Why I'm Not Hiking The Appalachian Trail

“Do the right thing, not only when it’s easy but when it’s the hardest damn thing in the world.”

 

    My whole life, I have dreamed of hiking the Appalachian Trail. I love hiking, and the idea of spending six months living in the woods while traveling the entire East Coast. I always dreamed of completing the trail the summer after I graduated from college, but this plan changed when I spent the last semester of my senior year on medical leave from school. However, over the year since then, I decided I wanted to try the trail.

    At first, it seemed like an unreasonable goal. But maybe because of that, it also seemed like an incredible opportunity. I read five books on the Appalachian Trail, along with books on the Pacific Crest Trail and countless blogs. I hoped that the trail would give me a chance to regain my strength, both physically and mentally. I wanted to challenge myself, to prove that I would be strong enough to embark on such an intense journey. I also hoped to get to know myself better through spending six months alone. I craved adventure-after spending a lot of the past two years in bed resting or at various doctors appointments, the idea of living my days alone in the woods seemed like a fantasy.

    I prepared for the trail. I hiked five days a week with a 35 pound pack. I would drive to nearby forests to hike mountains, or climb the steepest hills in my neighborhood over and over. Just having this goal, I was able to progress from considering a two mile walk a lot of exercise to hiking nine miles with a full pack. In addition to physical preparation, I bought supplies. I spent hours researching the best types of gear, the most essential items to pack. I spent hundreds of dollars at REI and on Amazon ordering gear.

View from Training Hike

    But now, the gear is sitting in a bin on the floor of my room. And my pack sits in my mudroom, unused except for training hikes.

    When I postponed my hike in March this year (a week before I planned to start), I expected to begin my hike later this summer. Up until earlier this week, that was my plan. After deciding traveling to start might be too complicated, I decided to start in Massachusetts and work my way through New England first. Even this weekend, when Massachusetts announced they wouldn’t be opening trails for camping this month, I thought I would still do it. I would start in Pennsylvania, as that seemed to have the most things open.

    But the more I read about it, the more it became obvious to me that I couldn’t do it. Towns posted on their Facebook pages that they would arrest anyone they found on the trail. State parks closed all shelters and facilities. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy opened most of the trail for day hikes, but urged all hikers to stay local. Technically, as long as I didn’t go on the closed parts of the trail, what I was doing would be legal.

    But that doesn’t make it right. The more I thought about all of the towns I would walk through, the grocery stores I would stop at for food, the hospital I would go to if I broke my ankle, the more I realized how many people I would be putting at risk. I wasn’t concerned for my own health, I am young and healthy, it is unlikely that I will get sick. But I can’t be responsible for getting other people sick.

    For the whole epidemic, I’ve tried to be responsible. I haven’t gone anywhere non-essential, told my friends I would only see them virtually, and I always social distance. I even talked to my boss about stronger social distancing policies at work, and I have been known to back away from people who come near me in the few times I’ve been in public. I live with someone who is at a very high risk for serious complications from COVID-19, so the idea that I could put them at risk is a huge responsibility. The thought that just by bringing certain germs into the house I could make them so sick is terrifying.

           

    When I thought about backing away from people I see in public, or getting annoyed at the runner who passed me without warning me or giving me space, I knew I couldn’t go. All I can think about is the hospital workers who have risked their lives for months to keep us safe, the families who have watched love ones die without seeing them in person, the high-risk patients who died too soon. I can’t do something that would put these people more at risk, or that would make their jobs harder.

           

    It’s been hard for people to understand why this is so upsetting to me. “But it’s your choice,” they tell me. But it isn’t really. We aren’t blaming the seniors who are upset about missing prom or graduation, and that’s only one night. We aren’t blaming the people who didn’t get to start new jobs, or saying that they are choosing to keep their lives the same. But some of us have to make the decision for ourselves. And I am so grateful this is the decision I’m making: I’m not deciding if I feel safe going to work or if I should take a loved one off a ventilator. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a small decision. But it’s still important.

    It’s important because this is how we’ve all been called to respond to the pandemic, and as more time passes and things start to reopen, we have forgotten. We have forgotten our responsibility to others and the risks we create by doing what we want. I want to acknowledge everyone who has postponed plans for the sake of others: Thank you. For those of you who are struggling with such decisions, I wish you the best of luck. It isn’t easy, and it never will be. But all you can do is what you believe is right.