My time being home has been a whirlwind. I definitely think it was the right decision to get off trail and come home for a little bit. My anxiety was skyrocketing while I was out there and it allowed me time to get that under control and let my foot heal. Being home in such a politically tumultuous time has been bitter sweet. Having my support community here to grieve, process, and feel all the emotions has brought an element of peace, but I can’t help but think about all the people trying to navigate similar emotions and process all the news happening while on trail.
I came off trail because Mouse and I slowed down to less than a mile an hour, my foot was in so much pain after the rock scramble on Chairback. For the first week, maybe week and a half I was home the pain only got worse. I saw my orthopedist the day I got back and they put me in a boot and ordered a CT after my X-rays were inconclusive. My CT came back and at my follow up we determined that the bone was not broken but displaced because of the force I landed off the rock with. 2 more weeks in a boot and physical therapy, plus new insoles for my shoes was the solution. It seems to be doing the trick.
As my foot healed I started itching for the woods again. Mouse and I began to make plans to head back out, skip the whites, and keep hiking, hopefully finding the bubble that we left. We booked plane tickets and started to get excited again.
Then I got COVID, again. This will be my third time having COVID and I have no idea where I was exposed. I’ve had all my shots, try to stay cautious when out and about, and do what I can to stay healthy. The first two times I managed just fine. Only mild symptoms, I could function, and with only a short amount of recovery time my lungs were back to normal. This time has been different. I have been knocked down, hard. The first few days I didn’t leave bed unless I had to. Like clockwork, as I physically felt like I was starting to turn the corner to be on the mend I felt it moving into my chest. I have to sleep practically sitting up or I cough/choke on my cough all night long. Breathing on its own feels taxing. I have been trying to walk around my neighborhood when I can get out for fresh air and to work my lungs. I come back from not even a quarter of a mile exhausted.
I won’t lie, I’m worried about what this means for my hike. Mouse and my flight leaves after my quarantine and isolation periods end, so in that element I’m on track to get back on trail. I have no idea how my body will perform when I’m out there. So my next week looks like more doctors appointments and doing everything I can to get better.
It’s hard. I’ve had experiences like this before where it felt like thing after thing after thing kept popping up until I listened and did what was healthiest for me and stepped away. I’m trying to discern if that is what is happening now or if this is a “push through and it’ll be something glorious” moment. Either way, it’s hard to imagine walking away from something I’ve dreamed of and planned for so long. Talking with Mouse, she has had similar experiences and offered some good advice.
I always knew the trail would be more of a mental challenge than a physical one. I spent years preparing for that. I’m definitely a different version of myself compared to the Dragonfly who first found the trail in 2018, but the trail still holds near and dear to my heart. I’ve missed my husband, my dogs, and my community, but I’ve also found pieces of me that were hiding for so long while I was out there. I’ve learned it’s okay to feel emotions as they come, even if that means walking up a mountain sobbing out of nowhere and later realizing you are not alone in those moments and that others are feeling them too.
My friendship with Mouse has been one of the greatest blessings on the trail so far and I am excited to hike another section with her.
The trail this year is a different culture than I expected. Especially for a southbound hike. The bubble I left had 18 people in it, and was growing every day. There was so much comraderie at the shelter for those that were in their bubble, but also incredible amounts of isolation for those who were not. I will be interested to see if I catch this bubble again how it has aged throughout southern Maine and the whites. It will definitely be nice to see some familiar faces and see how everyone is doing. I’m curious to see if I’ll still be an outsider, especially after skipping a section, or if it is a more welcoming group now that the newness has faded.
Summit day was brutal. It was hard and discouraging and overwhelming but every bit just as beautiful and rewarding. It was foggy all day and we were trying to beat the rain. After summiting and what felt like 6 false summits we headed back down Abol Trail instead of Hunt because we thought the rocks would be safer when the rain started. About a mile down the boulder field it started raining. Well sleeting. I sent Allen a message at the summit joking he should bring pizza, but the man wins husband of the year award because he came back into the park with pizza, snacks, and seat warmers in the car.
Day 2: Tribute to the skeeters.
These mosquitoes are a different breed. They bit me through my gaiters, pants, and socks. Not to mention my hat. There’s no getting away from them.
You know, it’s funny how perception can mislead you. Looking at Katahdin from this bridge it feels so far away. But we were just there 2 days ago climbing it.
Things I’ve learned so far: living in the woods is freeing. Each day we are becoming more and more unapologetically be ourselves. Whatever emotion, bodily function, song in the head, or view that may be. Want to go swimming? Great. The first few days have been full of solitude. We have been leapfrogging with the other SOBOs and catching up at the end of the day. It has also means campsites to ourselves, lake swims with views of Katahdin to ourselves, mountain peaks to our selves, and lots of dinner for the mosquitoes. Day three the aches and pains faded into normal walking with the exception of the morning ouchies, and getting up after long breaks, but overall, it is becoming routine.
I would say I’m adjusting to life in the woods well. I am laughing and breathing. Taking my time and embracing the journey and I’m loving every beautiful, painful, breathtaking moment of it. Except maybe the mosquitos.
Did I ever mention the mosquitos are bad?
When I was out last month with Wildcat he mentioned that a lot of my ministry at the beginning would be pack adjustments and blister care. Man was he right. Mountain Goat’s pack broke slowly over the course of a couple of days and we adjusted to make it wearable each time. Dave, a SOBO and I have been leapfrogging with was really struggling with blisters and thought he’d only make it to the next shelter at our lunch break but about dinner time he passed us trying to crank out another 4 miles saying his feet felt great.
It’s wet. Over 1/2 of the days out here so far it’s rained and we have been tenting because it’s the only way to really get a break from the mosquitoes. After multiple nights of rain in a row all our gear is wet. I don’t know that my shoes have ever fully dried since starting.
Hummingbird has been struggling a bit on this hike. Part of me feels guilty for asking her to come do something that has made her hate the thing she loves, but I also remember how I felt on miserable hikes. A couple days after I got home I was ready to go out again. I hope the same for her.
We swam and soaked our joints as much as we could but after 5 days I’m already ready for a shower.
Mountain Goat got off the trail on Saturday. It was predicted that the high was 38 and raining all day and only getting worse so we shuttled into Monson for the night which ended up being one of the best decisions.
My first day on the trail on my own was hard. I was now behind the bubble I had been a part of, didn’t have my people to talk to, missed Allen and the dogs, and fell a couple of times because the rocks were so slick from all the rain. But I kept going. I kept reminding myself I’m walking home.
It was by far one of the hardest days on trail so far. I would just burst into tears climbing up the mountain with no idea where it came from. I missed hiking with people and talking with people. Being with others made the misery less miserable.
After a late start, I still made it 14 miles over White Cap Mountain but I was exhausted. When I got to camp there was a scout group of some sort already there. They called themselves the monkey gang. They had taken up most of the campsite so I found the closest to flat thing I could and pitched my tent and went to bed without eating dinner. I was so over the day.
The next morning I found out that Mouse and 77 were at the same campsite, They had just already been asleep by the time I rolled into camp. It was much needed to see familiar faces. I hiked with them for most of the day. 77 realized he didn’t have enough medical supplies to make it to Monson so he got off at the last road to Monson and Mouse and I kept going.
We were miserable. But our headspace was getting better. On the way up Chairback Mountain we were able to find some signal to call our husbands. The rest of the day we commiserated, cried, swore to the mountains, together. It was so cathartic to have someone else experiencing the same homesickness and rough days when it felt like everyone else was laughing and having the best time. As much as I was ministering to Mouse by having someone to sit in the discomfort with, I think she was ministering to me just as much.
Coming up the rockslide on Chairback my foot slipped and something popped. I brushed it off as nothing happened. But as I got to the shelter and the next day the pain kept getting worse. Mouse and I were trying to do a 15 that day so we could get into town in two days. What should have been moments of 20-30 minute mile terrain took us sometimes more than an hour to go one mile. That’s when we knew something was really wrong.
We called when we had signal so see about the closest shuttle point because I knew I probably should not push my foot the last 25 miles into town. Got off trail and came into town where Mountain Goat (a paramedic) looked at it and decided it wouldn’t be something I could rest here and would really need to be looked at by my specialist. So I flew home to go see my specialist and determine what the next steps are.
Flying home I felt lots of mixed emotions. I’m heartbroken flying away from the mountains I’ve dreamed of hiking for so long. It didn’t hit me till I was actually on the plane, either. I think while I was at the hostel it wasn’t fully real yet. While I’m so excited to see Allen and the dogs I feel like I’m leaving a piece of myself behind. And I don’t know for how long. My hope is to keep hiking but we will see what the specialist says.
After seeing the specialist we are concerned about a mid foot fracture, so I am awaiting CT results to make a better informed decision.
Resupply boxes got packed. I spent the week at the Holston Conference’s annual conference. After the annual conference, we started the drive to Maine. Allen and I spent a day or so with his uncles just outside of DC, made it to Connecticut the next day, and Maine the day after that.
Saturday night we picked up Kaitlyn and Elly from the airport and Sunday we spent in Brownville Junction with longtime AT chaplaincy partner and friend Stephen Dean. We spent the time doing last minute trail preparations, getting our hang tags and delivering resupply boxes. Monday we left the AirBnB at 4:30 a.m. to get into Baxter when they opened to get the best window of weather to summit.
We got to the gate as the first car, which was great for trying to get to one of the campsites that will be released that morning.
On Monday, June 13, I summited Mt. Katahdin. It was killer, but so worth it.
It almost doesn’t feel real that my hike is just a few months away. It feels too good to be true, like I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. I haven’t trained like I should, because, well, part of me is scared I will have this hike taken out from under me just like the last. There is no one to blame for it, it is just the way COVID worked. Even still, I find myself continuing to grieve it. I find myself wanting to drive to Amicolola and register as a section hiker and hike a section, so I get a hang tag. The day my patches came in I sewed them to my pack because it was one step closer than I was before. It would be so easy for me to keep pushing things aside and say I don’t need to do it because I won’t get there. . . but I will. This hike will happen, I will make it happen. I find myself needing to get excited about it again, needing to spend some time in the woods.
I go to the woods, when I am there, everything feels right. Like I never missed a moment. I feel just as at peace out there now as I did when I fist began backpacking. It took me a while to get back there, but now that I am, I am so glad that I am home.
My preparation has taken time to get in the swing. Trying to work full time, plan a thru-hike, complete a rigorous master’s program, and taking care of a reactive dog; it has all taught me so much about myself. In this season I had to learn to prioritize self-care and my mental health which meant a job change at a not ideal time, leaving students that I love to have more time to train and prepare. My partner, Allen, has been fantastic. He is my biggest cheerleader. He encourages me to keep working towards the trail and when I am discouraged, he reminds me of this being my dream. He has worked hard to come up with ways to dehydrate some of my favorite meals we make at home and even found a way for me to see the dogs and give them treats whenever I feel far from them.
Life has forced my original plans to change a bit. I think the timing is a good thing now, it encouraged the job change and slowed me down enough to really focus on my mental health and preparation for the trail. I have been going through Zach Davis’ Appalachian Trials again, but this time slower, trying to really digest it and prepare the best I could. I take my recertification course for my wilderness first responder this weekend, and now that I work nights I get to go to the gym in the mornings, plan logistics, hike more, and dehydrate meals during the day while I work with Ivy.
All in all, I will make it to the trail. It will be just as much of a journey to get there, it just feels more like a fight, but the fight is with myself. I am excited to be preparing for this journey and to see how it unfolds. In three short months I hit the trail.
I don’t even know where to begin. It has been a whirlwind of a year and I don’t know that I ever thought we’d make it this far. I don’t feel like the best person to be writing this letter because I don’t know what you’ll experience out there. I don’t know what to tell you to keep you pushing through on the days where it feels like all you want to do is give up. I don’t really have tips and tricks I can pass on from my journey. This feels a little out of place. I think that could be said about a whole lot of 2020, but I do know one thing. It’s that the Lord will use you in incredible ways this season. A thru-hike is not just a physical feat. It’s emotional, mental, and spiritual as well. I know without a doubt in my mind this season will embrace all of that. As I was preparing for my journey this time last year, I was continuously reminded of the concept of steadiness, particularly visualized with this Chinese symbol for it. I shared a bit about this concept when I first wrote about my journey as a chaplain, I feel it is only appropriate to share it again. In the context of the trail.
Stephen Simpson in his book, “The Leader Who is Hardly Known” introduces the concept of steadiness with the Story of the Runaway Horse. It went like this, there once was a farmer whose horse ran away. All of those around him bemoaned the loss, but the farmer remained steady, even if the absence of the horse meant harder work for him. A week later, the horse returned, bringing four wild horses with him. All those around him rejoiced at the farmer’s good fortune, but the farmer kept an even keel, even if the horses, when broken, would bring him a welcome income. Then one day, while his son was breaking one of the new horses, the horse bucked, and the son fell off and broke his leg. All those around him expressed sorrow at the son’s pain and the farmer’s loss of a worker, but the farmer accepted the accident as the natural course of things. The very next day, the army came through the farmer’s village, taking all young men off to war. The farmer’s son was excused, because he had a broken leg. All the people said that the farmer was very lucky to keep his son, but the farmer’s heart remained calm throughout. While all those around the farmer moved from extreme happiness to extreme sadness and back again, the farmer knew that life was too complex to be explained by any single event. His goal was to keep a light heart, regardless of the events beyond his control.
I envision the trail being a little bit like that. Some days are filled with blisters, rain, cold, bugs, you name it. Others are filled with the joys of sunny days, trail magic, fresh blueberries, connections built with the trail community as well as the UMC community that has been so instrumental in a Chaplain’s journey. That’s where the steadiness will come in. The Appalachian Trail is a roller coaster of miles, emotions, and experiences and it is our job as chaplains to take that yoke upon us and walk in humility.
If there is anything I can say, it’s this: You are not alone. Your journey as a chaplain is more than just those 2,193 miles that you will walk. It is a journey filled with community. A journey chalked full of holy moments. Some days it hits more than others just how much I wanted to be out there. I was anxiously anticipating my start date as I imagine you are. But I know you are going to carry the torch well and I promise to do everything I can on this end to make sure the way is cleared for you, but that won’t make it easy, it is still your journey. I want you to live into it, Bone Spur. Press into every second of your adventure, press into how it stretches you and helps you find your authentic selfhood. Don’t take it for granted. I wish I didn’t. I want to watch you crush those miles. I want to hear about all of your adventures.
Because I never left, I struggle with some of the specifics to encourage you with. I found myself rereading Blueberry’s letter to Chappy Jack from March 2, 2019 , and I think these words could serve your hike as well.
“Take my words with a grain of salt, but here’s what I’d like to impart:
Embrace the suck—there is plenty of it on the AT, from cold rain to oppressive heat and feet that look and feel like they went through a meat grinder. You’ll miss this dearly when you enter the bland comfort of normal life again. Laughter is the best medicine.
You are about to walk through the closest thing to Eden I’ve ever known. The Lord will come walk alongside you in the cool of the afternoon if you let Him. Don’t be afraid to walk with just the Lord for a few days. You have to be fed to feed others.
Take Solomon’s wisdom in Ecclesiastes seriously—there is a time for everything; a time to share faith and time to simply live honestly in front of other hikers, a time to give prayer and time to receive it, a time to hike and a time to stay put.
Never pass up a good meal—always pack out the leftovers (if there are any).
Don’t be afraid to ask for help, whether it’s hanging your bear bag at mile 1500 or a ride to town and a place to stay with a random stranger.
Pick all the blueberries in New England. Schedule at least 90 minutes per day for this.
Give yourself grace to adapt to life on the trail. Each section holds new challenges.
There’s no shame in riding out a storm in the Motel 6 or hiking a 3 mile day just because you can.
Become best friends with Miss Janet; she’s a true AT gem.
Remember SLRTT in every town: Shower, Laundry, Resupply, Trash, TP and you’re golden.
Use the long days of grinding out miles to incessantly intercede for other hikers.”
All of that to say, Bone Spur, we are excited you are the 2021 Appalachian Trail Chaplain. You are making your Heavenly Father proud. Happy trails!
These last few months have changed so many of our worlds so quickly. When I left the call that said our hikes would be canceled, my heart broke. I wanted to crumble, I wanted to fall apart. So much of what I have lived for, so much of what I felt was right, what I felt I was called to just crumbled in front of my eyes. Many of us could choose to be bitter. I wanted to be for a very long time, and I still do every once and a while. Everything I had planned and lined up for after school was all on hold. The dream job that I had, up in the air, my plans for after school, up in the air. Everything felt just out of reach. It does not sound like much, one job, you can always find another one. But it hurt – like I lost a piece of myself that day. This was so much more than a job, so much more than a thru-hike. I found the chaplaincy the beginning of my sophomore year of undergrad, I applied 2 years before I knew it would even be remotely possible. I invested my life in the Appalachian Trail, the community it creates, and the people it connected. I was going to be a Trail Chaplain, I had never felt more fulfilled in a calling than I did the day I read the job description and tears streamed down my face onto my keyboard because I had not heard anything that fit me more. I longed for the day where I would follow those white blazes all the way from Maine to Georgia. I longed for the day that I truly stepped into my trail name, Dragonfly, and lived out her characteristics. Just as those tears flowed down on my keyboard when I read that job description, they flow again there once more, this time tears of sadness and grief, but my God is still here. He is just as present and steady as he was the day I truly found the trail. As I think about this unexpected new season of life, I ponder upon some metaphors I have in my life right now, I once again was drawn to a blaze, not a white one this time, but a blue one.
In the Appalachian Trail Community, a blue blaze is a spur trail branching off of the Appalachian Trail. Blue blazed trails could lead to a vista, water source, shelter or campground, or some unusual natural feature. Today, this blue blaze marks a trail to a water source.
The metaphor is that of a trail intersection of a blue blazed trail. On the tree you see two blazes, one blue, one white. The blaze indicates the incoming trail, a blue blazed side trail that leads you the winding scenic way around to a water source you did not intend to stop at. This side trail you found yourself upon was not one you wanted to be on, it was further from the trail than you wanted to travel, nor was it the most reliable of water sources. Along the this unexpected trail you see a type of beauty you have never seen before. Stopping for water was necessary for your health, the climb before had been more intense than you imagined, and you have another big climb ahead. This time on the blue blaze trail was you being a steward of your resources, thinking ahead, looking out for yourself, and for those around you. It was the smart choice even though it was not an easy choice to make.
This metaphor resonates with where I am at personally right now. The Appalachian Trail Conservancy has requested hikers postpone all thru-hikes, removed their ridge runners, entire states have shut down shelters or sections, and the chaplaincy has opted to cancel the hikes for 2020 chaplains; a crossroads that was definitely not anticipated a few short months ago. The blue blaze trail appeared suddenly; I had my plans written out meticulously, I knew the direction inside and out, graduate, spend a few months in the community I call home, and then head out to finish up last minute details and start the trail. Just as one might plan their day on a trail and chose to skip a mediocre water source because there was another more reliable source closer to the trail up ahead, I did not put my focus on this pandemic, or even the possibility of it eliminating the effectiveness of a hike as a trail chaplain. As much as I did not want to stop at this water source, I had to, I was out of water and had to take the less ideal trail to quench that need. The safety and health that stopping for water brings was something I needed more than I needed to hike.
In the need for water I am learning some things about myself, I am seeing new things. I am learning what it means to stop and rest, to just be, what it means to sit faithfully at the Lord’s feet waiting for direction. I am learning that it is okay to feel and grieve the things you once had. This new water source has taught me to be a steward of my resources, my energy and time, but also the trail. I fought long and hard about what this would mean for my hike even before the final decision was made. Hikers are still out there, and I wanted to be there with them; but the reality is that it is not safe to be out there right now. The trail also needs to heal just as my heart does.
Sometimes, being a steward of something, taking care of those things that are entrusted to you, something so special, means stepping back. Without ridge runners there are few people to enforce trail etiquette and regulations. Being a steward of the trail meant I had to intentionally decide I would not add to the impact and that I would follow the Appalachian Trail Conservancy’s recommendations for thru-hikers. It was a heartbreaking decision when I came upon that crossroads but adventuring into the unknown of the blue blazed trail was what was needed, even if I did not know it at first.
I am learning that along this blue blaze sits the character of steadiness. In this journey to becoming my most authentic self, I am learning that as we believe what the word has taught, the gold, the value of our authentic selves is covered layer upon layer with cement until we are completely encased. Each time we rediscover a part of our authentic selfhood, each time we walk faithfully into an unknown season the Lord is calling us to, we chip away pieces of that cement. As the cement breaks away we begin to see imperfections in the gold, remnants of the cement that entangled us. Those blemishes need to be counteracted with steadiness, they need to be buffed with the knowledge that this season is not bigger than we are, that it will not swallow us whole, that we will return; but more importantly that none of it is bigger than the God we serve.
The Lord is my Shephard. I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his namesake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table for me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord, Forever.
These words from the 23rd psalm have always been dear to me, the scripture I cling to time and time again, especially when I need comfort. But this time, they were more than comforting, they were steadying.
Stephen Simpson in his book, “The Leader Who is Hardly Known” defines the concept of steadiness with the story of the runaway horse. There once was a farmer whose horse ran away. All of those around him bemoaned the loss, but the farmer remained steady, even if the absence of the horse meant harder work for him. A week later, the horse returned, bringing four wild horses with him. All those around him rejoiced at the farmer’s good fortune, but the farmer kept an even keel, even if the horses, when broken, would bring him a welcome income. Then one day, while his son was breaking one of the new horses, the horse bucked, and the son fell off and broke his leg. All those around him expressed sorrow at the son’s pain and the farmer’s loss of a worker, but the farmer accepted the accident as the natural course of things. The very next day, the army came through the farmer’s village, taking all young men off to war. The farmer’s son was excused, because he had a broken leg. All the people said that the farmer was very lucky to keep his son, but the farmer’s heart remained calm throughout. While all those around the farmer moved from extreme happiness to extreme sadness and back again, the farmer knew that life was too complex to be explained by any single event. His goal was to keep a light heart, regardless of the events beyond his control.
The words of the Psalm bring me back to this state of steadiness. Whatever the world is throwing at me, joy or trial, I remember that the Lord is my source of steadiness! He is always bringing me to those green pastures, the quiet streams, he restores my soul time and time again. Through this pandemic I am challenged to maintain that level headspace, that steadiness, to endure and press on along the blue blazed trail and to find its hidden beauty.
The blue blazed trail is long and winding. Along its path beauty is found; people are falling in love with writing letters to each other, they are reading books, playing games with their families, going outside, the church is reaching wider than before even without gathering physically. Huge things are happening following this little blue blaze, things that I had never thought would happen. It has shifted my perspective enough to remind me who I am through all of this, to remind me not just of the value of steadiness, but how steady and faithful the Lords is, even when everything you know feels like it was flipped on its head.
At some point the blue blaze trail will end and I will be reunited with the beloved white blaze once again, a reunion even sweeter than the initial meeting. The length of the journey back is still unknown, but what I do know is however unexpected this trail junction has been, there is a symphony I was missing. I need to spend my life looking for big magic in the mundane, big love in the small moments, steadiness when life feels like you are walking on a suspension bridge. To remain steady and watch that cement chip off, piece by piece until I rediscover my most authentic self – rediscovering Dragonfly. I challenge you to do the same, rediscover yourself along your blue blazed trail. Look for your inner knower, rediscover the steadiness The Lord brings, because you too will return to your beloved white blaze.
Psalm 136: 1-3 “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good. His love endures forever. Give thanks to the God of gods. His love endures forever. Give thanks to the Lord of Lord’s. His love endures forever.”
I have been safely home for about two weeks now. I’ve mostly relaxed and fulfilled a promise to myself that I would do the CPT (Couch Potato Trail), which has led to a lot of time reflecting back on my AT thru hike.
I know that I would not have completed the trail if it had not been for so many people that supported my efforts through help, encouragement, and especially prayer. I also know that God answered those prayers!
I am thankful for literally hundreds of you that faithfully prayed for me and the Chaplaincy. Most of you, I have not personally met, but one day hope to. Many reported that their church, Sunday School class, or prayer group also prayed for me.
I’m thankful that my wife Marty, went from calling me “crazy’ for wanting to do the trail to being my biggest supporter! Thanks to all of my family and friends for your support and encouragement.
Thanks to the Holston Conference of the United Methodist Church for trusting me to carry out the mission of this unique ministry and thanks to the Chaplaincy Board members that gave me total support.
Thank You to all the friends of the Chaplaincy that fed me, let me stay in their homes, gave me transportation, took me to the ER, and even washed my clothes or allowed me to wash my clothes.
Thank you to all the Trail Angels along the way. Not many of you will be reading this, but my thanks to you will be to return trail magic in the years to come.
By the way, I hear that Board Members have conducted interviews for the 2020 AT Chaplain. I can’t wait to hear who they have chosen!!
After finally completing this incredible journey I have been pondering whether the cost of the journey was worth the result.
The cost includes the financial cost, which I was very fortunate to have the Holston Conference of the United Methodist Church to fund most of the journey. The biggest cost to me was being away from family and friends. There are so many people I want to see, asap. The cost also includes weight loss (which is a positive). However, I have had many blisters on the tops of my toes resulting in the loss of 4 toenails, and too many cuts, scrapes, and bruises to count. I developed trigger finger in 2 fingers. I had bruised ribs from one of my falls, which have totally healed. I have swelling between the lower knuckle and the little finger of my left hand. I also developed a hernia. The final cost was missing out on some prime fishin’.
Back to being worth the cost. ABSOLUTELY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
IT IS FINISHED
John 19: 28-30
Later, knowing that all was now completed, and so that the scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, “I am thirsty”. A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus lips. When he had received the drink Jesus said, “IT IS FINISHED.”
Please note that in NO WAY am I inferring that the cost of my journey compares to the pain, suffering, and humiliation that Jesus endured for us! Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing can compare to the depth of his love for us in order to bring us into his heavenly kingdom!
Philippians 4:19 And my God will meet all your needs according to his riches in glory.
Hikers on the AT either use 2 hiking (trekking) poles (sticks), one hiking pole, or none at all. I use two. They are used to prevent falls and to take pressure off of your knees.
Other hikers can hear me as I go down the trail because I pound my sticks into the ground. The result of this pounding is the development of trigger finger on two fingers, and the need for FOUR sets of sticks.
Some hikers say, “the trail always provides.” I agree with Philippians, God meets all my needs.
My first set of sticks broke as my son D.J.was finishing up spending 10 days on the trail with me. He gave his sticks to me. After a while, I broke one of those. The day after it was broken, I found a set in a Hiker box. Businesses along the trail set up boxes in their business that hikers leave for other hikers. I soon wore these sticks out, too. A Hiker friend that was leaving the trail to attend his son’s wedding gave me his sticks because he wanted to buy new ones. As he handed me his two sticks, another hiker friend asked if he could have the remaining good stick that I was about to place in a Hiker box.
In talking of prayer with another hiker, I explained that we do not have a candy store God. However, God does like us to make our request for our needs, and sometimes he surprises us with things beyond our needs. He loves us more than we can understand!
Isaiah 40:26: Lift your eyes and look to the heavens: Who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one and calls them each by name. Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.
With less than 500 miles to go in this incredible journey, I still at times can’t believe that I have this opportunity to accomplish this dream. I continue to find the trail quite difficult at times, however, I also can’t believe how beautiful the trail is. Every day I see a vista, stream, forest setting, or even a tiny bug, butterfly, animal, or insect that is overwhelmingly beautiful.
Usually at night, I am either in a shelter or my tent and the stars are blocked by the trees of the forest. Two nights ago, I was in my tent and had a clear view of the cloudless night. Of course, there was no artificial light for miles and the stars were breathtaking. I even got to see a falling star!
Heavenly Father, I praise you as the Creator of all things! You are an awesome God!