I still have my appendix, and any number of other organs that might burst or sputter in the empty wilds. What would I do then? What if I fell from a ledge and broke my back? What if I lost the trail in blizzard or fog, or was nipped by a venomous snake, or lost my footing on moss-slickened rocks crossing a stream and cracked my head a concussive blow? You could drown in three inches of water on your own. You could die from a twisted ankle. No, I didn’t like the feel of this at all.

At christmas, I put notes in lots of cards inviting people to come with me on the trail, if only part of the way. Nobody responded, of course. Then one day in late February, with departure nigh, I got a call. It was from an old school friend named Stephen Katz. Katz and I had grown up together in Iowa, but I had pretty well lost touch with him. Those of you-the six of you-who have read Neither Here nor There will recall Katz as my traveling companion around Europe in that tale of youthful adventure. In the twenty-five years since, I had run into him three or four times on visits home but hadn’t seen him otherwise. We had remained friends in a kind of theoretical sense, but our paths had diverged wildly.

“I’ve been hesitating to call,” he said slowly. He seemed to be searching for words. “But this Appalachian Trail deal-do you think maybe I could come with you?”

I couldn’t believe it. “You want to come with me?”

“If it’s a problem, I understand.”

“No,” I said. “No, no, no. You’re very welcome. You are extremely welcome.”

“Really?” He seemed to brighten.

“Of course.” I really could not believe it. I wasn’t going to have to walk alone. I did a little jig. I wasn’t going to have to walk alone. “I can’t tell you how welcome you would be.”

“Oh, great,” he said in a flood of relief, then added in a confessional tone, “I thought maybe you might not want me along.”

“Why ever not?”