Hiking Alone on the Appalachian Trail

For my first solo backpacking trip I explored the Appalachian Trail from Rock Gap to Wayah

I was scared to go at first. It wasn’t as if some epic, unknown adventure lay ahead of me. It was just a weekend solo hike on the Appalachian Trail, but it was my first solo hike. I debated on and off about going, even stopping at a Bojangles before getting onto the interstate to rethink it. On the one hand, I wanted to go and my car was already packed - backpack, boots, a pillow and blanket for sleeping somewhere on the road that night, and a tote bag of essentials for before and after. On the other hand, there was a Memorial Day BBQ I was invited to with college friends, and it was so tempting to not go hiking, to be safe and normal and drink some beers and gossip about people I casually know.

I’d wanted to go solo hiking for a while but I kept hesitating. Somehow hiking alone for the first time is that much more daunting - a product of a lifetime’s insecurities whispered by society into my ear - but at Bojangle’s, on the verge of bailing before even starting, I reminded myself of this: how totally free, totally fulfilled I’ve felt those times I’ve been truly by myself. Taking the bus from Honolulu to Haleiwah, snorkeling out at sea, lying on a beach in Capri - these are some of my best memories, at times when I was most alone, but not lonely.

I arrived at the trail well past midnight. It had been a long drive fueled by a droning audiobook and peach Nehi soda that I picked up at a small gas station near the Eastern Continental Divide. At the parking lot for the trail the Appalachian Mountains of Nantahala Forest raised imposingly around me, felt more than seen in the darkness. I settled into the backseat of my hatchback with my pillow and blanket while silver mist crept outside the car window under a pale mountain moon.

You may think you’re ready for the Appalachian Trail, but you never are. No matter how many times you’ve hiked sections of it in the past or done practice hikes or trail runs elsewhere, the trail is full of surprises. The hike up from Rock Gap was arduous, but even so I moved quickly with the elation of being on the trail and moving at my own pace. Hiking alone I did not hesitate to stop and snap a photo of a wildflower or to skip and scramble over rocks and roots as I chose (though my feet would later regret the skipping - REALLY regret the skipping). As I skimmed the ridgeline I came across a section hiker, and we fell into step together.

In hindsight, it wasn't such a good idea to skip up this trail with a heavy pack and boots.

“I started at Springer Mountain,” he told me, “But I only had 10 days available to hike, so after this I’ve got to head home.” There was something in the way he said “home” that struck me. It had a tone of longing intertwined with regret - the eternal conflict of heimweh and fernweh.

“You just missed this guy, trail name ‘Splitter,’” my fellow hiker continued. “He’s speed-hiking the trail. Four days on the trail and he’s already hiked 120 miles.”

“Is he slack-packing or doing an assisted hike?” I asked.

“No, he’s carrying all his stuff, but it’s all ultralight. His pack only weighs 14 pounds, food, tent, sleeping bag and all.”

We fell into a silence. Everyone hikes their own hike, from day hikers to the record-setters, but the thought of that much mileage that quickly was dumbfounding. I started to lag in pace while the section hiker I was with pressed on. I didn’t mind. I was hiking my own hike this time, with no one to keep up with or wait for.

Looking back on the path from the top of Siler Bald.

I pushed myself to Siler Bald for a very late lunch. There was a side trail from the AT to the top of the bald and it was a brutal climb past prickly berry bushes and tangling underbrush. But that summit! It opened to a wide view of the surrounding range where the thin line of the Appalachian Trail wound ever northwards.

A steady rotation of hikers accompanied me while I lunched, including a huge pack of over-50 Meet-Up day hikers, a ragged backpacker with a bong made from an apple, and a couple of older guys intent on getting in touch with nature. They all came and went, and soon I did as well.

I had daylight and energy and no one’s schedule to mind except my own, so I pushed on, through the brush and wildflowers, sliding in and out of the presence of other hikers. The mass migration of northward-bound thru-hikers had peaked several weeks earlier and now the countless section-hikers like myself straggled along in their wake. The afternoon heat was burdensome, but not unbearable, and spring flowers were yielding to the encroaching summer.

Mountain bluets on the approach to Wayah Bald.

I arrived at Wayah Bald late in the afternoon, close to the golden hour where the stone watch tower glowed in amber rays and the mountains stood clear and blue against the horizon. Wayah Bald is a good place to stay for a while, and stay I did, enjoying the view, exploring the azalea thicket, and identifying AT landmarks like Deep Gap and Panther Gap and Standing Indian Mountain on the jagged ridgeline. But I was running out of daylight and I still had to find a place to set up camp.

The campsites beyond Wayah Bald were disappointing and overcrowded. Tents spilled out past the designated clearings and it seemed every tree within sight was bent under laden bear bags. I pressed on.

View from Wayah Bald. At the far right is Deep Gap, with Standing Indian Mountain just to the left. Panther Gap is just closer to the foreground from Deep Gap.

Half a mile later I ran out of water. I checked and double checked my data book for information on campsites and fresh springs. I’d already hiked farther than I’d meant in a day, and now my feet ached. I regretted my glib skipping that morning as every step of the rough trail was agony. Every rock and root underfoot was hell.

I was parched and practically crawling on hands and knees by the time I arrived at Wayah shelter, a full mile downslope from Wayah Bald. The rough wooden shelter was unsurprisingly full, but I was disheartened to find the whole area around the shelter crowded with tents. I made a feeble attempt to find a decent place to pitch my tent, but finally I gave up and collapsed under a dying hemlock. Widow-maker risk or not, this would have to do.

Speckled wood lily near Wayah Bald area.

It was dark by the time I finished setting up camp and pulled out my compact camp stove to cook dinner. People around me were starting to pack up for bed. One woman’s voice carried shrilly over the campsite as she asked her husband and son where the hand sanitizer was and what to do with the used ketchup packets. Another tent was shaking slightly with its occupant’s snores.

I had come to the woods to be alone, but instead I found myself surrounded by people. Separate, but not alone.

In the morning I practically fled the crowded campsite, my knees creaking and my feet gently protesting the uphill climb back to Wayah Bald. In the early morning the scenery from the watch tower was obscured by fog, and without the warm sun overhead the wind nipped at my fingers. My little camp stove sputtered against the shifting wind and the water never quite boiled but I settled against the stone wall and sipped green tea from a thermos. Here there was some quiet as hikers and sightseers visited the tower briefly and then moved on to escape the chill wind. I was loathe to leave but it was a long way back to my car at Rock Gap. I had to keep moving.

I passed Siler Bald without stopping, through Snowbird Gap and on towards Panther Gap and Swinging Lick Gap. I started looking for a campsite before evening set in, hoping to avoid the agony of battered feet like the day before. I skipped one campsite that was a small cleared square tucked under the trees, and another that was nestled in a tight switchback full of dry leaves.

When I found the perfect campsite, it surprised me. I was coming down a ridge and rounding a ravine when I saw it. Down in the ravine was a large clearing. A spring bubbled up from a corner of the clearing, going underground briefly and then emerging in a clear and cold pool where crawdads scurried among smooth worn pebbles. Fire pits were scattered strategically along the clearing, and, best of all, the campsite was totally empty. I pitched my tent on the patch of earth where the spring ran underground, and made myself at home.

My little campsite at Swinging Lick Gap.

After the necessary preparations - exploring the clearing, cooking on the camp stove, pitching the tent, throwing the bear bag, and so on - I settled in for the night. There were a number of mosquitos rising from the creek as the evening crept in. Their bites were relentless, so I took the fly off my tent, spread out my sleeping bag, and curled up in my tent with a book. It was wonderful and comfortable with the paperback in my hands and the wild mountains surrounding me, so I lounged there for some time, enjoying the view and the solitude as I listened to the low hum of trucks on the distant highway and birds calling one another back to the nest for the night.

I never put the fly back on the tent. I sat and read my book until it was too dark to see the words, after which I lay back in my warm sleeping bag. Through the mesh roof of the tent I watched the last blue light creep from the sky.

It’s not often you find exactly what you’re looking for, but this time the trail delivered. In my little hideaway I made no compromises; I entertained no one but myself. For that evening I was alone in the woods, to think, to meditate, to simply exist, to mindfully live. I was alone, and I was glad.