2,194 Miles: Hancock Point, Maine

And it's a wrap!

Aug 31, 2022

Somehow it’s finally here. The last newsletter. Officially, I summitted Katahdin on August 17th, approximately two weeks ago and in a rare (fortunately rare) bout of procrastination, I’ve been putting off sending out this last update. Perhaps it’s because I’ve wanting to spend my first two weeks off trail in other ways, but honestly I think some of it is that writing this and sending it out to you officially marks the end and perhaps I’ve been trying to prolong that finality.

The last stretch since my most recent newsletter was only ten trail days and even while hiking them I felt in the middle of a dream on the verge of waking up. After it’s initial steep, rocky climbs and jungle-gym inspired rock scrambles, Maine began to give way to much more gentle terrain. I spent most of my time dodging bogs, sticking my trekking pole in as a tool to determine the depth of each, and carefully walking on planks of wood to avoid sinking knee deep into the mud.

When I wasn’t trodding through bogs, Maine’s trail went directly through rivers, apparently bridges haven’t made it that far north yet! While for one large river crossing, the Appalachian Trail Conservancy actually pays someone to shuttle hikers across daily in a canoe, the rest involved wet feet and wading through thigh-high currents.

Bridges, what a useful invention that were simply not present

Scattered with it’s lakes and ponds and rivers and bogs, Maine was certainly one of the most beautiful states. At every body of water, I stopped to see if I could finally catch sight of a moose on the fringe of the pond. Despite seeing moose tracks stomped into the trail, I managed to hike the 282 miles in Maine without seeing a single one.

I stopped at the last hostel on trail, iconic Shaw’s in the tiny town of Monson, Maine to gather my last resupply, fill up on Gifford’s blueberry ice cream, and pick up a box filled with meals that Henry sent to wish me well on the last stretch. At the hostel, every corner and I’d turn and see someone that I’d met previously on trail and over a heaping stack of blueberry pancakes, everyone began to talk about what they were looking forward to after finishing.

One Maine hostel transported hikers in a converted school bus!

In between Shaw’s and Katahdin, hikers must first go through the “Hundred Mile Wilderness”, a section of trail notable both for it’s remoteness (it’s allegedly one of the most remote areas in the country!) and also beauty. Ahead of the 100 Mile, I had unrealistic images of zero human contact and rough, ragged trail until we reached the base of Katahdin.

In reality, the 100-mile was less remote than anticipated with a few gravel logging roads cutting through the forest that brought a handful of day hikers. The “wilderness” was stunning, dense with fauna, and a near fantastical setting to end a thru-hike.

For the last 60 miles or so, the trail became near flat comparative to recent sections, ideal for what I call “thinking miles” where your body goes on auto-pilot and your thoughts are able to wander. I spent the last few days reflecting on the journey as a whole, the miles that I passed, each state’s scenery, the people that I’d met, the things that I learned, and how incredible it was that we’d hiked here from Georgia.

It was in the midst of the 100-mile wilderness where we first saw Katahdin after climbing to the top of White Cap mountain— there looming ahead was the end of the last 5 months in plain sight. Winding our way down trail, Katahdin continued to pop into view, always slightly closer than before equal parts intimidating and welcoming.

Exiting the 100-mile wilderness and entering Baxter State park, feeling a blend of excitement, anticipation, nervousness, we set up camp at the base of Katahdin. The final two days our group announced a series of lasts— the last time filtering water, the last time setting up our tents, the last oatmeal packet/instant breakfast/instant coffee breakfasts in the morning light.

And then the next morning, starting at 5:30 a.m. to avoid the incoming rain, I started making my way up the base of Katahdin. Truly, it was surreal. Surreal to be climbing up the terminus of the trail, surreal to be officially accomplishing a years-long ambition, of officially joining the 1 in 5 thru-hikers who attempt and finish, and to be wrapping up a hard, beautiful chapter in my life.

Because the last few miles can’t be easy, right?

And then I was at the summit of Katahdin.

The end, the 2,194th mile of the Appalachian trail. And, despite thinking I wouldn’t, immediately once I touched the sign that I’d seen so many times with photos of other thru-hikers, I burst into tears. In that moment, I think above all I felt relief at having made it, realizing that the whole way I had been subconsciously holding my breath that something insurmountable would come between me standing on top of that mountain.

Unfortunately even though the trail ends on the top of Katahdin, no one has yet installed a zipline to descend (joking here, of course) so we anti-climatically made our way down as the rain started to come in. Two hours later, Henry picked me up and, after heading to Dairy Queen as I had been imagining for weeks, we headed to where I am now, Hancock Point, Maine where some of his family lives.

As for what I’ve been doing since then— you know the parable/anecdote about a man filling a jar with sand, stones, and pebbles? Where initially he attempts to fill the jar starting with sand, then large stones, then the pebbles and it all doesn’t fit and he’s only successful when he begins first with the largest stones and progresses to the grains of sand? In a way, that’s what I’ve been attempting to do the past two weeks with my life after the trail.

In this intermediate time when I’m still away from the hustle and bustle of D.C. but again have the comfort of a bed, good food, and no obligation to hike daily, I’m trying to set a foundation by focusing on what matters most and makes the rest possible: adequate sleep, cooking great, vegetable-filled food, reading, relaxing walks, and getting back into a type of exercise that isn’t 20 miles of hiking day after day. Then, once I’ve built that foundation, or in accordance with the analogy, fit the largest stones in, I’ll return to the smaller pieces and activities of life, the pebbles and grains of sand, that bring me joy— grabbing drinks with friends, heading to museums, etc.

More tactically, I also started the preliminary stages of my job search, interested in swiss-army knife/cross functional roles (think Chief of Staff or first business hire) at early stage startups between 5 and 25 people, so absolutely let me know if anything jumps to mind after reading that description! :)

This one isn’t on the A.T. but is near where I am in Maine!

Notable Low Points:

Incessant rain. This year much of the Northeast has been in a drought, honestly, as a thru-hiker, it was quite nice. As if realizing that our cohort might get off easy with good weather, for the better part of a week rain came down without reprieve. I was soaked. My shoes and socks were puddles. My sleeping bag somehow got drenched.
About a week and half out from finishing, I dropped my phone not once, not twice, but three times into the water. It become entirely dysfunctional and refused to work. The last week and a half of the trail I had no ability to take photos, reference anything online, listen to music or podcasts, text, or call and relied entirely on my GPS Satellite messenger which once a day sent Henry a note that I was still alive. This was unexpected and threw a wrench in some of how I envisioned the last section of my trail. That being said, post-trail I waited nearly a week to get a phone again— relishing the freedom of having no connectivity and hopefully breaking, at least temporarily, some of the dependence that I think many of us have.
Five days after I summitted I went on my first run, eager to get back into my workout routine pre-trail. One mile into the run, on my right side everything from my knee down went numb. It was wildly unsuccessful and my knee/feet pain have made running a no-go. Alas, swimming and biking for the next month or so it is!

Notable High Points:

This is likely obvious, but finishing the damn thing is a huge highlight.
We brought mini blueberry pies to eat at the summit as one does
I also ended the last stretch with a group of hikers that I really appreciated and had been hiking on and off with since North Carolina, this made the end of the trail all the better.
The 100 miles left sign!
Putting aside the meaning of the end of the trail, hiking up Katahdin was a beautiful hike with panoramic views of seemingly endless lakes and ponds.
And, likewise, the 100-mile wilderness as a standalone stretch of trail was gorgeous with it’s endless beaches and colorful mushrooms.
Finally, off trail it’s been incredible to return to some of the things that I’ve missed so much— cooking, biking, reading, being with Henry, calling friends, and, bizarrely, having access to my laptop once more.

Something that I’ve been thinking about:

One of the last days on trail, the trio of hikers I finished with (Neo, Prof, and Gumby) and I were mulling over a question that I’d had many a time on my hike: what predicts whether someone will finish? If between one out of every four or five people who attempt the trail make it to Katahdin, what do they have/do that the others don’t?

Of course, some of it is luck. Pure luck that you won’t get injured or sick and need to leave the trail. But for most, it’s not an issue of physical capacity. I watched as strong hikers that I anticipated having no issue finishing left the trail and the numbers waned.

We decided on two ultimate variables. The first was something that my first 500 mile section of the A.T. imparted on me— it’s a particular brand of positivity, specifically being able to see discomfort as finite. The rain will end. Never in the history of the universe has it rained forever. The day of hiking will end. It only takes one step after another. The feeling of boredom or exhaustion or frustration with the trail will also pass. The heat wave that is robbing you of energy and making you lightheaded, will end and it will be cooler. Your shoes will dry. Your hands will warm up.

There’s a sense of both accepting that the current moment may indeed be wildly uncomfortable, but also that it is just that, a moment. One that will elapse.

The second, related variable was the ability to see the thru-hike as a hike only from one town to the next. Seen as a whole, hiking the entirety of the Appalachian Trail is insane and never-ending. Looking at Google Maps when I was a month in and had only made it to early Virginia with the expanse of the East Coast in front of me was defeating. So instead, I focused on the current stretch of hiking— from Damascus, VA to Pearisburg, VA— taking bites of the trail to digest at any given moment.

Sometimes I’d zoom out and focus on hiking the state in question: I’m hiking New Jersey, I’d think and be motivated by this degree of zooming out. Other times, the stretch was from my campsite to where I was stopping to eat lunch or the next road crossing three miles ahead on a day when my energy levels were low.

I began to call this the Minimum Motivating Stretch, the stretch of trail that I was capable of actually internalizing at any given time without the hulking length of the A.T. becoming paralyzing.

And so from town to town I hiked, state to state, and then through all of these micro-increments, avoiding being overwhelmed by the insanity of the thru-hike, I stood at the top of Katahdin.

This Minimum Motivating Stretch, while quite literal on trail, extends beyond the AT to any lofty goal. In previous roles, overwhelmed by annual goals, I’d frequently break it down to what I needed to accomplish that week or quarter and then, with tunnel vision silencing the end objective, work on accomplishing the present interval.

Currently, I’m attempting to apply the micro-goal setting skillset of the trail in the early innings of my job search, an at times overwhelming undertaking on it’s own, focusing only on what I need to do today and purposefully ignoring the bigger picture.

The trail now behind me, I’ve realized that often arriving at the summit of the mountain requires focusing narrowly only on the stretch of trail visible ahead.

---

As usual, I’ve included additional photos below— you may need to open the newsletter up in your browser to see all of them.

Finally, thank you for being my audience on the trail and for following the last 5 months. Your replies and even just knowing that somewhere out there you’re reading and interested, have added an additional dimension of support to my hike and helped make it possible.

Best,

Tierney // trailname: BeastMode