"You Take What the Trail Has to Offer"

Six years ago right now he would have been gone, two months already into his 5-month walk from Georgia to Maine, more than 2,000 miles on the ridge of the Appalachian Mountains. Only about 30% of hikers who attempt to walk the entire Appalachian Trail (the longest footpath in the United States and a designated National Scenic Trail) actually succeed each year, with many of those who don't make it stopping during the first 75 miles, still in the state of Georgia, not far from the trail's start at Springer Mountain near Amicalola Falls.

He carried a 40-pound backpack, camped in a tiny tent, ate freeze-dried food that his wife mailed to him "General Delivery" at various post offices just off the trail along the way, which he cooked on a miniscule fire in a stove no bigger than a box of cigarettes.

He is my next-door neighbor, and until last week, I hadn't really heard his story. I had asked about it, of course, but really not that much. Not enough. I've never seen the pictures, or sat and talked at length with him about it.

Yet I was planning our final Open Garden for the season, since the heat in my yard has already made it unbearable to be out there in the garden for long at the time of the day that we've been gathering with friends and neighbors to put children's hands in the dirt and teach them how to plant potatoes, and identify chickweed, and appreciate the tangy sharpness of French sorrel.

And I got to thinking, "Earth Skills," those basic skills we as humans need to survive in the wild and the world. There's been a marked drop-off in earth skills in today's generation of children, since many of their parents are either not passing down these skills or never learned them themselves. As a society, we have gotten used to segmented labor, or the need to hire a specialist for the kinds of things that everyone used to know. How to change a flat tire or cook or do simple repairs.

So I asked my neighbor, Alan, if he would do a "Survival Skills on the Appalachian Trail" demonstration for the final Open Garden, and he did. The crowd of us gathered on my front lawn this time as Alan and his wife, Fran (who had served as the critical at-home support person and had flown in to join him on various legs of the trip) showed the tent, explained how to purify water, talked about trail safety and even cooked freeze-dried lasagna right there on my lawn and offered it to everyone to sample. The kids tried on the pack and played in the tent and listened spellbound as Alan waxed poetic about how it feels to be out there alone, the wind washing over your tent like waves, the sound of nocturnal animals alive and vibrant in the night, the camaraderie of those you meet on the journey, the peace, the beauty, the joy.

Alan intended to hike 17 miles a day. He prepared spreadsheets that outlined his trip and had it all worked out--until he got there, and learned that it just doesn't work that way. That steep inclines, one after another after another, or 8 degree nights, or wet gear or overnight stays in a nearby trail town while waiting for Fran's next package of provisions throw the best laid plans askew. And so Alan looked at us and said the simple words that embody the biggest lesson he learned:

You take what the trail has to offer.

Whether it's murky water. Or rainy nights in lean-tos shoulder-shoulder with 30 other very smelly hikers and mice that run over you at night. Or a black bear mama protecting her cubs or copperhead snakes or Lyme-Disease-carrying ticks. Eventually you get there, if you are one of the perseverant and perhaps lucky, through 14 states, to Mount Katahdin 281 miles into Maine.

And so as one little girl insightfully asked Alan, "You probably pass lots of creeks and rivers while hiking. Isn't that water dirty? What do you drink?" I thought of how much that question is reflective of the times in which these children live, that unfortunately it is not natural for them to imagine a place where water is pure and clean, not even up there, in the middle of the forest, in the middle of nowhere. And it occurred to me how important it is for these children to learn Earth Skills, to know that a simple, hand-held water purifier can make any water potable.

Earth Skills. Growing your own food. Making fire. Cooking. Living lightly on the land, independently. And knowing when to share skills and resources (as I'm now thinking of doing with more talented folks as part of a developing concept for Open Garden). And when to actually knock on your neighbor's door and say, "I know it's been 6 years since you came home with that full white beard. But I have some questions for you. And I'd like to learn."