The trail has a lure like no other. It calls my name, beckons me to walk its worn paths hiked by the countless others whose stories are unknown and yet felt with every step. The trees canvas the sky. The air is crisp, pure, untouched by industry. The mountains say Come, stay awhile. Let our expanse fill your soul with mysteries of hidden things.

In my 3rd year of college, spring of 2005, I took my spring break to hike a 55 mile section of the Appalachian Trail in Virginia. I had no idea what I wanted to do for spring break in the weeks leading up to it. There was pressure in my mind to do something grandiose with friends for my last spring break ever, like go to Cancun. Isn’t that what college kids do for spring break? MTV SPRING BREAK ’99! Look how much I can drink at one time! I hope my parents don’t see this!

Alas, I am not that man. I love the beach and tropical climates, but large crowds make me feel uneasy. I’m not a recluse, but the words “Let’s go to a club!” don’t exactly stir up much in me except a little vomit.

I had recently finished reading A Walk Across America by Peter Jenkins, and his honesty and adventurous soul stirred my own at just the right time. I remember finishing the book, laying in my bed the week before spring break began, and deciding there that I would spend the week alone on the trail. Just me & the AT.

What is it about putting everything you need to sustain yourself on your back and setting off on an adventure? Is it the unknown? The lack of agenda? There is a pull not unlike gravity, except it pulls you forward and not down.

My friend Andrew agreed to follow me in his car as I drove to the point where I wanted to end my hike, 55 miles north of Buena Vista. I dropped off my car in a small parking lot, made sure it was empty and locked, and then Andrew drove me back south and dropped me off at the trailhead where my walk would begin. He took this photo of me that morning before I set off.

Hiking for 55 miles isn’t exactly a feat of super human strength, but those miles were incredibly meaningful miles in my life. I have friends who have hiked the entire 2,170 mile Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine, the 2,650 mile Pacific Crest Trail from Mexico to Canada, and countless other long hikes that make 55 miles seem almost unmentionable. And yet it is not unmentionable, because our own stories, our life experiences, are important in their own ways, be they large or small.

I hiked for three and a half days from shelter to shelter, mountain to mountain, pass to pass. I met thru-hikers, day hikers, men and women who lived near the trail, a med student at UVA, boy scouts, bear hunters, and a lot of squirrels. Squirrels, in my experience, each have a tremendous capacity to hold meaningful conversations.

When you’re alone for a few days, the silence becomes deafening at times. There is an awareness that sets in of how much noise exists around us day to day. Cars. Microwaves. Kids playing in the street. Airplanes. Radios. Conversations overheard. In the woods, these disappear, and silence becomes one’s close companion. And companionship with anyone or any thing brings with it both beauty and fear. Silence is no different.

If I can summarize my thoughts from those days into a few words, if that is possible, it would be that I have an intrinsic need for others. As nomadic as I wish I could be, and as attractive as becoming a recluse often sounds, again, it is not the man that I am. I am constantly drawn to others, from the moment I wake up to when I lie down at day’s end. And isn’t the hope that even a bed can be shared with another? That we would be able to experience sleep and rest with someone close by our side?

Like Chris Supertramp McCandless once wrote, happiness is only real when shared.

Three and a half days later, after nights in shelters and hours of being alone, I climbed in my car parked at a trailhead hotel, smelly and tired, and immediately drove 10 hours back home to Indiana to see my family for the remainder of the week. This was the most natural thing I could do.