“God’s world opens up when everything you need is on your back and your only concern is the next white blaze.”

Andy Davidson was a psychologist in the Navy and a man of strong Christian faith—the type of person you would expect to know how to handle the grief of losing a loved one. He had already been planning to hike the Appalachian Trail when he received the news that his son had been killed in a motorcycle accident. Instead of a joyous adventure, his hike became a cathartic journey. He walked from Georgia to Maine and in the process became a spiritually rejuvenated man. When Sunday Smiled is a blend of his trail journal and a memoir of his inner journey.

Having thru-hiked myself, I am biased toward the AT, but it seems like the trail offered the author a unique outlet for his grief, and served as a catalyst for his healing in a way that a substitute pursuit could not have. The Pacific Crest Trail, The Camino de Santiago, biking across the country, climbing Kilaminjaro; all of these could be considered similar to an extent, but the Appalachian Trail possesses a singular mystique that allowed Davidson to heal.

The account is most impactful when Davidson jumps back and forth between the events surrounding his son’s death and life on the trail. He repeatedly describes his son as a cowboy, living by a nebulous code that guided his actions. He forewent a standard college education, instead training to be a lift mechanic, then moving to Colorado to work at a ski resort. His attitude of taking life as it came worked its way into the psyche of his grieving father, who overcame his tendency to follow the norms—Davidson participates in the Half Gallon Challenge,¹ jumps from the James River Bridge, hitchhikes with convicts and truck drivers, and has a rollicking time that only a spontaneous and carefree attitude will allow for.

It takes a unique demeanor to wake up day after day and willingly subject yourself to the trials of the trail. In our modern culture, many of us have grown soft and seek comfort at all costs—a comfort that denies growth and true satisfaction. As Davidson got off trail to attend the trial of the woman who killed his son, the lessons of the trail buoy his sense of purpose and assuredness—he knew that the day was here, and he had no choice but to live it; to continue to put one foot in front of the other. The precious steps of the past cannot be retraced, but it is foolish to let the memory of them inhibit the stride of the present. It is a lesson that I learned in lesser and more literal form, as the steps I took on the trail are now a painfully sweet memory that I did not adequately savor while I was living them.

Davidson’s depression and desperation meant he needed the trail; he was actively looking for something to resuscitate him, and the trail provided it. Without forgetting the pain of his past, he was able to live in each moment and witness the beauty of God’s creation (he mentions several times that he took time to smell plants, to feel the texture of tree bark, and smile at the white blazes that mark the trail). My thru-hike was planned more around its convenient timing in my life than around an existential need for it, and so it is only with hindsight that I realize what a blessing the trail was for me.

Reading the book as a former thru-hiker, When Sunday Smiled awakened a plethora of pleasant memories for me. Obviously the trail landmarks remain the same—Dragon’s Tooth, McAfee’s Knob, Mahoosuc Notch, etc.—but I was most moved by reading about people I had also met, and places we had stayed. Davidson met perennial trail angel Onesimus²—a sixty-something do-gooder who we crossed paths with as he ran shirtless, southbound on the trail. His tan, toned body and the smile peeking out from his white beard informed us that he was living an intentional life. He continued on his run, but told us to raid his heavily decaled RV for snacks. Although Davidson had a somewhat neutral reaction to the Terrapin Station Hostel,³ my inner classic rock fan allowed me to become fast friends with the owner, Mike. His stacks of vinyl were impressive, but I was more impressed by his willingness to shuttle us to the grocery store and McDonald’s, and his interest in our stories—he stayed up late into the night chatting with us, imploring us to take our time and enjoy this once in a lifetime opportunity.

Many of the coincidences that Davidson experienced were interesting, such as his “God moment” when he dropped his tent poles and miraculously they were hanging along the trail not far behind him. There are numerous such incidences of seeing God in the everyday and the mundane; it could be a series of coincidences, but it could also be a ubiquitous permeation of the divine.

My favorite detail of the story is that the author kept a small amount of son’s ashes in a pill bottle, and did not tell anyone that he carried them. Late in the hike, Davidson meets another father who lost his son. The laconic man honored his son by cooking food for thru-hikers, while the son’s best friend did most of the talking. Before he left with a full belly, Davidson was compelled to share his secret—that he was also trying to honor his son; that by carrying his son’s ashes from Springer to Katahdin, in some mystical sense his son was making the hike with him. Taking the author at his word, his son’s presence seems to have been felt more strongly in death than if his son had actually made the trek with him.

Unconditional love became real after my son died. Aaron’s death showed me nothing else matters in life but life. Life matters—all else is vanity. I can kill relationships with trivial judgement. I need to keep relationships alive. Life is relationship. And relationship brings meaning.

While the story as told in the book is no doubt one of personal profundity, its insights do not quite convey to the layman. Too often, Davidson’s desire to factually detail his hike with mileage and locations hinders his more important insights into his emotional and spiritual healing. And though he does occasionally turn a neat phrase, or wax somewhat poetic—e.g. “I’m the daydream believer, she is the homecoming queen”—he just as often trips himself up with odd grammatical blunders or ambiguous verbiage. His attempts at humor are mostly on point, recalling many familiar scenarios, including his own failed attempts at a unique thru-hiker brand of humor that just doesn’t land with clean, civilized people.

The hostel system along the trail is an inexpensive way to get a hot shower and a real bed, and hostel was a good way to begin my hike. It’s a case of “you get what you pay for” and in this case, he got to pay to sleep next to someone who snores too loud. I got to sleep next to someone who hit me in the middle of the night with a canvas bag.

The account is powerful, and is only let down by the first-time author’s uncertain writing style. I think a more conversational tone and less mechanical recitation of trivial details would have allowed the spiritual overtones to convey much better. It is also hard for me to separate my own experiences of the AT from anyone else’s account of it; my processing of another’s story inevitably leads to comparisons and contrasts; varying feelings of regret, nostalgia, and camaraderie. I think, ultimately, that the book does not do justice to the story that it tells; but that is not much of a criticism—it would be a monumental feat to capture the life-changing nature of a thru-hike (let alone one tied up with the grieving of a lost child). Thru-hiking is an unforgettable experience that is difficult to capture in a straightforward manner.

1. The Half Gallon Challenge is a halfway celebration in Pine Grove Furnace, PA, in which thru-hikers attempt to eat a half gallon of ice cream. Note that half gallons sold in grocery stores are not truly half gallons anymore; so the author ate a 1.5 quart container of neopolitan, followed by a pint of blueberry. Unfortunately for my competitive side, the Pine Grove Furnace General Store was not yet open for the season when we passed through during our thru-hike. However, this was a blessing in disguise for my lactose intolerant digestive system.

2. Onesimus is the name of a slave in the New Testament book of Philemon, though I did not confirm with him that the Bible was the source of his trail name.

3. The hostel’s name is taken from the Grateful Dead album; the owner was impressed that I knew that piece of trivia.