just a few mountains in a row, not the slew of four-to-six-thousand-foot climbs that I would be doing in the next few weeks after leaving Gorham. On the AT, It includes The Carters, The Wildcats, The Presidentials, Franconia Ridge, The Kinsmans, and even Mt. Moosilauke.

The Carter Notch AMC Hut with Green Roofs Down Below

This area of the Appalachian Trail is monitored, maintained, and managed by the Appalachian Mountain Club. In the previous post, I arrived at Speck Pond Shelter to find my first AMC employee, “Lucky.” He told me that some thru-hikers have a different name for the AMC; the Appalacian Money Club. It’s true, one does have to pay to camp at the shelters, and even more at the huts (which are employed by a four or five person “croo”). It’s not a scam however, even if those pesky penny pinching hiker snobs say so. One can be fed breakfast or dinner, enjoy coffee, pastries, flowing water out of a tap, a bathroom, or even board games, books, and even maps. I enjoyed every minute of this part. Well, almost every minute.

Looking Over to The Presidentials from The Wildcats

Climbing The Carters was tough. Climbing down The Wildcats was tougher. Setting up camp at the top of Mt. Hight while it thundered, hailed, and poured was exhilarating and screwy. Sitting at Pinkham Notch Visitors Center at a picnic table with my stinky feet airing out and my pack’s insides all strewn about the table while all the tourists looked on as if I was a bear in a cage was weird and somehow prideful. Trudging up Mt. Madison was torturous but Daft Punk saved my day. Being around all of the “muggles” at the top of Mt. Washington was eye opening but I ate a piping hot bowl of chili. Sleeping on a table in the common area of The Lakes of the Clouds AMC Hut was comforting yet unusual. Franconia Ridge had no complaints here… and Moosilauke just was icing on The Whites cake.

Looking to the Top of Madison ( the rocks are the trail)

Looking Down at the Valley Below, and Where I Came From

“The Cog” Railway to the Summit of Washinton

I get to the last AMC Hut. It’s Lonesome Lake Hut. I walk up the steps to get inside and ask for a work for stay, which means thru-hikers get a random chore, can stay for free, and eat the leftovers from the dinner that was served that night. Typically there’s always enough leftovers for every thru-hiker and sometimes (like for me at the Lakes Hut…shhhh don’t tell) they forget to ask for your $10. Either way, usually there’s room for thru-hikers to sleep on the common area’s floor, or even a table.

For me, however, they had a cancellation. I was standing there, asking for the WFS, and one of the Croo says, “Work for stay? How about you get a hot dinner, a bed to sleep in, breakfast in the morning, and don’t have to do aaaaany work at all for free?” The thru-hiker next in line to ask for WFS was about to fall on the floor. I was honestly honored. My last AMC Hut, and I get to be treated like a guest. I put my pack into bunk room #1, took a walk around Lonesome Lake, ate a hearty dinner of salad, stuffed shells, broccoli, and cookies, slept well, woke to the Croo singing a morning song to the guests for breakfast, ate sausage, eggs, and coffee cake, and can’t seriously recommend it enough. It may be pricey to stay at these remote huts in the summer, but the college kids who are employed there are tough as nails (they have to pack in all of the supplies and out all of the trash!), treat everyone with respect, and from my experience, treated every thru-hiker as if they really were guests. I was just incredibly lucky.

And then it was The Kinsmans as well as Mt. Moosilauke. The Kinsmans were tough, but hardly memorable… as for Moosilauke, well there’s some Roberts history there.

When my paternal grandfather, Samuel Roberts went to Dartmouth College (1947-51), he was a member of the Dartmouth Outing Club. This club actually takes care of and manages (much like the AMC) the trails surrounding Dartmouth, as well as Mt. Moosilauke. Well Grampa, or as we Roberts call him, “Baga,” worked on that same mountain when he was attending school. Family history is a strange thing. It can slip through your fingers if you don’t seek it out. Find a magnifying glass sometime (or just pick up the phone and call if you can) and learn something new about that surname of yours.

So there we have it. The Whites are complete. I walked the same path as my ancestor. Things were tough, fun, surprising, and hilarious at times. There’s more to come, and I’m excited to see how quickly it all rushes past. Stay with me! These trail-legs are just beginning.

Vermud

October 22, 2019

Another trail-ism! I heard “Vermud” from so many people, and it really didn’t seem like something I would ever want to say aloud, just like the terms “nearo”, “tramily,” or “slack packing.” (Nearo - almost zero miles hiked that day; Tramily - one’s trail family, or those who one hikes with most; Slack Packing - leaving behind all of the gear one doesn’t need for a day hike where it’s not a full pack, but almost empty, or slacked) They all sounded so silly at first. I felt strange saying them. I wanted to contest, resist, and rebel. At first, I didn’t even want to call it the “A-T.” It was like Kevin from The Office saying “Me think, why waste time say lot word, when few word do trick?” Now, I have almost no choice but to say those terms, because, well, everyone uses them to no end, and they get across a certain meaning quickly. “Vermud” was just one of those terms for almost the whole 150 miles of Vermont.

I crossed into Vermont from Hanover to Norwich on the longest section of paved, or non dirt trail on the AT. It’s tough to walk on concrete and macadam after continually stepping over roots, rocks, and rough terrain. One could compare it to playing on an acoustic piano versus an electric keyboard without weighted keys (hey! PianoJack stuff!).

And so the first fifty miles of Vermont began. They were beautiful. They were such a fun time even if I felt lazy after those White Mountains in NH. I walked down really old roads that only saw our AT foot traffic lined with rock walls that must have been extremely tiresome to make. I strode through fields that were seemingly just there in the middle of the forest. A welcome change. Farms were everywhere, and once I came upon a view, there were rolling hills of green and homes in between. It was different in every way from the beginning of the trip, besides the trees and bugs.

Then I slack-packed Mt. Killington. It was a six hour day, and I hiked 18 miles. I left most of my stuff at the hostel in Rutland and caught a ride to the trailhead. Killington has a story from my past as my parents had brought my sister and me there to learn how to ski when we were kids. I remember learning about pizza vs. french fries, as well as flyyyyyying down that mountain as fast as I could on those skis after I learned. Speed was and always will be fun since then. Rollercoasters scared me to death as a kid and then my sister made me ride Batman and Robin at Six Flags in NJ. Hooked on coasters. Seeing that huge mountain and I had to “fall” down it? Scared out of my little snow pants. All of a sudden, I was yelling “Somebody stop me!” a few days later as I zipped by my family. I was scared to hike this trail and that fear doesn’t seem to go away no matter how brave I am until that first step is taken. Now it’s an adventure.

Killington was a blast. I had a cider at the summit lodge. It was as if I was actually on vacation. Then I had to get my full pack with a full supply of food and water back onto my rear end and start really working again… through Vermud.

Oh the mud. I had a day in the rain that made every other day seem like a dream. The mud didn’t stop unless one was on top of a mountain. Wait, yeah, there’s the mud. Oh and around that corner, guess what’s lurking, just waiting to eat one’s boot, or make one slip and fall on their butt making it feel like some kind of ungodly mess was just slathered onto a backside? Oh. It’s mud. Wait. Hold up one second, did you have fun that day previously where you hiked lazily beside a stream and listened to Kiefer while birds chirped and butterflies greeted you like little lovely cats purring and soft pine needles underfoo… NO IT’S MUD, YOU DOLT. UNFATHOMABLE MUD.

It wasn’t really all that bad… in hindsight. It… it’s not like I have PTSD over it or anything. Sheesh. What am I some kid of lame-o clean-freak? I’m out in the woods for months on end. Isn’t this supposed to happen? Shouldn’t I have expected this?

I did, but not like that. My feet finally got wet. After getting 1/4 of the way through the trail they were soaked for two days. That was fun. And my clothing, almost all of it was soaked from just falling over, so that was really fun too. Vermud.

Vermont… I spent a night at a hostel called The Green Mountain House, and they had $1 pints of Ben and Jerry’s. That was Vermont. I climbed the peak of the mountain where I learned to ski! That was Vermont. Reuniting with a couple of hiking buddies from the 100 mile wilderness? That was Vermont. No, it was not mud only, and it made one more “ism” relevant; trail-legs. My trail-legs have finally come to fruition. Further and faster than ever I can hike. Run up hills and slide down valleys with ease, I can. It’s another “ism” I had no idea how to define, and had no way of saying it out loud but now can, and have to accept. Trail-legs, along with every other colloquialism, is now a part of my vernacular, and I like it.

Not so Sure

October 21, 2019

Here comes four separate states in one post.

Almost looking Lackluster about Making it to Mass

As with the tag above, these past four states have drained my courage, patience, drive, and ability to see how far I would want to walk. The world seemed to only be about hiking, and it showed in my attitude. Having fun with the fellow hiking friends wouldn’t cure the “slacker disease” I was admittedly infected with. Taking a few days (or more) off with friends In NY was so darn fun, necessary, and generous beyond belief, but it didn’t prove me wanting more miles to hike.

I’m surprised anyone even wanted to walk with such a sour faced guy, but I kept meeting folks to hike with regardless of my mental state. Chores upon chores every day, thousands of feet in elevation, miles and miles to go, a routine that turned into something I remember high school homework giving me… anxiety paired with professional procrastination. “Oh, if I just give the day seven miles, that’s alright?? Alright. Seven miles it is.” When I could probably push my body to fifteen or more. Ugh. I started feeling depressed again… why??? Why do the ups and downs of my attitude have to exist? Why can’t I just enjoy this amazing phenomenon that I probably won’t experience ever again, unless I become senile and do it all over again. If I do attempt another thru-hike, please, I put it out to all that have read this, it’s all your fault! (Just kidding. I’m never going to attempt this again.)

Looking back on all of these photos that I choose to post, and even the ones that I don’t, it all looks so wonderful. It all looks so incredibly fantastic that you’d think I was copywriting an advertising campaign for the trail itself (let’s disregard the ones with my face!). Then I read what I’ve written and it sounds like a whiny kid trying to get out of cleaning up their room. As if I haven’t hiked almost 890 miles of the trail that I wanted to complete since I was a little kid in the scouts; introduced to camping by my parents; hiking with my friends over the years. Phew, and then I put you, the reader through all of that! What kind of host does that? Well… I do wear my heart on my sleeve, and currently in New Jersey, it’s bleeding pretty red.

Take the Train here and get to New York City!

A Look at the New York Country Through the Trees

The Remnants of where Washington’s Troops were Inoculated for Small Pox

The Lemon Squeezer. You and Your Pack have to Fit

A Reminder in the Middle of Nowhere that this Trail is About America

Let’s lighten the mood. I made it to New Jersey. I couldn’t believe it. I’m currently ~30 miles from PA, but that’s two days of hiking. I’m coming out of that funk. That weird mind game of “what the eff am I doing and why did I ever choose to do such an insane thing with my mind and body?” Want to know what has helped the most? Family support (including Mr. Mulroy, and Mr. & Mrs. Belani in NY), and oddly enough, hiking more. “What the heck is this trail all about” I keep asking myself. I don’t have an answer, but I have learned about myself more than I would have ever imagined. At least enough to fill an internet post apparently.

The “Secret Shelter” on Jim Murray’s Farm (Shhhhh)

The View Atop High Point with the Vetrans Memorial

See you in PA.

Wanna Hike? The End.

October 20, 2019

Not hiking is easy. That’s what my brain said when I was hiking. Just stop and all the pain and suffering will go away. Maybe afterwards it will feel all better. A kiss on the wound from Mom. One great hug or pat on the back from Dad. It sounds so easy. If you don’t like it, don’t do it. C’mon man! Just be yourself and stop… or keep going who knows?

970 is a milestone. Some people reach the 2192. I on the other hand had to learn the hard way that this adventure (which it is aptly named) is just that. Let’s not make this all about me though, I will hike more in the future, maybe not on this said trail, but I will do so with new boots, new knowledge, and a respect unforgiving for the wilderness around us.

This is Angela. She helped me get further than I thought I would hike. She was a guiding voice of positivity and poise that I couldn’t seem to muster. Having this “lifetime opportunity” seems and smells like a farce, as if it will go bad at any minute to me. Expiration dates are real for a reason, and I never thought of them coinciding with my own mind. Angela prolonged my expiration date. She continued to show me that this trek wasn’t about others, it was about us. Us in the sense of self. How terrible would it be if we didn’t know ourselves?

Hiking in general is cathartic. Who wants to be cooped up inside a four walled box all day, regardless of bean bag chairs and ping pong tables provided? Why would one want to subject oneself to the harshness that is life to the blandness that is a building? Get outside! Go find a new plant or a fossil on a mountain! Try your best to do something you never thought possible!

The concept of impossibility is astounding. Over time it has pushed the placated perceptions of thought to excruciating lengths. Let’s take my sister for example. This woman was valedictorian of her high school while being class president. She became one of the most respected diplomats the United States has ever known, and while doing so contracted such a rare disease of cancer in her stomach that she was flown back to the U.S. for experimental treatment. While she was in treatment, she was also told by professionals that she wouldn’t be able to hold child. That sounds impossible. Well guess what.

Who wants to throw stones and say that anything is wrong in this world when such beauty exists. When God himself could not tell a woman to say, “I cannot,” she still does.

I was lucky… beyond lucky, to be able and willing and financially powered to hike as far as I have. Every day makes me wonder what is next and how I will survive now. I do not envy those who’ve completed their thru-hike. I also do not wish for anyone else to find this writing and say, “Nah I don’t wanna do that,” because YOU SHOULD. Find that impossibility and attack it. Don’t be afraid of things you don’t understand, and always remember that the “trail” is always going to be there. It really will be.

My trail will continue. Thank you all so very much for reading my words. This will not be the end.