Dead Men Hike No Trails

Rick McKinney

Jigglebox Press

As Rick McKinney hiked the Appalachian Trail for six months in 2004, he kept the world (anyone in the world who cared, that is) informed about his progress -- physical and emotional -- through postings on his Web site, Jigglebox.com. His book "Dead Men Hike No Trails" distills those postings into "the true yet subjective story of one man's journey through the tangible forests of Appalachia and the intangible deep woods of a tormented and beautiful mind," the author explains. McKinney, then 37, took to the trail as an alternative to suicide, a fate that had recently claimed his best friend. "Dead, so far as we know, is dead. And dead men hike no trails." Fortified with an array of medications for "severe chronic depression aggravated by acute anxiety disorder and periodic suicidal ideation," McKinney put his 35-pound pack on his back and simply started walking. You can do that on the Appalachian Trial. You don't need a lot of money or training; you don't have to be a world-class athlete. Just follow the white blazes and they will lead you. Your stamina will build as you go.

"My life is a nightmare, but it is also an ever-changing and fluxing adventure ... If I could shut off the stream of ugly images and pain and sorrow that flood my heart and head like so many radio waves and x-rays and cell phone wireless words and thoughts flying through the air, if I could tell all that to go away and leave me in peace, I would.

"But for me there is no peace, there is only hope that I can keep a few steps ahead of the sorrow, far enough ahead to smile and see the beauty that's out there beyond the cloud of human suffering.

"Now let's go climb a mountain or two. Or a bazillion! Georgia, here I come!"

Many begin the AT journey but few finish, including best-selling author Bill Bryson, who wrote another book on the Appalachian Trail, "A Walk in the Woods." I like McKinney's book better.

In fact, I like it a whole lot. McKinney's voice carries his tale with searing honesty, unabashed narcissism, equally unabashed self-doubt, and a joie de vivre that, it seems to me, shines especially bright for those of us who live in the grim land of chronic depression. It's all about contrast. And Jack Kerouac, Sylvia Plath, Hunter Thompson, Sept. 11, 2001, Iraq, tics, rain, pain, Rush Limbaugh, Marlon Brando, Drew Barrymore, Walt Whitman, Charles Bukowski, Henry David Thoreau, Dave Matthews, Jesus Christ. And love. And loneliness. And being a child of divorce, a prodigal son, a thwarted romantic, a clown, and a writer who adores women and poetry and alcohol and music.

"If some literature professor asks the question on an exam, "What were the principal influences of Rick McKinney's writing? Don't believe the b--s-- about pain and depression. It was music that kept me writing. And beer."

Long, like the trail itself, nearly 400 dense pages, but never tedious, "Dead Men Hike No Trails" travels the "green tunnel," up and down 500 mountains, with brief, intense descriptions of the landscape. Yes, it's 2,000 miles of dirt, rocks, trees -- but the dirt, rocks and trees of, say, Virginia, are a whole lot different from the dirt, rocks and trees of, say, New Hampshire -- which gets plenty of space in this book. The Whites are tough! (We knew that.) And it was here McKinney made his "first potentially fatal error in five months of wilderness existence."

The story spans several pages -- but the gist is: do not leave the trail on the ridge between Lafayette and Garfield; the woods are thick and confounding and a man can die very quickly of exposure at that altitude in September.

Getting even more play than the landscape and its dangers and wonders, are the people McKinney encounters. Some pass him, some fall behind, some keep pace a while, some he falls in love with. He's immersed in the peculiar culture of thruhikers. Who are these people with names like Mouse Bait, Paradox, Big Chief Paisley Feather, Cyberdine, and His Madnesty Lord Duke Jester Gadget Malcovich Peregrine Jack (aka Rick McKinney)? Why do they step away from their mainstream lives and spend their days walking? How do they endure? How does this culture reflect on, for lack of a better term, ours?

But the main subject of "Dead Men Walk No Trails" is McKinney himself, the inner struggles that parallel the outer. His struggles equal, in part and in truth, everybody's struggles. In fact, McKinney-R-us.

"I walk north. I walk north until I hurt all over. I walk north for no good goddamn reason at all. I walk north for me. I walk north because I feel that I've never really had a triumph my life, nothing to call a total success. I will succeed, but I will not fuss over every single white blaze, not even every frikken mile of this ever-expanding trail. Two thousand miles afoot and the Katahdin summit will sit just fine with me, thanks."

McKinney's journey transformed him. Physically he became thin, hard, strong -- a walking machine. Emotionally he became strong, too; more self-aware (how could he not?) and, I think, hopeful. How long will the transformation last? Forever is implied, hoped for, but who knows? "On the AT," he writes near the end of the book and the journey, "if I hadn't beaten depression for good, I had at least learned how to beat it for a while."

This summer, Rick McKinney is back in New Hampshire, hiking the Whites. Look for him on the trail -- still strong, maybe smiling, moving fast. You can get his book through Booklocker.com.

Rebecca Rule of Northwood reviews books by New Hampshire authors She may be reached at rebeccarule@metrocast.net.