Hiking The Appalachian Trail: What You Really Need To Know

...was completed in 1937.

...has its southern terminus on Springer Mountain in Georgia.

...has its northern terminus on Mt. Katahdin in Maine.

...is a unit of the National Park Service.

...is approximately 2,175 miles long, depending on re-routes in any particular year.

...was the first national scenic trail, designated in 1968.

...crosses six national parks.

...passes through 14 states.

...crosses eight national forests.

...crosses numerous state and local forests and parks.

...is maintained by 30 trail clubs and multiple partnerships.

If you're going to do any traveling on the Appalachian Trail, I'd recommend learning the language of the natives. Here are some terms to get you started, beginning with the basics:

Blaze: A trail marker. In general, blazes may be as simple as a hatchet mark on a tree or an affixed marker made of metal, plastic or wood. Nowadays, blazes are often painted. The Appalachian Trail is blazed with white rectangles, 2 inches wide by 6 inches high, usually painted on trees, rocks, posts and other items found along the route.

Thru-Hiker: One who completes the entire trail in one continuous journey within a single calendar year.

Section-Hiker: One who hikes the trail in segments, with the goal of completing the A.T. end to end over time, often a period of many years.

Blue-Blazer: No, this isn't A.T. fashion-wear. But good guess! Actually, a blue-blazer is a hiker who takes side trails, often marked with blue blazes rather than the white blazes that signify the Appalachian Trail, thus avoiding ... or, rather, exploring areas around the A.T. To some "purists," blue-blazing is considered sacrilege. (But not by me, of course.)

Purist: A hiker who sticks to the official Appalachian Trail, being sure to pass every one of those 165,000 white blazes. To some blue-blazers (see above), purists are anal or even elitist, so the nit-picking can go both ways. When it came to my own thru-hike, I was in this category ... though I have much respect for the adventurous blue-blazers and hold them in the highest regard (just in case any are reading this).

Yellow-Blazer: Once again, not a fashion statement. A yellow-blazer is (**gasp**) one who skips portions of the trail by riding in a motor vehicle. Both purists and blue-blazers alike have been known to curse the names of those who yellow-blaze.

Flip-Flopper: This isn't a political term but, rather, an acceptable form of thru-hiking, in which a hiker halts his or her northerly or southerly trek at some point, jumps to the opposite terminus and continues the journey in the other direction, eventually ending up at the point of the "flip-flop," thus completing the trail. (Oh, did I just use the term in the definition? Oops, that's a no-no.)

Slack-Packer: A long-distance hiker who carries a daypack rather than a full backpack. This is accomplished by arranging to have someone bring the rest of the hiker's gear--tent, sleeping bag, extra food, etc.--to the end of a day's section, so that hiker has what he or she needs in camp without having had to shlep the extra weight. Slack-packing requires extra planning and logistics that simply carrying all of one's gear with them all day does not, not to mention necessitates having to make a certain pre-determined distance to retrieve the gear. (Wow, that was rather long-winded of me. Sorry.)

Trail Name: I'll get into this more in a moment, but basically a trail name is a nickname used amongst the long-distance backpacking community.

And now for the REALLY important terms....

PUD: A pointless up and down. Generally, there's no particular view from the top of a PUD and no particular landmark of note. Same for the bottom of a PUD. A series of PUDS can be downright exhausting, more so than a 3,000-foot ascent and descent with a vista at the summit and a piddling forest creek at the bottom.

Snot-rocket: Basically, an airborne booger. If you'd like to try it, place an index finger against the non-offending nostril, turn your head away from friends, family or anything of value to you, and blow. Now, try that again and see how far you can go. Ah, impressive!

Swass: Short for sweaty arse (this is a G-rated lens, so I changed the terminology just a wee bit). Everything on a long-distance hiker becomes sweaty, of course, but this particular type is most insidious and seems to creep up on ... or in, rather, even the most fastidious of trekkers.

L.U.R.S.H.: An acronym for lazy, unwashed, resting, stinky hikers. You're sure to observe this phenomenon often on the Appalachian Trail in all sorts of locales--in meadows, beside water sources, at lean-tos, even in the middle of the trail. It's a most fascinating and aromatic scene.

NOTE: There may be a quiz at the end of the lens!!

Can you imagine hiking 2,000 miles and along the way hearing someone call you Joe? Or Sue? Or, god forbid, Deb? I know, it's horrible to think of it. That's why many, if not most, A.T. hikers use trailnames.

So, how did the trail name tradition start?

Well, from what I've heard, during the 70s, as Appalachian Trail section- and thru-hiking was becoming increasingly popular, there ended up being two men with the same first name in close proximity to one another on the trail. How awful! So people began referring to one of them as, let's say, Boston Bob and the other as Brooklyn Bob, and then probably started calling them simply "Boston" and "Brooklyn." You get the idea.

Speaking for myself, using a trail name is just for fun. I never had a decent nickname until Ramkitten came about, and it really made me feel part of ... something. One of the gang. I loved hearing, "Hey, Ramkitten!" or "Yo, Ram!" or "Ay, Kitty!" and several other variations on that theme when I'd come trudging along. A few people have asked me if I feel like a different person on a trail than I do elsewhere and, therefore, feel the need to use a different name when I'm backpacking. Nope.

A few people have also asked me where I ram my kittens, but I pay those folks no mind whatsover and turn my ramkitten tail in their general direction.

But, anyhow ... it is easier to differentiate between, let's say, Gaited Mule and WebBreaker, Split P and Digger, than a bunch of Bobs or Marys. On the Appalachian Trail, there's a very large hiker community, and many of those hikers leave notes in the registers (usually notebooks) located at trail shelters. Though there are occasionally duplicates, trail names are pretty easy to recognize.

Now, as far as obtaining a trail name, there are no particular rules other than the fact that you have to do some hiking. You can choose a trail name yourself, take your chances and let other hikers bestow a name upon you (risky, risky), or choose not to use a trail name at all (if that's how you wanna be). If you really want one, though, but can't come up with it yourself and can't wait, let me know. I'll give ya one!

And since we're on the subject of trail names, I'll tell you a little about my own.

Well, it started out as an internet screen name. But let me back up. You see, when Steve and I became the caretakers of RamCat Farm in Pennsylvania, we didn't have our own computer, and I'd never actually used the internet before. The property owner gave us permission to use his internet account, so I started checkin' out the chat rooms (remember those?) and doing some e-mailing, using his email address.

Follow so far?

Okay, well, my boss's screen name was "RamCat" with a number tacked on; although, he never used the account. So people came to recognize that screen name as being me, you see. Then, when Steve and I eventually got a computer and set up accounts of our own (I had no clue back then that an e-mail address and user name weren't tied to a particular computer), I wanted a name and address similar to the one I'd been using for more than a year. Plain old RamCat was taken, as was RamCat with every number I tried, so I decided to go with Ramkitten. And then I began participating in the Appalachian Trail forums in anticipation of my upcoming thru-hike. People in the online trail community and at A.T. gatherings came to know me as Ramkitten. The name stuck like cat fuzz on fleece, then accompanied me for more than 2,000 miles.

Now, here's a picture of a real life ramkitten.

The ramkitten--Felis hornicus--is even rarer than the jackalope. Once thought to be the result of a conjugal union between a hard-headed, hot-blooded ram and a curious and playful, underage cat, the ramkitten is actually a unique species unto itself. This creature is well adapted to many habitats and has been spotted in the tropics, the alpine tundra, the desert, deciduous forest, and Rhode Island. Often on the move, the ramkitten is difficult to locate, but can sometimes be enticed with its favorite foods, which include sushi, french fries, and frozen yogurt.

Some say the Ramkitten represents certain aspects of my personality: stubborn when I set goals, inquisitive, adventurous. And you know how a kitten might do something gutsy like climb a tree, then suddenly realize how high up it is and freeze? Well, that's me exactly. But I can usually get down on my own, one way or another. Some might say they call me Ramkitten because I'm an Aries the Ram, and March comes in like a ram and goes out like a kitten ... right?

So that's the story of my trail name. The trail names of some of my hiker buddies and brief explanations of their origins are as follows:

Split P--named not after the soup but after a special pair of pants she wore while hiking, with a well-placed split for ease of (you got it!) peeing.

Web Breaker--so-called because he'd get up at 4am and be on the trail before other hikers, breaking through the spider webs that had been stretched across the trail during the night.

Gaited Mule--a big guy with a rather slow, methodical pace

Tripper--for obvious reasons

Hacker--actually, this was the hiker's last name not a knack for breaking into computer accounts

Moses--for his very big stick

Joker--a non-stop funny man. We'd considered calling him "Boil Boy," because he was always heating up extra water for other hikers, but he refused such a trail name, worried that other hikers would think he had an unsightly growth somewhere on his person.

Dead Man Walkin'--for his appearance when he dragged his exhausted, disheveled self into a trail town

Web Breaker, Tortoise and Gaited Mule

If you happen to frequent a grocery store in one of the towns on or near the Appalachian Trail, I guarantee you'll see a scene similar to this one:

Shopping for the next leg of a thru-hiker's journey is very serious business, one that often requires extensive consideration. Am I sick of Snickers yet? Do I need four packages of Ramen noodles or just three? Chicken, beef or shrimp? You know, I've heard raw blueberry muffin mix isn't bad.

And once the all-important purchases are made, hikers will move their business to the curb, where they'll spread their stash, arrange such foodstuffs into categorized piles--some do this by meal, others by food type, yet others by day--and proceed to remove all possible excess packaging.

Weight is an important considertion as well. All items must be placed in one's open palm and bobbed up and down for a minimum of 15 seconds, while the hiker contemplates if such an object is worth its weight in the backpack. The experienced hiker will focus intently on the item, with a deep frown.

Failure to properly execute the above steps may result in an overabundance of food for the upcoming stretch of trail, thereby overloading the hiker's backpack, hence requiring one to gorge oneself to reduce the weight of the load. See below.

Okay, so you've been busting your tooshy all day on the trail, up and down, up and down, easily 8,000 feet of total elevation gain since you got up this morning. You finally exchange your wet hiking boots and socks for Tevas to air out your blistered tootsies. You take a bandana and wet-wipe bath, change into your not-quite-so-swassy camp attire and settle on a comfy rock to cook dinner. Is it going to be mac-n-cheese tonight? Or cheese and mac perhaps. Either way, it's delish!

But, oh nooooo, you dropped the last spoonful! That last morsel surely meant the difference between a satisfied night's sleep or wasting away to nothingness during the long, dark hours of tossing and turning while your hungry hiker belly growls.

So you quickly check your watch. It's only been two seconds since the foodstuff fell. Just enough time left to quickly scoop up the last two cheesy noodles and pop 'em in your mouth. A little crunchy now, but, hey, dirt has minerals in it, right? So what's the harm?

This three-second rule of ground (or foot or log or rock) to mouth applies to any form of sustenance, including M&M's, Cheese Wiz, dried fruit and so forth.

Now here's the secret, okay? As long as no one's looking, I say it's acceptable to extend the rule just a tad. I've stretched it to nearly a whole minute and not suffered any ill effects.

WARNING: The following should not be undertaken by anyone but professional thru-hikers. Day- and weekend hikers will certainly suffer serious consequences if attempting the Half-Gallon Challenge. This lensmaster is in no way responsible for any ill effects eminating from any orifice of anyone who attempts this feat.

When a thru-hiker reaches that much-anticipated halfway point on the trail, a celebration of sorts is in order. Now, the halfway point has changed over the years as the trail has undergone a number of re-routes thus altering the exact mileage, but generally the halfway mark is located near Pennsylvania's Pine Grove Furnace State Park.

Near the halfway point is a general store, in which one can purchase any of several flavors of ice cream. If you're a REAL thru-hiker, you'll purchase the half-gallon size. You'll then settle into a comfortable position, unbutton your shorts if you have a button, and proceed to consume the entire half-gallon in one sitting. If you're even MORE cool, you'll select the 5,000-calorie container of Moose Tracks.

No worries, you'll have burned it off by the end of the day.

I know, I know ... standing forlornly along the side of the road, sticking out one's thumb and getting into the vehicle of the first stranger who pulls over isn't what your mamma taught ya, but on the Appalachian Trail, hitchhiking is the "in" thing to do. That is, unless you fancy walking an extra five, ten, fifteen, even thirty miles round-trip every three to seven days in order to resupply, shower, do some laundry and eat a big ol' burger, greasy fries and a thick, yummy, ooey-gooey milkshake. (Or three.)

The A.T. does pass through some towns and other resupply points, but much of the time, they're a distance away from the trail, making a hitchhike an attractive option.

Now, your basic erect thumb will do, but it doesn't hurt to add a little flair. Use your own style. Be yourself. If a high-kick is your thing, go for it. Perhaps a little flash of a thru-hiker calf. If you're overly wet and muddy, a woe-is-me face and hanging head might do the trick.

But here are a few tips for clinching that ride when the driver pulls over:

1.) Duck into the trees and change from swassy hiking shirt to slightly pungent camp shirt before sticking out your thumb. The stink tends to cling to clothing much more so than skin. If it's a pick-up truck that pulls over, you'll probably end up in the back anyway, but be kind to sedan and SUV drivers who'll be forced to breathe the same air you'll occupy during the ride.

2.) Offer gas money (and cross your fingers they won't accept).

3.) Hitch in teams of at least two but certainly no more than four. A group of seventeen hikers and seventeen exposed thumbs might scare away your average compact car operator.

4.) Be disgustingly nice and extremely interesting, and you MIGHT just get offered a ride back to the trail, too. Musta worked for me at least a half-dozen times.

Now, this is a subject one could write a book about. (And, by George, there's a good one on the market!) But I'll just share a few of the basic principles here.

First of all, a fancy, orange, plastic cat-hole digger isn't an absolute necessity, so you can save those three bucks for something more essential. I personally managed to hike from Georgia to Maine, all the while using my boot heels, big sticks, and sharp rocks to create the perfect holes. Not to mention the fact that there are a LOT of privies (aka outhouses) along the way; though there's not always a privy available at the precise moment you'll be in need. Nor are privies to everyone's liking, of course.

Now, aiming for that rather small hole can be a challenge and requires a bit of practice, so you may want to begin with a larger hole and scale back as your skill increases. There is a school of thought that perhaps digging the hole after the fact and doing a little stick maneuver (NOT with your hiking pole, I should add) may be a more efficient method, but I myself am not of that mind.

There was also some dinner-time campfire talk of developing a thru-hiker plumb-line of sorts, which might be attached to one's belt. (If you can't picture that, I'm afraid you're outa luck, because I don't have a diagram to show you.)

As far as cat hole location, I would certainly avoid slopes. Why? Well, here's an excerpt from my A.T. journal, about what happened to a hiking buddy of mine who tried such a feat:

"This morning, Split P stopped for a potty break. She and I had started out together at a pretty good clip, when suddenly she pulled over in what I thought to be a precarious location for a pee. She said she'd catch up, so I hiked on. Shortly thereafter, I thought I heard an exclamation in the distance behind me, but I kept hiking. Thunderstorm, remember? When I saw Split P again at the road crossing at Bland, I got the details:

She'd set her pack at the side of the trail and shuffled a little ways down the steep slope. She'd assumed the necessary position and held onto a log to prevent herself from tumbling. Then Hacker had come along and saw the abandoned pack leaning against a tree. So she'd called for Miss P, who heard Hacker on the trail above. So Split P revealed her location, while still in position. The giggle part is that she not only said hello to Hacker, but she waved at the same time ... with the hand that had been holding on to the log. Consequently, Split P fell backwards, rolled, and ended up flat on her back with her panties still around her ankles."

Another problem with locating cat holes on slopes is that the necessity of hanging onto a tree or log may result in a case of poison ivy rash on one's hands. And if one doesn't recognize that they've touched poison ivy and uses one of said infected hands to perform personal hygiene, well, not good. BELIEVE me. I know.

Once in awhile, you may hear a twig snap just outside your nylon tent walls during the middle of the night. But have no fear, it's probably just a 400-pound bear with really big teeth following the scent of the Snickers bar you left in the backpack at your feet. You may even hear the high-pitched wail of a moose in heat, who may or may not notice you sleeping on the ground between him and his lady as he makes a run for it.

There are, however, other much more common sounds on the A.T.

Every night, almost in unison, you'll hear, zzzip, zzzip as tents and sleeping bags are closed. And occasional zzzips during the night when nature calls someone out of those same tents and bags, and lots of zzzips all at about the same time in the morning. Just one zipper unzipping starts the chorus.

Bag crinkling is another frequent sound. Everybody has nearly everything in garbage bags and baggies, so the crinkling usually precedes the zipping.

And one of my favorite sounds of all: the inflating and deflating of Therm-a-rest sleeping pads. One evening, my hiking companions and I heard Grumpy blowing up his Therm-a-rest in his tent and Joker yelled, "Hey, Grump! You have a blow-up doll in there?" Now I crack up whenever I hear that sound. I picture and arm or a leg inflating. After that night, Grumpy laughed so hard every time he went to inflate his sleeping pad, he could barely blow and eventually ended up having to switch to a closed cell foam pad.