Date: Fri 16-Jul-1999

Publication: Bee

Author: JEFF

Quick Words:

Tim-Spiro-Appalachian-Trail

Full Text:

From Georgia To Connecticut: Local Hiker Takes On The AT

(with cuts)

BY JEFF WHITE

On March 15 of this year, Newtown's Tim Spiro donned a 40-pound backpack,

braced himself against frigid temperatures, and took off from Springer

Mountain in Georgia's Chattahoochee's National Forest, the start of the famed

Appalachian Trail. The pack was so heavy, Tim recalls, that it rubbed his

sides raw and bloody. He decided to jettison everything in his pack that was

not essential for the hike, and trudged on. Four months later, he reached

Connecticut.

"I love it. The toughest decision I have to make everyday is what I'm going to

eat for dinner," Tim said recently while relaxing in his backyard off Grand

Place. "You have to love the lack of responsibility."

On the New York-Connecticut border, Tim was met by his father who transported

him back to Newtown for a break and a chance to earn money. Tim brought home

company as it turns out: a motley crew of through-hikers in desperate need of

hot meals, showers, and a break from the rigors of trail life. His back yard

resembles a tent city.

Tim intends to through-hike the Appalachian Trail (AT) -- that is, to hike

from Springer Mountain 2,150 miles north to Mount Katahdin in Maine's Baxter

State Park. Each year, 2,000 intrepid souls make those first awkward,

pack-burdened steps at the start of the AT; only about two dozen make it to

Katahdin's apex.

In between games of horseshoes, Tim reflected on the elements of making a

through-hike, while shedding light on the idiosyncrasies of trail life.

The first thing one learns when conversing with a group of AT through-hikers

is that none of them go by their real names. They all have trail names, labels

they receive from other hikers, usually meant to convey a unique

characteristic of the particular hiker.

"Some people pick their name before they start, but most wait until they do

something stupid on the trail. Then they get a name," Tim mused.

His trail name is "Dogman," a name he earned by hiking from Georgia to

Virginia with his chocolate Labrador. Sitting with "Dogman" last Saturday

afternoon was a gruff, gray-haired man from Suffolk, Virginia named "Sly Fox,"

another hiker with a southern drawl named "Living Water," and a young,

blond-hair Georgian named "Sierra."

What is even more remarkable is how much distance these names travel. Typical

banter among hikers involves reminiscing about various trail characters like

"Heavy Pack," or "Wyoming Cowboy," and amazingly everyone has heard of them,

though they may be a full month ahead or behind them on the trail. Trail

names, combined with other colorful vernacular, lends a distinct culture to

the AT, no doubt different from its original intention as a getaway for

work-weary urbanites.

In 1921, outdoor enthusiast Benton MacKaye presented an ambitious plan for a

long distance hiking trail to a friend of his named Charles Harris Whitaker.

Mr Whitaker was the editor of a scholarly architectural journal called The

Journal of the American Institute of Architects , and he published Mr

MacKaye's vision: a network of work camps for tired city dwellers itching to

discover and volunteer in nature.

The trail was to stretch the entire length of the Appalachian Mountains. It

did not take on its eventual destiny as a hiking trail until 1930, however,

when a Washington Lawyer named Myron Avery, an avid hiker, carried Mr

MacKaye's idea a step farther, breaking ground, clearing trees, and forming

what would eventually be called the AT. The trail was formally completed a

scant seven years later, on August 14, 1937.

In all, the AT runs over the top of more than 300 prominent peaks in the

mountain trail, meandering through 13 states, and rising to over 6,000 feet

above sea level in certain places. It is not the longest trail in the country;

the Pacific Crest and Continental Divide trails run longer. But it is

important because it was the first such trail in the country.

The millions of steps it takes to reach Maine are often marked by heartbreak.

There are tales of hikers quitting after two miles on the trail; there are

tales of the stout-hearted whimpering and throwing in the towel on the

approach trail to the start of the AT. It boils down to this indisputable

fact: it is a long, long way from Georgia to Maine.

And Tim knows this. He recalls moments on the trail when the desperation of

the endeavor, the monotony of the miles, almost broke his resolve. During the

500 mile section of the AT that slices through Virginia (the longest section

in any one state), Tim came down with what is known in trail parlance as "The

Virginia Blues."

"It was getting routine for me," he recalled. "The novelty of being on the

trail started to wear off."

But then "trail magic" sets in, something revered by all hikers when the

troubled, dark times of a trail funk become brightened by a random act of

kindness. Tim recalled ordinary citizens waiting at trail heads with hot food,

cold drinks, supplies.

"People will offer to take you back to their house for a shower and a hot

meal, or bring cold sodas to you on the trail. That keeps you going," he said,

with a smile.

On average, Tim logged 13 miles each day from Georgia, on some days hiking

much farther, on others not hiking at all. The going has become easier since

he shed much of his gear near the start of the trail.

"If you're not using it you shouldn't be carrying it. I use everything I

carry," he said, commenting on the common mistake of over-packing on the

trail.

There are, of course, those hikers that overdo it. They purchase thousands of

dollars worth of high tech sleeping bags, free standing tents, internal frame

backpacks, and fancy cooking stoves. Then they dump it all the moment their

shoulders cry out in agony.

Tim related tales of the opposite extreme, trail minimalists who attempt the

through-hike with a blanket and tarp to stay dry, cooking their meals in

makeshift stoves formed from tuna cans doused with lighter fluid and set

ablaze.

Even with being very selective with one's gear, Tim said that those wishing to

undertake a through-hike should expect to spend at least $1,000. This is not

counting the price of the food drops that many of the hikers rely on to

replenish their caches.

This past Wednesday, Tim resumed his mission toward Maine, with the

Connecticut section of the AT ahead of him: 52 miles stretching from Sherman

north to the peak of Bear Mountain in Salisbury.

Having completed 1,440 miles so far, the last 700 could prove the most

difficult. In particular, there is the infamous Hundred Mile Wilderness in

Maine, which many regard as the most remote section of the hike. The

wilderness traverses several peaks in the White Cap Range, along with the

watershed of the west branch of the Penobscot and Pleasant rivers.

Tim thinks he will top out on Katahdin in September, just ahead of the

Canadian chill that signals the changing of seasons in Baxter State Park.

"Right now, there are 10 reasons why I should quit the trail," Tim said, as he

scratched the beard he has been growing since Georgia. "But there are a

hundred reasons to keep going."