We are Tramily!

Living life is fun and we've just begun
To gain our share of this world's delights
Our high hopes we had for the future
And our goal's in sight

No, we don't get depressed
'Cause here's what we call our golden rule
Have faith in you and the things you do
You won't go wrong, oh no
This is our family jewel

We are [tram]ily
Hey, hey, hey, hey, yeah
[All my brothers, sisters, and me]
Woah, ah, woah, ah, ah

We are [tram]ily
[All my brothers, sisters, and me]
Get up everybody and sing

-Sister Sledge

——
“Hey, you guys!” I say, as I walk up to the Hawk Mountain shelter. My heart is racing.

A fire already is blazing, and five hikers are engulfing various dehydrated concoctions while perched on partially decayed logs dragged in from the nearby forest. They are seasoned in the outdoor world. Long beards, tattoo sleeves, and knock-off Crocs are the uniform. Hell’s Angels. Hiker version.

Woodstock is the leader. The fire highlights his weathered face as he expert pokes a pot that teeters on the coals. He looks at me from the corner of his eye. The pot, once titanium, is now a charred black. His tie-died tee shirt that shows familiar signs of wear is clearly marked with Woodstock’s call sign. “I HAVE WEED FOR SALE.”

My pearl earrings and polished white teeth are a dead giveaway that I am the new kid in town. I even smell good.

I take a deep breath and dive right in.

“This is my second time camping. Ever. “ Silence. No reaction.

I bravely continue. “Do you think any of you can teach me how to find a good tent site? I have no clue what I’m doing.”

There. It’s out there. Here I am. Underbelly showing for the world to see.

I should be even more nervous than I am. But it’s now or never. I’ve signed up for this six-month journey and embrace inevitable hippopotamus moments like this. I have willed myself to feel like a food and get in a good laugh while doing it. What have I got to lose?

Woodstock finally speaks. Slowly, and with a deep southern accent one would expect from an expert of the deep woods. He needs a translator. “Shiiiiiit. Ahhhhhve been ein these wuuuds ahl maih laihf, n ah steel don’t know whut ahm doin ou heere.”

On his queue, the rest of the gang laughs and nods vigorously in agreement.

Pirate walked into the scene right behind me. “Don’t you worry, sister. There are tons of great spots to pitch your tent. You can choose this one, or this one, or this one …” He’s now escorting me through what I see as just a forest. But now I get what he’s pointing to - little soft patches between the trees, about 6 feet round.

“Just make sure that you swish the leaves to look for snakes and roots and rocks,” chimes in Firefly. “You don’t want to sleep on those.”

I am taking it all in. Snakes, check. Roots, check. Rocks, check. Okay. I’ve got this. Yes. I’ve got this.

I have an immediate connection with Pirate. He has red hair and freckles just like me. And he tells story after unrelated story about his life as an iron-worker in Georgia, his need to wear a hoodie at all times to avoid sunburn, how much he likes his smart wool underwear, and how his back has been seizing with the heat. A long string of facts unintended for digestion. I am comforted by the quick cadence and good-natured un-inhibition.

“Can I set up my tent next to you?”

“Of course you can! I just hope you don’t mind my snoring and occasional farting. It sure is good to be out here in the wild, isn’t it?”

—-

Friendships form quickly on the Appalachian Trail.

We need each other.

We left the comfort of our previous worlds to step up to the starting line of the greatest physical, mental and emotional challenge we have ever faced:

2200 miles of walking with 30 pounds on our backs, including over 550,000 feet of cumulative elevation gain. That’s the equivalent of climbing and descending Mt Everest 18 times.

Who we were doesn’t matter. The trees don’t care about how much money we made. The wind doesn’t care about where we lived. The hills don’t care about our previous job titles.

Markers of our past are nothing but extra weight. No fancy cars, watches, jewelry, excess anything. They’re just … weight. No one cares about their intended significance. They are irrelevant in this Appalachian world.

Instead, we are stripped down to our essence. The same set of clothes. Wrinkled. Caked with dirt. Marinated in sweat. Scratches on our legs. Scuffs on our knees. Debris in our hair.

And we love the freedom this allows. The shackles of the past no longer bind us. We are one-thousand-percent authentic, living a life dictated only by the impulses of the sun and the moon. The days of the week no longer are relevant. Time passes in a bizarrely distorted vacuum. We absorb into our souls the intricate lines that make up the pedal of a flower; and we breathe in the magnificence of a solstice sunset. We become earth. And earth becomes us. We are one.

Our work is a daily dance among roots and boulders and climbs. The slight breeze at the top of a mountain kisses away our hard-earned lactic acid. The vista is our reward. Behold this silently powerful world that surrounds us - deft of concrete and destruction. Our every day is full of life and creation and beauty. Our only job is to honor it.

Thank you, wise tree, for blessing our earth. Please teach us your lessons.

What matters is our now. This very moment. We are unequivocally immersed in our present, with a combined goal to get to the next shelter or the next town or the next milestone. Safely.

How we get to the finish-line is our own journey. Most through-hikers start in the south and go north bound (NOBO). Some through-hikers start in the north and go south bound (SOBO). Still other through-hikers switch it up, randomly tackling different permutations of the trail (Flip-Flop). However we get there - or don’t get there - is up to us. But we do it together.

While our journey is daunting, a friend can help us focus on our now. For me, Pirate created a sense of authenticity, which led to a feeling of trust, which led to the comfort of safety.

—-

Effortlessly, more Pirate-type friendships have formed in these last sixteen days on trail.

Bitcoin; Beans & Bells; Jamie; Hair Ball; Professor Low-Tech; Scrabble; Bobcat; The Mainard; The Brother; Bear; Walmart; Woodstock; Viking; John Deere; Huckleberry’s Human & Huckleberry; Knob; Flight Risk; and so many more - just in my first sixteen days.

Imagine the pending friendships that are destined to form as the Trail enfolds new hardships, new challenges, new victories over the next five-and-a-half months.

We are friends. We are family. We are the Trail.

We are Tramily.

——

Dream Big. Go Boldly. This is Life.