I’d be lying if I said this was my first time staring at my laptop screen, sitting in bed, trying to type out my thoughts about the Appalachian Trail and the experiences I had backpacking the trails. To be honest, this is probably my fifth or sixth attempt, but after numerous requests and some time on my hands, The Lumineers serenading my thoughts and shadowing the clicks on my keyboard, here goes nothing.

This is the first thing, the first experience in my life that I have actually had real trouble writing about. I find this mostly because it is one of the few experiences I can really relate and connect all of myself to. This trip through the Appalachian mountains, to be honest with you, captured all of me. Never in my life have I found myself so lost in the surroundings yet so belonging and understood in the nature of who I am. I apologize in advance if my thoughts seem extreme or perhaps lost or difficult to follow. As best as I can, however, I’ll try to explain where I found myself on the Appalachian trail outside of my physical location, amongst the spread of ever-growing deciduous oaks and native grasses.

I made the decision to go on this backpacking adventure sometime around December when I thought a nice long walk following my first semester was in order. Coming in as a freshman, over 400 miles from home, I was faced with a series of events and choices that, ultimately, left me with a significant amount of reflection upon who I was, who I wanted to be, and how I wanted to become this person. Maybe that sounds heavy or intense, but if we’re all being honest here, I think we’ve all had some moments or times in our lives a little like that.

Alas, the decision was made. Though initially I planned to throw myself into a month of backpacking, ultimately it seemed a much better decision to narrow it down to a few weeks. I had never been backpacking before, I had no equipment, and needless to say, no experience whatsoever.

After purchasing much of the equipment around March for my birthday, and officially finding a backpacking companion who had a serious amount of experience, I was ready to hit the trail in a few months.

Prior to the actual trip, though, my backpacking companion — Joe — suggested a weekend trip in the Georgia mountains to break in my new gear.

Thus, I loaded up my equipment and headed to Georgia.

Joe and some new friends from Young Harris College (most of which I came to discover were outdoor education majors) taught me how to properly load my pack and size it to my torso and shoulders. These students were incredibly generous, and super cool all around.

And then somehow, I found myself steadily following Joe into the mountains for the weekend.

Yall, I was so clueless.

Joe, I tried my best to act like I knew what I was doing or where I was going, but honestly, I think both of us know I had no place out there in the mountains, especially on my own.

I didn’t know how to cook the food, how to set up the tent, how to pitch a bear bag into the trees, build a fire, etc, etc.

Joe was insanely patient, and honestly did most if not all of the work this weekend, so Joe, if you’re reading this —

I am so grateful. Without your assistance, I’m not sure I could’ve survived the weekend.

After we were settled at the shelter, and I had a few mini-lessons in terms of basic survival and backpacking, I found myself sitting by a fire, surrounded by thru and section hikers.

Yall, these are some of the coolest people I have ever encountered in my entire life, and I loved it.

The stories they had to tell, of the miles they had come and the plans ahead and what brought them to spend half a year of their life just walking the trail, it was truly inspiring.

We stayed up until dark diving into our thoughts and aspirations, passing around dried fruit, nuts, and trail mix, until slowly, one by one, we began retiring to our tents.

Readers, and especially Joe, I have one more confession.

And I am so sorry for what I’m about to admit.

Earlier in the evening, Joe and I had already loaded all of our food and scented goods into the bear bag and probably spent a good 20 minutes and plenty of energy (well, he did, at least) getting this bag into the trees just right.

So come dark, once we were finally settled into the tent, I closed my eyes to sleep and then immediately recalled a serious mistake.

I had left a granola bar in my backpack sleeve just a few feet outside of the tent.

Joe had warned me about bears on an hourly basis. I knew leaving any kind of food out at night put us at serious risk of being invaded by bears or raccoons or some other creature I swore would come and find that sole granola bar I had left in my backpack.

Yall, I had one job.

“Do not leave any food in your backpack.”

I was faced with two options. One, close my eyes, go back to sleep, and pray all night that we aren’t attacked. Two, come clean about the granola bar, let Joe roast me about leaving food out, and then somehow figure out how to re-pitch this bear bag in the dark.

So, of course, I started praying for my life.

Any snap of a branch that night and my eyes were wide open, waiting for some kind of 10,000-pound bear to come in and eat us all.

Alas, come sunrise we were all still alive and I ate the damn granola bar for breakfast.

We backpacked out that morning, drove home, and I was back in Tuscaloosa in no time researching all of the survival skills I should’ve known by then.

Needless to say, I learned quick, and I never left another piece of food out during the trip come summer.

A few weeks later following my sister’s graduation, I drove out to Joe’s home in Georgia the afternoon before our trip began. Upon arrival, Joe’s family welcomed me in, and we sat down for an hour or so with a map, planning out every day of our trip.

Joe and I planned on anywhere from eight to twelve mile days, with a particular shelter on the trail in mind to camp at every night. Joe’s grandparents had a mountain house near the halfway point of our plan, so we decided to leave one of our cars in the lot where the trail opened to that halfway point. It was here we could leave food and clothes to re-stock, or drop off any extra weight we ended up not needing.

So, the trip began.

I could go on and on about every individual day, as every mile provided new views and challenges and thoughts, but if I’m being honest that’ll take pages to explain.

So instead, I’ll answer the most frequently asked questions.

For breakfast I usually had granola bars or trail mix, lunch was tortillas, peanut butter, or tuna. Come dinner, Joe provided a series of “Mountain House Meals” (not nearly as glamorous as they sound,) which we added boiling water to and let sit for five minutes or so until the meals were rehydrated. These meals were often pasta with sauce and vegetables or chicken.

Little Debbie oatmeal crème pies and kool-aid water flavorings were honestly my saving grace.

We got up every morning around seven, disassembled the tent and brought down the bear bag, gathered our packs, and hit the trail. While walking we’d talk or I’d put in my headphones and listen to music. We’d hike until lunch time when we usually found a nice place to sit and eat. After twenty minutes or so we’d be back on the trail for a few hours until we reached the shelter. We’d set up the tent, maybe nap, filter water from a nearby mountain stream into our water bottles, play some cards, make dinner, talk with the other backpackers that arrived at the shelter (often around a fire, and as the trip went on, often familiar faces) and a few hours after sundown we were honestly too tired to stay up late. We’d retire to our tent and talk, read or write, or check for reception to send our families a brief text or phone call.

The routine was relatively similar every day, but the cool thing was that the trail, the conversations, and the thoughts were always so different. The material belongings remained the same but the thoughts and conversations went deeper, fuller, more honest and real. Our possessions never changed, but the environment did.

No, I didn’t get bored. Yes, I got tired. We’d climb uphill for a few miles, reach dream-like views, and carry downhill for an hour or two. We’d walk through shady archways made from the canopies of trees or across tall grasses where an open meadow would break through.

I saw a little bit of everything, but I did not encounter a bear.

I was never seriously hurt, but I ached, almost all of the time. My Achilles tendons screamed while carrying uphill, and my knees struggled while following downhill.

Joe, on the other hand, experienced extreme blisters on his feet. He ended up wearing my dollar-store flip flops the last five miles of our trip, all downhill.

I thought about a lot of things. I thought about my first year of college, old relationships and friends, new relationships and friends. Maybe it’s cliché, but I thought about my regrets, my goals, my challenges. I thought about the hurt done to me or the hurt I’ve caused others. I thought about the miracles and blessings I’ve experienced throughout my life. I questioned things, pondered what could’ve been in the past or what could be in the future. I considered the fact that I was literally carrying my home and my life on my back through the woods, and how insane or ridiculous or even bizarre this may seem to some people, if not most.

Many people asked if I was scared to be in the middle of the woods like that. Cheryl Strayed, author of "Wild," said it best in claiming “It was a deal I’d made with myself months before and the only thing that allowed me to hike alone. I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid.”

I recently watched the film “Eat, Pray, Love” and immediately connected with a quote towards the end of the movie. “In the end, I’ve come to believe that there exists in the universe something I call “The Physics of The Quest” — a force of nature governed by laws as real as the laws of gravity or momentum. And the rule of Quest Physics maybe goes like this: If you are brave enough to leave behind everything familiar and comforting (which can be anything from your house to your bitter old resentments) and set out on a truth-seeking journey (either externally or internally), and if you are truly willing to regard everything that happens to you on that journey as a clue, and if you accept everyone you meet along the way as a teacher, and if you are prepared — most of all — to face (and forgive) some very difficult realities about yourself… then truth will not be withheld from you. Or so I’ve come to believe.”

So I walked on.