WHILE PLANNING MY MINI ART kit — debating over the colors for my palette, deciding on tools, cutting watercolor paper to fit in my backpack’s shoulder pocket — I daydreamed about plucking it out whenever a mountainous view or interesting plant struck me with inspiration. I saw myself painting on top of peaks, sketching ferns from a comfy rock on the side of the Trail, capturing the big milestones as I passed them with swift brushstrokes.
The first of many surprises on my hike was that northern Georgia can be freezing in April. The winter lingered hard, and I had to hike to stay warm, and cocoon as soon as the nightly chores were complete. The reality from day one was quick and tired sketches in my sleeping bag, after dinner of course. The times and places I found to paint varied depending on the weather and temperature, my level of exhaustion (very or completely), and ranged from some of the golden vistas I had initially envisioned — such as on top of Max Patch in North Carolina, and McAfee Knob in Virginia — to shelter tables, to in my tent while it rained, and, most frequently, grungy hotel rooms with dim artificial light and that special funk that five or six hikers and their gear exude.
Both my hike and attempt to paint along the whole Trail was a lesson in embracing the imperfect.
Both my hike and attempt to paint along the whole Trail was a lesson in embracing the imperfect.
While most of it was not ideal for creating art, all of it was perfect in the context of the Trail. For all of its natural splendor, it tests every kind of endurance; it’s dirty, sweaty, painful, full of imperfect moments of despair, but also full of wonderful people to laugh about them with. As an anxious perfectionist, both my hike and attempt to paint along the whole Trail was a lesson in embracing the imperfect.
My motivation for the particular type of artwork I wanted to create stemmed from disappointment in the photos I took of sights that overwhelmed me with beauty and emotion. Painting allowed me to express what I saw, not what the phone camera saw. And there was so much to see. Watching the first shoots of spring greenery sneaking over the mountains, undulating layers of mountains receding into the distance, vibrant sunsets, lots of wildlife, and the vast range of different cultures and communities along the way. But there were also days of slogging through mud dawn to dusk, putting on wet, smelly socks, traversing rocky ridges in storms, and chafe that could bring you to tears. There was the bliss of unexpected Trail magic, cute little towns we spent way too much time in, doing laundry with whatever means we had while charging and being glued to our phones after a service dry spell.
I really wanted to capture it all. The beautiful, the ugly, the fun, and silliness of Trail culture, because we remember most of it fondly in the end. Because of this, postcards seemed like a perfect way to spread the joy of as many aspects of hiking as possible. The result was a series of artwork I created in postcard format. After all, sending someone a postcard about sink laundry says a lot about your life on the Trail.