A.T. visionary Benton MacKaye thought that the undeveloped power of people — if applied — could do great things, and he felt that it would be all the more meaningful if it were done of one’s own volition, which he described as leisure.

“One hundred percent leisure,” responded 2019 Konnarock volunteer Deborah Carter McCoy when asked if she considered finding, hauling, cutting, and stabilizing rock for stone steps was leisure. “The reason I say that is I enjoy being outside. I enjoy gardening; granted, it’s not gardening. I enjoy being close to the Earth. My Konnarock work was an interesting way to be in nature, and close to the Earth in a way I’ve never experienced before. It was relaxing. You could see your progress. You were physically moving and working, but it didn’t feel like work,” she says. “I have an office job as a writer and editor and my profession is how I frame ‘work,’ so for me to do something completely different was fun. I was away from my desk. I didn’t have to look at the computer screen. I was able to shut my brain off in much the same way as when I am on vacation.”

As this special summer came to a close, my life as I had known it came to what felt like a spinning halt. Within about a month, I found out that both of my parents were sick with cancer. My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and my father with pancreatic cancer. I did not know what had hit me. Before I had even absorbed this new reality, my dad passed away in October 2015 and I put my life on pause to be with my mom as her primary caregiver.

Those were the longest fall and winter months that I can remember, or not — because I was experiencing the shock that can often accompany grief. But during the sadness of the long winter, the glimmer of an idea started to take root. I realized that the time for my own thru-hike had come. To me, it seemed like the best way to get out and begin to process the loss of my dad. I decided I would embark on my thru-hike in March of 2016. I was 22 years old.

I STUMBLED ON THE ROCKY Trail down from Blood Mountain, catching myself on my trekking poles. I could barely see. Rolling clouds of fog obscured the landscape, turning what I assume were stunning vistas into dense white walls. My eyes were clouded as well, but with brimming tears. I knew in my gut that I would have to leave the Appalachian Trail.

I dreamed of the A.T. for 10 years. I had hiked the A.T. Approach Trail in 2010 on a weekend trip with my parents. I vividly remember standing atop Springer Mountain and seeing the Trail continuing before us, twisting and turning and tempting me onward. That moment planted a seed in my soul, and I knew one day I would follow that enticing Trail along its entire length.

As a former director of development at the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC), I am often amazed by the sheer number of individuals who have been involved with ATC’s work for years, even decades. Bill Farkas was one of those individuals. For over 30 years, he was a longtime donor, Life Member, Horizon Society Member, open space enthusiast, and generally great friend to the ATC. I had the honor of getting to know him personally and was very saddened by his passing earlier this year.

Having worked at the ATC for over a decade, I had the pleasure of meeting and spending time with many volunteers and donors. Every donor has their own story about why they give. A few years ago, I shared some of Bill’s story in A.T. Journeys. He was so excited to be profiled and I had a unique experience in writing the article.

Growing up in Massachusetts, I learned about the Appalachian Trail during many family trips to Vermont and New Hampshire. I was fascinated by the idea of a path stretching over 2,000 miles and I dreamed of hiking it one day. Years later, after I started to compose music, my dream to hike became intermingled with the idea of composing a piece inspired by that hike. Armed with my hiking gear plus a small digital audio recorder and notebook of staff paper, I set off in the summer of 2016 with the Trail name “Mozart.” My plan was to hike the New England portion of the Trail and then compose an “Appalachian Trail Symphony.”

The symphony is divided into five movements — one for each state I hiked through — and each is roughly proportional to the length of Trail in each state: Connecticut’s 51 miles turns into two minutes of music while Maine’s 282 miles becomes about ten minutes. The symphony essentially compresses my two-month hike into a half hour of music. My hope is to transport listeners to the sites, sounds, and terrain as they move along with me on my journey.