'I Traveled 350 Miles of Trail—But Not The Way You'd Expect'

You are in a tent. It's morning. You are cold. Your nose has become a frozen granite lump. Outside your tent lies forest. The sun is hoisting itself above the hinterlands of the Mid-Atlantic, on a chilled September morning. You are a long way from home. You are tired. You are hungry. You have to pee. And you have roughly 350 miles left to pedal.

That was me.

I don't know why people undertake trails. I've asked trail veterans why they do it, and they can't give a definitive answer. I have met people who thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail or the Pacific Crest Trail, many give esoteric reasons they can't explain.

One veteran hiker told me it all boils down to happiness. "People do trails looking for a kind of happiness," he said. That may be true. But I had reservations about how anyone could be happy on a remote woodland trail, lying next to their wife, freezing in a tent.

Our journey started during the pandemic. Fifty years from now, schoolchildren will read about the pandemic in history books and discuss what we all went through. I only hope textbooks describe the mental anguish involved.

At first, the pandemic was novel. Being at home all the time, working online, watching reruns of Family Feud, eating ice cream for breakfast. On the other hand, I had gone nearly half a presidential administration without changing my pajama bottoms. I quit shaving. I quit getting haircuts.

Moreover, I was despondent. I had grown listless. Lethargic. Lonely. Anxious. Afraid. Fill in the blank. Friends of mine were getting sick. One of my closest friends was dying of cancer. Another friend died by suicide. This triggered a knee-jerk response in me.

About twenty years earlier, my wife had gone through a major health scare. The doctor found lumps in her breasts. Lumps. With an S. We thought she was going to die. We imagined the worst. My wife made me promise that, if we ever made it through this, we would do something incredible. Something memorable. Something completely insane.

Enter the pandemic. Americans were rediscovering the outdoors in overwhelming numbers. Fifteen national parks set attendance records. Five parks broke records set the previous years. Yellowstone went from being the sixth most-visited park to the second.

And bicycles were selling like crazy. There was a worldwide bike shortage. The Trek Bike Corporation ran out of inventory. Entry-level Schwinns became coveted possessions. People were going wild for bikes.

My wife was one of these people. One evening, she came home with two cycles. When I asked where she had bought them, she told me that what I didn't know wouldn't hurt me in court.

And so it was, in late July when my wife announced that we were going to do something big, something extreme. Something meaningful. Something borderline idiotic. We had a month to prepare.

The Great Allegheny Passage and the Chesapeake & Ohio Towpath join together to form one of America's premier trails. The two trails traverse four states, covering nearly 350 miles. These trails wind you through the Allegheny Mountains, the Laurel Highlands, the Eastern Continental Divide, along the Potomac, through the untrammeled wilderness of Pennsylvania, Maryland, West Virginia, and Virginia.

When you first read about them, you envision happy little footpaths with happy little trees; a Bob Ross painting in real life. But when you finally get out there, you realize this is no meandering bike ride through the woods. This is an expedition.

The shuttle dropped us off in Pittsburgh one brisk morning. We were left standing in one of the world's major cities, wearing nothing but tight, asset-displaying bike shorts. And I think that's when it dawned on me: We had officially lost our minds.

We began pedaling across four states. And I can honestly say that this experience was a defining moment for me. There was, however, no happiness involved. It was pretty hard to feel unlimited happiness when my whole universe had been turned sidelong.

My wife and I were riding two very long trails on glorified Walmart cycles. She rode a traditional bike. I rode a recumbent trike, which I'd chosen because I do not like bikes. In fact, I hate bikes. I am built like Herman Munster. Bikes like to fall over whenever I ride them. So it was a tricycle for me.

On the trail, I learned that most people don't know how to react to a grown man riding a ginormous tricycle. Namely, people would cycle past me and whisper to themselves about how brave I was for being out here.

In a way they were right. I was brave. This was the most uncharacteristic thing I'd ever done. Even more uncharacteristic than the time I drank punch out of my friend Adam Finlay's shoe on New Year's Eve.

I am not a fitness guy. I am not a gym guy. I am an Oatmeal Creme Pie enthusiast. When I go fishing, coolers are always involved. Sometimes I even forget to bring my rods.

But there I was, riding these trails, pedaling alongside my wife. We crossed American rivers. We plunged over historic bridges. We bathed in the frigid waters of the Youghiogheny River and lost all sensation in various vital organs.

The objective of our lives changed immediately. You don't think about life objectives much when you're at home, paying bills, keeping the house clean, trying to figure out whether you're going to eat a spinach-and-chicken frozen pizza or the pepperoni-and-fontina. But out here, our daily objective was crystalline: Don't die.

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Which was easier said than done inasmuch as the first day on the trail was the worst. They always are. My body began to break down. My lungs were burning. I thought I was going to kick the oxygen habit.

The next day was worse. It rained like the Book of Genesis. The following day grew bleaker still. And, well, I wish I could tell you we had a blast for the entirety of the subsequent days, but that's not how trails are.

Many non-trail-people don't understand this. I would hazard that most people don't undertake extreme feats in the wilderness to have a blast unless they are total masochists. People go into the woods for something else. Something unnamable. Something deeper, such as an infected blood blister.

Any semblance of joy it is possible to find out here comes little by little. You have to keep your eyes open for small moments of rapture, or you might miss them. Still, if you pay attention, you will see things. Real things. Good things.

I ran into hundreds of trail goers. Many were on foot, carrying impossibly heavy packs, wearing bandanas. Some were riding cycles that cost more than tactical government submarines. Others were riding bikes they bought from Target.

I heard stories out there. Lots of stories.

"I'm here to quit smoking," said one 67-year-old guy, between wheezes.

"I came here because my daughter died in a car accident, she always wanted to do these trails," said a woman. On the woman's arm was a tattoo of her daughter's infant footprint.

I met a guy using forearm crutches, hiking with his girlfriend. "I'm hiking this trail because cerebral palsy doesn't define me," he said.

It felt as though my wife and I now belonged to a big club. A club that was always there, but we'd never thought about. We were all just folks.

In the mornings, we awoke and logged in miles. And each evening, when the sun would lower itself over God's country, I felt myself slipping further from the guy I used to be when we started this trip. I felt less fear out there. Less anxiety. Less pressure.

I'm not sure how this happened, but our lives became more vivid than they had ever been before. Or maybe I was just noticing how vivid they'd been all along.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying I belonged out here. I didn't. I wasn't an athlete as a boy. I was a class clown. Athletes were busy impressing girls with feats of sportsmanship, while guys like me were performing sight gags involving hotdogs. But I was here. I was in this tent, during a worldwide pandemic. I was cold. I was hungry. I was alive.

And for some perplexing reason, I was happy.

Sean Dietrich is a columnist, novelist, and podcast host. He has authored thirteen books and is the creator of the "Sean of the South" Podcast. His new book, YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE: A Story of Love, Promises, and a Really Long Bike Ride, is available wherever books are sold.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.