An Appalachian Adventure

Since moving to Colorado in 2020, many people have told me that hiking in the West ruined them—sweeping views from staggering peaks, endless switchbacks rising higher, higher, above the trees—the views!

People say they cannot imagine hiking on the Appalachian Trail with its “green tunnel” and rainy days—neigh, weeks—after hiking in the Rockies, the high deserts of the Southwest, or in the Sierra. 

Many thru-hikers confess they are glad they started with the A.T., of the three major National Scenic Trails (the Pacific Crest Trail, the Continental Divide Trail, and the Appalachian Trail) otherwise they may not have had the desire to hike it at all. 

It’s true. The A.T. makes you work. Sometimes you’ll walk in humidity all day—for days—over roots and rocks, through the mud and overgrowth, only to arrive at a socked-in summit, swaddled in fog and mist, and you can’t see a thing, save for the hand in front of your face. 

But there is magic to be found in the Appalachian Mountains; it is one of the reasons I am going back.  

I suffered on my thru-hike in 2017, to be certain, but that special flavor of Appalachian adversity shaped me in good ways, sunk its claws into me, nested in the chambers of my heart, never left. I miss it.

The soil is richer in Appalachia, the mountains themselves older, the forests denser and more lush (though unfortunately young due to the logging boom between 1880 and 1920) than the forests here, on the Western Slope of Colorado.

Striking, jagged, auspicious, are the words I use to describe the Rocky Mountains. Not so, in most cases, for the ancient Appalachians. Time has left her mark on their worn, densely vegetated, sometimes-jumbled-sometimes-smooth, rock slopes.  

And I miss spongy mattresses of moss, creeping vines, serrated seas of stinging nettle, smells of damp and decay, tiny pancake shaped mushrooms no bigger than my thumb spiraling up old mother logs, the glistening red allure of the Amanita bursting out of slick wet of decomposition, pink Trilliums riotous at dusk, dim tunnels of Catawba Rhododendrons crowned with delicate rosy blossoms, an umbrella from the rain, and the porcelain star-shaped cups of Mountain Laurel filled-to-tipping with dew. 

I even miss the rocks. The roots. The mud. Sometimes.

Beyond my appreciation for the Appalachian landscape, I have unfinished business in these mountains. 

My hope in returning is to express gratitude through my feet, sweat, and tears to these mountains for all they did to mold me, and to find what closure there might be, nestled alongside bright orange newts with their soft skin and bejeweled dorsal eyelets, as they slip noiselessly through the dark, loamy soil. 

I will have to look carefully, peel back many seasons of dead leaves, regain a special sensitivity in my extremities, tap into a second sight, to find what I am looking for.

What I want more than anything else, is to go home to this place that has lived under my skin and in the back of my mind since I last walked through its misty woods, more than 6 years ago. 

There is a twenty-something girl who never quite grew up, haunting that winding, forested corridor stretching through time and space. It is time to set her free, and to remove the stinger lodged in my memories of those bitter-sweet days spent walking. 

The Appalachian Trail is a long walk. And I know in my heart I will travel its entire length again, some day, but that is not my objective for this fall.

Instead, I will dance along her edge, cross paths with her even, meander in close proximity through neighboring mountains, and end where it all began. It feels right to become reacquainted in this way, with the first trail I ever fell in love with.

I will wave at her and dream of her, as I hike the namesake trail of the man who first conceived of her.   

I am choosing to hike the Benton Mackaye Trail because its history is carefully intertwined with the A.T., that and it is only 288miles long instead of two thousand.  

Benton MacKaye (3/6/1879-12/11/1975), the trail’s namesake, had a vision to create a footpath through the Appalachian Mountains which would traverse many states and offer people an outlet, a place to go and connect with nature. 

His vision for such a trail came to him as he grieved the passing of his wife, Jessie Belle Hardy Stubbs MacKaye (born in 1975 or 1976); she was a Militant Woman Suffragist, who died by suicide. She drowned in New York’s East River on April 19th, 1921, after speaking with just two people about feelings of hopelessness and depression.

Betty—her preferred name—loved to walk long distances. Her passion for walking even wove its way into her peaceful protests on behalf of women’s rights. She inspired Benton’s vision, who by all accounts, loved her very much.

Unfortunately there is only surface level information to be found on Betty; no one wrote a book about her, and while she did feature in many articles detailing Women's Suffrage, her personal life is not talked about in great depth. Sources can’t even agree on her birth year, let alone her exact birthday. 

Nonetheless, we have Betty to thank, and Benton, too, for what is today, the Appalachian Trail.

The Benton MacKaye Trail Association was officially formed in 1980, when Dave Sherman’s idea for a sister trail to the A.T. gained traction. The BMT was completed in 2005, and since then, many improvements have been made along its length. 

The BMT begins at the northernmost end of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and ends on Springer Mountain (where the A.T. begins); and while only a fraction of the length of the A.T., far fewer people hike it in its entirety each year. Many parts of the trail are said to feel remote, rugged even, perhaps how the A.T. might have felt before its growth in popularity. 

My unsupported walk will begin the first week of October, after I road trip my way out to Georgia. I will be attempting to travel further on foot each day than I ever have before.

I hope to immerse myself in the forest, give everything I have to the trail, and arrive at Springer Mountain with a deeper sense of self knowing and greater feelings of connection to the world around me. 

In order to prepare for this adventure, I am doing a “shakedown” hike (a dry run) on a trail in my own backyard, the 166 mile Collegiate Loop, in 100hr or fewer over labor day weekend. The Collegiate Loop will provide me with an opportunity to gauge what is possible for me on the BMT.

I am so excited to be back on a trail, to spend long days on my feet, sleeping outdoors, and experiencing life in the most visceral way possible, and I am really looking forward to sharing my stories!

I plan to make a YouTube Video of my BMT hike, as I have done for the LT, CT, and AZT. And I will also be writing trip reports for both the Collegiate Loop and my BMT hike, which will be posted under the Trip Reports section of my blog upon completion.

As always, thank you for joining me on these adventures. It means the world to me that you read and share what I write; I am so glad you find some value in my stories.

—Ivey “Kaleidoscope” Smith