Like life, adventures rarely unfold as planned. There will always be setbacks.
With any endeavor involving movement, challenge, unfamiliar circumstances and risk, the variables are innumerable and the likelihood of all going smoothly is extremely low. The potential for interruptions and failure waits around every bend, shadows every footfall and accompanies every heartbeat.
So it is with a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail. The AT, as it’s called, is the longest hiking-only trail in the world, stretching 2,194 miles (at last measure) from Springer Mountain, Georgia, to Mount Katahdin, Maine. Most thru-hikers – those who aim to hike the entire length of the trail in one continuous outing – take between four and seven months to complete the trip.
Within that months-long time frame, the number of things that can go wrong and disrupt the planned journey are myriad. That’s why only around 20-25% of thru-hikers who attempt the entire trail make it all the way.
I was treated to a redefinition of “setback” recently on my own AT thru-hike. I began my journey on June 30 by summiting Mount Katahdin, aiming for Georgia somewhere around Thanksgiving.
I hiked for four arduous months, nearly 1,500 miles, climbing more than 300,000 vertical feet up and down the mountains of southern Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont and eight more states south, hoisting some 35 pounds of camping gear, food and other necessities with every step. I entered dispatches in this space along the way, writing in from New Hampshire, western Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and West Virginia.
All along the way, minor setbacks threatened to derail my progress. Constantly sore feet, the elements, logistical headaches, issues to tend to back home, lack of funds, mental fatigue, take your pick.
But it wasn’t until I hit Virginia that things really started to go awry in a big one-two punch that allowed (read: forced) me to be home for Thanksgiving instead of wrapping up my hike as planned.
First, I contracted COVID-19. I spent six feverish days isolated in a hotel room in Front Royal, Va., with a hard-hitting sickness like I haven’t experienced since childhood. I probably caught the bug in one of the many crowded hiker hostels along the trail, sleeping in a crowded bunk room with 12 other hikers sharing air. Who knows?
But okay, I was certain I would recover from this setback and resume my thru-hike, delayed but intact.
After my layoff, I was anxious to ramp up again, back to hiking 18 to 20 miles a day and still push for end-of-November completion. Probably a mistake.
After about a week of pushing through lagging COVID symptoms and upping my mileage to 12, 14, 17 then 20 miles a day, a wrenching pain shot through my right foot. For 10 miles I tried to limp through the pain and hoped it would dissipate with a night’s rest under the stars. It didn’t.
Eventually, I was diagnosed with a stress fracture, third metatarsal. It’s a common athletic injury, a partial bone crack often caused by overuse. I likely pushed too hard too fast after the six-day COVID layoff. Six to eight weeks healing time. Thru-hike interrupted.
Setbacks are opportunities. I’ve heard this repeated often. While I acknowledge its truth, I’ve met that proclamation with an eyeroll more than once.
But I’m forced, in my current recovery, to appreciate the wisdom in this phrase. In life, in adventure, in everyday routine, setbacks are opportunities to reset, to step back and gain valuable perspective. A setback snaps you back to attention. It prompts a revisit to the original meaning of why you embarked on a pursuit in the first place.
We need setbacks, I would argue. They provide a check for when we become complacent and unappreciative of the gifts we are afforded. Setbacks focus our energies on regaining what they have taken from us.
Have something taken away from you – an ability, a freedom, a possession – and your appreciation for that thing multiplies manifold. Thank you, setback. Now, for a while anyway, you’ll no longer take for granted that gift.
For me, the gift was hiking and walking. Since taking my first steps, I’ve never questioned it or considered not being able to walk. Since childhood I’ve used my feet and legs as a locomotive option for adventure. I’ve always walked and pedaled, traversing the world’s cities on foot, walking across Massachusetts from the New York border to the tip of Cape Cod, riding bikes across the U.S., hiking Vermont’s Long Trail and my most recent AT trek.
Never have I appreciated those adventures – and the everyday ability to walk without limping – more than I have over the past six weeks, waiting for my cracked toe bone to heal.
Thank you, setback?
Technically, notes the Appalachian Mountain Club website, a thru-hike of the AT is a hike from the beginning of the trail to the end within one year. In other words, my thru-hike is still intact, if unintentionally interrupted. I plan to return to the trail in March and spend several weeks finishing the final 750 miles to complete the thru-hike.
When I return to the trail, I have little doubt that this unplanned setback (that’s redundant, I acknowledge) will provide me with an appreciation for the trail that I was not allowing in my most recent days hiking it.
It’s not uncommon for thru-hikers to descend into unappreciation. Yes, we are in a privileged position to be able to take several months away from home to spend time in nature every day, hiking through beautiful territory, meeting interesting people and experiencing new things.
But the hike isn’t easy, and after a few months of it, the pain and discomfort can nudge aside the wonder. Complaining is rampant among seasoned thru-hikers. By the end, most of us just want to be done.
But I met a handful of hikers on the AT who, like me, were forced off the trail temporarily. One had Lyme disease. Another needed hernia surgery, and one man even came back from a broken pelvis. Without exception, these hikers had a glow and spoke of a renewed appreciation for the fortune of being out there that they’d forgotten about before their setback. I recognize that restated appreciation in my anticipation to return to the trail. The difficulty now is waiting.
Of course, setbacks apply to more than just Appalachian Trail hikes. Setbacks are part of life.
We make plans, we execute plans, we have some success, then without warning, a wrench is thrown in and our progress is halted. Setbacks can be a headache to deal with in the moment.
But how many times do we look back on such moments and realize their value? A job layoff leads to a more well-suited job, the best thing that could’ve happened. A big loss prompts a team to address its weaknesses and become better. An injury provides time for reflection and inspiration to come back stronger.
I’ve written here a lot about lessons learned from being on the AT. I’m not on the trail at the moment, but this may be the most important trail lesson of all. Life and adventure are unpredictable. To succeed requires not only persevering and working through setbacks, but turning them into long-term positives and making them work for you. How do you recover from them and make them count?
There will be setbacks. But a setback is temporary, it’s a blip. What comes after the setback is what is important.
See you from back on the AT soon.
Eric Weld, a former Gazette reporter, is the founder of agingadventurist.com