I have to admit that the Appalachian Trail is something I find both tempting and fascinating... even though I haven't done any real tramping for years, and even though I am horrified by the thought of bears and snakes and so forth, animals that aren't found in any New Zealand bush. BEARS, for god's sake. They're hungry. I could tide them through winter. 

Unlike me, however, Emma Gatewood (now dead, then in her late sixties) did not think everything to death, although she was sensibly afraid of bears. Instead she decided, with little equipment - not even a sleeping bag or proper shoes! - to leave her family behind and go for a walk. On her own terms, which seems like one of the very few times that desire applied, given her horrendously violent husband. (I'm so glad this book memorialises him as the monster he was.) Against all odds she succeeds and then, instead of having a nice rest, Grandma Gatewood heads off to do the Trail twice more, which even my idealistic, dreaming self considers to be excessive. The woman clearly loved walking. The book reminds me why I used to as well. It might, I think, be time to start up again. 

After all, there's no bears on Te Araroa...