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The view from Anthony's Nose, via the AT |
Of the many hikes I’ve done since moving back to New York – Mt. Beacon, Breakneck Ridge, Storm King Mountain, Bear Mountain, and Anthony’s Nose – the latter and most recent acquainted me with the Appalachian Trail, or AT, as it is commonly called. This Georgia-to-Maine hike, traversing New York en passant, takes around five months to complete in one go, and the combination of survival skills, perseverance, and self-actualization required places it somewhere between Cadet Basic Training and Burning Man festival.
The AT is unlike other trails in the Hudson Highlands for several reasons. First, it’s wide and well-trodden, mostly free of scrambles or poison ivy overgrowths. Second, its signage – the iconic white blaze – is well and frequently placed, such that taking a wrong turn is unlikely. Third, it’s the only trail in the state where one can cross thru-hikers, lugging their roll-up tents. Finally (and perhaps for all of the aforementioned reasons), it’s the only trail, in my experience of the Highlands, that brings such a level of mental break from society.
I found myself terrified at the sight of a black bear cub dashing giddily up a hillside, at a peeping rust colored skink sandwiched between two sun-kissed rocks. I marveled at (what I have since identified as) the pink delicatesse and intricate veinage of a pair of pink lady slippers precariously rooted at the very center of a campsite. Surprised that I just knew, despite having never previously seen its deep fuchsia blooms, that it was indeed mountain laurel. Curious if a fruit akin to an overly plump green raisin (an oak apple gall) could be edible (not a chance). My thoughts were finally silenced by a symphony of crickets playing as the shadows grew longer, and then by the breeze in the leaves, so sufficient that words were made visible for the accessories they are.
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A skink |
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A pair of pink lady slippers |
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Mountain Laurel |
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Oak apple gall |
These mimetic experiences on the trail, it seems, are mind being mirrored back to us – our wonder, our fear, our sense of truth, our need for connection. Art in general achieves this, of course, but the special thing when it happens in the forest is its primal quality, a reminder of the primal nature of the unconscious. In being such a reflection, the forest allows us to confront language-based life from a more objective place. The passing thru-hikers act as mental reminders of the little one really does need to survive, further relativizing the fears and wonders offered by the market, exposing the futility of quotidian worries. The hiker is reconnected with primal consciousness, source of creativity.
Related to this, the AT is considered anti-capitalist in a way, because of its nomadic quality which requires the hiker to always be moving, always be in action, as well as for the sense of camaraderie and solidarity among hikers, reflected in pop-up ‘trail magic’, the impromptu free meals offered to thru-hikers by veteran ATers. To always be moving, though, implies being at the mercy of the elements as they arise, if the hike is to be completed in five months and thus successfully. Such nomadism is in contrast to a lifestyle prioritizing control and predictability, capturing capacity for action, where mastery takes precedence over creativity. Interestingly, however, the AT has also become its own market, because the constraints of nomadism (hiking in the rain, for example) bring about new needs and wants that require the most advanced gear and technology.