Appalachian Trail Map, in the “original” PDF: a trail guide book.
I’m hitting the Appalachian Trail in Harriman State Park today, with my two rescue dogs, Charlie and Wolf. I’m particularly drawn to the AT today, because I’d spoken with my Dad yesterday. That’s a page from his Appalachian Trail guidebook, the one he used when he hiked the AT from end to end in the 1950s.
I was thinking about Dad today, especially, as I planned my hike off the Trail Conference maps, trying to remember which part of the trail skirts a lake before ducking into deep woods, following the old stone steps and crisscrossing its many streams and waterfalls. Early in the morning when the light slants sideways through the trees and it’s still cool enough for the old dogs to wade whe the stream gets low and frisky, the light hits them just so, and they sparkle.
Trail marker — the old white blaze — on Appalachian Trail in Harriman State Park.
And I was thinking about him because I think of them, my parents, every time I am in the woods and following a trail. Because the question always comes up: What is the point of the hike, and why am I here?
When we were kids — all seven of us — our parents took us hiking in state parks and preserves nearly every weekend. Cultivated in us from before my earliest memory, our love of hiking is a gift, because I don’t know too many adults who have come to hiking on their own, late in life. And it is a gift, the way the skill to play a musical instrument is a gift, because when you most need the ability to calm yourself or be alone, or reflect, or simply be with your family or your dogs in a way you know they will appreciate, you have this: you like to hike, you know where to go, and for the most part, it’s free. It’s yours, forever. It’s priceless. (This year I gave him an orchid.)
The picture above shows the Appalachian Trail section in New England. It is part of a set of guides to the famous trail that runs from Maine to Georgia. I wish I had the section from Harriman State Park — I’m going to give it a look, and try to find it.
Last year he gave the book to me. The cover is gone, but it’s still a little work of art, especially the topos that unfold and unfold, that are barely clinging to the spine.
