feet aching so much that tears fell down his face as he hiked, but he never stopped walking, because he had
taught himself as a child to endure physical pain like an Indian brave. He remembers times when he was so dehydrated, he’d
see spots before his eyes. He remembers hiking into the town of Pearisburg, Virginia, which is right along the trail and has
a hostel as well as a general store. He had been famished for so long that he decided—what the hell—to treat himself to a
meal. A real meal, paid for with American currency, not some damn survivalist meal of half-digested baby rabbit borrowed from
the stomach of a rattlesnake. Here’s what he bought:
“The ripest, biggest, most beautiful cantaloupe you ever saw. I bought a flat of eggs, which is two and a half dozen. These
were not small eggs. These were not medium eggs. These were not large eggs. These were extra large eggs. I bought a loaf of the heartiest wheat bread I could find. I bought a gallon of milk and a container of yogurt.
I bought a round of margarine, a brick of cheese, and one big yellow onion. Then I went to the hostel kitchen and I sautéed
the onion in the margarine and I scrambled up those eggs into a huge omelet, which I filled with half the brick of cheese.
I ate that. Then I toasted every slice of the loaf of bread and shredded the remainder of the cheese on the toast. Then I
drank the gallon of milk. Then I ate the yogurt. And then I ate the beautiful ripe melon. When I was finished, all the food
was gone, but I wasn’t stuffed. I just felt satisfied for the first time in months. I felt, Yes, now I’ve finally had enough to eat .”
He remembers another long day in Virginia, when he ended up hiking late at night to make his allotted daily miles, hiking
along a dark country road in the most rural countryside. It was a Friday evening, so all the local rednecks were driving around
in their trucks, listening to music and drinking and heading to parties. They kept stopping to see what Eustace was up to.
“You need a ride, son?” the good ol’ boys asked.
“No, thanks,” Eustace answered.
“Where you walkin’ from?”
“Maine.”
That answer didn’t make much of an impression on the good ol’ boys.
“Well, where you headed to?”
“Georgia,” Eustace told them, and the guys positively flipped out, whoopin’ in disbelief.
“This damn fool’s walkin’ all the way to Georgia !”
Clearly, they had never heard of Maine.
Then, feeling sorry for Eustace, they gave him a beer and drove off. Eustace walked along in the dark, drinking the beer and
humming to himself and listening to the night insects of Virginia sing. About the time he finished the beer, along came another
truckload of rednecks.
“You need a ride, son?”
And the conversation was repeated, word for word, right down to the punch line. “This damn fool’s walkin’ all the way to Georgia !”
Eustace finished hiking the trail in September 1981, right around his twentieth birthday. It had taken him four and a half
months to complete the journey. He wrote himself a letter of congratulations—a dramatic letter such as a man can write only
on his twentieth birthday, proud and earnest and swollen with amazement over the magnitude of what he’d just accomplished.
The sun has gone behind the ridge and the shadows are starting to play games in the forest. This is the last night on the
Appalachian Trail, a “Long Journey of Always and Forever.” It was so long ago I started, it seems only a foggy dream. My ways
have changed. I have become a man. In the Indian way, I have taken a new name—it is Eagle Chaser. I am aspiring to the highest
goals and morals of the King of the Winged Beings. Many tales I can tell. I have seen many places, I have seen many people,
all different but mostly good. I have learned to pray often and have accepted many gifts from the most Holy Provider. I believe
God helped plan this trip before I
taught himself as a child to endure physical pain like an Indian brave. He remembers times when he was so dehydrated, he’d
see spots before his eyes. He remembers hiking into the town of Pearisburg, Virginia, which is right along the trail and has
a hostel as well as a general store. He had been famished for so long that he decided—what the hell—to treat himself to a
meal. A real meal, paid for with American currency, not some damn survivalist meal of half-digested baby rabbit borrowed from
the stomach of a rattlesnake. Here’s what he bought:
“The ripest, biggest, most beautiful cantaloupe you ever saw. I bought a flat of eggs, which is two and a half dozen. These
were not small eggs. These were not medium eggs. These were not large eggs. These were extra large eggs. I bought a loaf of the heartiest wheat bread I could find. I bought a gallon of milk and a container of yogurt.
I bought a round of margarine, a brick of cheese, and one big yellow onion. Then I went to the hostel kitchen and I sautéed
the onion in the margarine and I scrambled up those eggs into a huge omelet, which I filled with half the brick of cheese.
I ate that. Then I toasted every slice of the loaf of bread and shredded the remainder of the cheese on the toast. Then I
drank the gallon of milk. Then I ate the yogurt. And then I ate the beautiful ripe melon. When I was finished, all the food
was gone, but I wasn’t stuffed. I just felt satisfied for the first time in months. I felt, Yes, now I’ve finally had enough to eat .”
He remembers another long day in Virginia, when he ended up hiking late at night to make his allotted daily miles, hiking
along a dark country road in the most rural countryside. It was a Friday evening, so all the local rednecks were driving around
in their trucks, listening to music and drinking and heading to parties. They kept stopping to see what Eustace was up to.
“You need a ride, son?” the good ol’ boys asked.
“No, thanks,” Eustace answered.
“Where you walkin’ from?”
“Maine.”
That answer didn’t make much of an impression on the good ol’ boys.
“Well, where you headed to?”
“Georgia,” Eustace told them, and the guys positively flipped out, whoopin’ in disbelief.
“This damn fool’s walkin’ all the way to Georgia !”
Clearly, they had never heard of Maine.
Then, feeling sorry for Eustace, they gave him a beer and drove off. Eustace walked along in the dark, drinking the beer and
humming to himself and listening to the night insects of Virginia sing. About the time he finished the beer, along came another
truckload of rednecks.
“You need a ride, son?”
And the conversation was repeated, word for word, right down to the punch line. “This damn fool’s walkin’ all the way to Georgia !”
Eustace finished hiking the trail in September 1981, right around his twentieth birthday. It had taken him four and a half
months to complete the journey. He wrote himself a letter of congratulations—a dramatic letter such as a man can write only
on his twentieth birthday, proud and earnest and swollen with amazement over the magnitude of what he’d just accomplished.
The sun has gone behind the ridge and the shadows are starting to play games in the forest. This is the last night on the
Appalachian Trail, a “Long Journey of Always and Forever.” It was so long ago I started, it seems only a foggy dream. My ways
have changed. I have become a man. In the Indian way, I have taken a new name—it is Eagle Chaser. I am aspiring to the highest
goals and morals of the King of the Winged Beings. Many tales I can tell. I have seen many places, I have seen many people,
all different but mostly good. I have learned to pray often and have accepted many gifts from the most Holy Provider. I believe
God helped plan this trip before I
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