My Appalachian Travail

Earlier this summer I embarked on an ambitious attempt to traverse the infamous 100 Mile Wilderness along the northernmost section of the Appalachian Trail. Renowned for its steep grades, fields of broken boulders, boot-sucking muck, and tangled carpet of slick moss-covered and ankle-twisting roots, this section of the trail winds its way through Maine’s interior and is arguably the most challenging along the AT’s entire 2,170 mile length.

Not only did the adventure promise to reinvigorate my age-diminished Walter Mitty sense of rugged individualism, who knew, maybe the hike could also help shave a few pounds off a BMI that seemed to be ticking up with each passing year. I also knew the trip would offer some of the most spectacular vistas overlooking glacially carved lakes and whatever pristine boreal forest remains along the eastern seaboard of the United States. Oh yeah, then there were the acres of wild blueberries I planned to gorge myself on…no doubt after shooing away a few pesky black bears with the gall to think they’d muscle-in on my feast. 

Even though I knew I’d be entering as an untested newbie to this section of the American wilderness, I’m certainly not an inexperienced outdoorsman. Years of hunting and fishing in the northern woods and streams of Michigan bolstered a confident attitude that I understood full well the rigors that lay ahead. More importantly, I had spent months training for this adventure…mostly by schlepping a pack loaded with my tent, a handful of oatmeal raisin Clif bars, 3 liters of water, and 55 lbs of sand around the neighborhood on mock six and seven miles excursions. Whenever the weather turned inclimate, I retreated inside and hauled my load uphill on a treadmill tucked down in the basement. I’m sure more than a few of my friends and neighbors thought I might be coming a bit unhinged whenever they spied me tromping up the street or mowing the lawn in full hiking gear. I know my kids were certainly mortified. Whatever misgivings the friends and neighbors may have had about my mental stability, at least they remained sufficiently discreet to hold their tongues…something my kids proved totally incapable of doing.

Despite all the advance conditioning, three and a half days after setting out from the last inhabited outpost in Monson, ME on a planned 12 day trek, I found myself cramped, nauseous to the point where I was unable to hold down food, and completely demoralized. Considering I’d need to be burning somewhere between 600 and 800 calories an hour to sustain my progress, clearly this was something more than a minor bump in the road. Fearing I may be caught in a downward spiral from dehydration or a victim of giardiasis brought on by contaminated water, I consulted with the two experienced guides leading our group of 4 trekkers. Very reluctantly, I made the decision to prematurely end my effort to reach the terminal point of the Appalachian Trail on Mt. Katahdin. At least on this attempt, my adventure would be over. Ultimately the decision was mine alone to make, but somehow in the moment it felt like forced surrender and abject defeat. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Among outdoor enthusiasts, there’s a common saying reminding hikers that “hypothermia kills the unprepared”. Mother Nature may not be cruel, but she is definitely unforgiving. Like most series of cascading poor decisions, the path to a fatal outcome devolves in phases. Left to my own devices, I probably would have vainly attempted to push on despite the signs that my physical condition was becoming impaired. Let’s call this stage one of the unprepared: denial & overconfidence. Stage two of the unprepared is anchoring: In the absence of a plan that previously had considered the probability of multiple alternative scenarios, undoubtedly I would have stubbornly clung to the solitary preferred outcome (summiting Katahdin) to my own detriment. All too often it’s the inability (or more likely, the unwillingness) to critically assess and respond appropriately to the impact of changed circumstance that compounds small disruptions past the lethal tipping point.

Less than 48 hours from my moment of decision on the trail, I was taking a hot shower, resting comfortably at home, rehydrating with a gallon or two of electrolyte infused fluids, and trying to piece together exactly what went wrong. That’s when it hit me. Absolutely nothing went wrong. In fact, everything went exactly according to plan. It just didn’t end with me striking the Rocky Balboa like victory pose atop Mt. Katahdin that I’d envisioned. What I also never envisioned was that 8 days later I’d find myself hiking at the complete opposite end of the trail in Springer Mountain, GA. Random events might have disrupted my trajectory and my location, but I was still on the same path. Though emotionally bruised and physically drained, I had survived to hike another day. I was still in the game.

Later, as the focus of my mental inquiry had begun to invert from “what went wrong” to “what went right”, the similarity between my professional life and my recreational pursuits seemed striking. I realized that before ever setting out, I had been armed with a comprehensive plan. Under the watchful direction of Chief Outfitter Steve S. from Fitpacking, the route had been carefully planned, transportation logistics accounted for, a detailed packing list prepared, and the emergency contingency plan established. Prior to departure, gear and equipment was checked and rechecked by our professional guides Jesse H. and Holly C. In short I had not only set out with a comprehensive plan, in the moment of need there was an experienced team to help execute the parts of the plan I couldn’t or simply wouldn’t have done on my own.

Since returning to the world of modern convenience, the financial markets have been buffeted by random turbulence that unquestionably has triggered a bout or two of a different kind of nausea among the prepared and unprepared alike. If you count yourself among the former, now might be a good time to huddle with your financial advisor and gage exactly where you stand on the path. If you’re among the later, you might want to dig around in your pack and send up a signal flare. As anyone who’s been there knows, the only thing worse than being sick on the trail is getting lost in the woods.

Michael Reid, CFA is a Managing Director and Partner at Exchange Capital Management who despite all of his time in the great outdoors, is deathly afraid of snakes. The opinions expressed in this article are his own.