A Brysonian experience

Last weekend, spring had finally sprung in all it's glory, and Delta and I were itching to get out on the mountains again. So we donned our large backpacks and headed out to spend a couple days at the Delaware Water Gap.

Ever since moving to the US, I'd harboured a secret desire to hike on the Appalachian Trail. Of course my notion of the AT was a romanticised one that is shared only by those who haven't actually been on the AT before. But then I read Bill Bryson's account of the AT, ever my long-time hero, and my secret desire morphed into a semi-obsession. Not entirely dissimilar to the impact that Krakauer's account of Everest had on me - except the AT was slightly more realizable.

So I asked Delta if we couldn't go down to the Gap and spend a couple days hiking the AT, and Delta, who has long-since wanted to get my romanticised notions of AT out of my system, readily agreed.

Let me tell you. The biggest hurdle of hiking the AT does not start with the AT itself. It starts considerably before, when you get out of the car and don the 40lb backpack, and find yourself involuntarily indulging in a purple chortling moment of asphyxiation. And then, almost doubled over under the weight of the pack, you lift your head up and realize the trail only goes upwards. As far as your eye can see, it's ascending ascending ascending. That moment, right there, hunched over and gasping for air, is when the romance of the AT disappears.

But it was impossible to be disheartened for long. Spring had included everything in it's spell, and the entire mountain was in bloom. And there we were, walking on the ridge, with sweeping views of the Kittanies on either side.

A truly glorious sight to behold. Simply spectacular. Well, for the first few miles anyway. Then somewhere around mile five, it rather does lose it's shine. And somewhere around mile 9, you start to hate every stone and shrub in the woods. But finally, we reached our campsite, and cooked ourselves a little meal (freeze-dried chicken gumbo and noodles). We must have been hungry, because about 90 seconds after we took it off the stove, the food was gone.

And I have to confess, when we woke up the next day to a steady downpour, it really was rather disheartening. But there was nought to be done except to struggle on with our backpacks, wincing gingerly at the sore spots from yesterday. Squinting through the rain pouring down our faces, and patting our hands to try and keep them warm. Needless to say, there wasn't a lot of cheery chatter that morning. As a point of scientific interest however, it should be noted that in the haste to escape our misery, we motored back over 10 miles in the mountains with backpacks on our backs, in less than four hours. Not an experience to remember forever, but rather proud to note the ol'body was able to pull that trick out of the bag.

Even Delta, who'd been walking behind me the entire time to make sure I didn't jettison important things along the way just to lessen the load (thought I'd throw out the food and pot, which was a reasonable fear), was suitably impressed.

At least now we can say, it was a truly Brysonian experience (even if only for a few days).

There we were, right on the AT!

Gazing out at the sweeping views.

Our first campsite, where the deers visited at dusk.