Zero's long journey out of darkness

McClatchy Newspapers (MCT) - Cracked ribs made it hard to breathe. A chipped bone in his hip ached as he walked. And 60-mph winds stabbed at him like icy needles.

But at that moment, Trevor Thomas of Charlotte, N.C., could not imagine feeling better.

He was a third-of-a-mile from the rocky summit of Mount Katahdin, a granite giant that climbs skyward out of Maine's 100 miles of wilderness.

The peak marked the end of a 2,175-mile journey, the completion of a through-hike on the Appalachian Trail. And for the first time in six months, Thomas knew for sure he was going to make it.

"Just keep moving," he said to himself. "Whatever you do, don't stop."

Hiking the entire Appalachian Trail is an accomplishment few people can claim. This year about 1,600 have tried and about 460 have finished.

Only one of them _ Thomas _ was blind.

Those who attempt such a feat face months of aches and pains, extremes in weather, intense physical challenges and long periods of loneliness.

For Thomas, stricken by a rare eye disease in 2004, the challenge offered something valuable _ a chance to restore faith in himself.

But along the way it did more than that. It restored his faith in others.

On April 6, Elizabeth Thomas drove her brother 237 miles to Springer Mountain, Ga., where northbound hikers traditionally begin their trek toward Katahdin.

The Appalachian Trail runs through 14 states, from Georgia to Maine. In its 60-year history, it has attracted a wide variety of people, from naturalists trying to connect with the land to rugged individualists.

Millions have hiked portions of the trail, but only about 50,000 have attempted a through-hike. Of those, about 8,000 finished. And of those, only five were blind.

Elizabeth Thomas didn't like the idea of dropping her brother off at the foot of Springer Mountain, but she understood why he had to do it.

Trevor Thomas had always been into extreme sports. But just after graduating from law school at the University of Nevada-Las Vegas, doctors discovered that his immune system was attacking his macula, the part of the eye that controls center vision.

He still had about 10 percent of his peripheral vision in his right eye and 2 percent in his left, which essentially meant he could tell when something big was beside him. That helps when walking a straight line in safe territory, but what he was about to do was anything but safe.

THE TRAIL

Thomas, 39, and his sister were supposed to meet an acquaintance in the Springer Mountain parking lot. The man, an experienced hiker, had agreed to hike the trail with him.

The pair waited for hours, but the man never showed.

His sister figured this would put an end to the hike, but Thomas persuaded her to wait with him and started asking passing hikers if he could follow them up the trail.

Twenty-three came and went, none of them willing to take on the responsibility.

"I couldn't blame them," Thomas said. "That was a lot to ask, but I didn't have a choice."

The 24th and last hiker he asked was Kevin Rondeau, a 25-year-old college student from Connecticut.

Rondeau was standing by a sign at the foot of the trail when the pair approached him. He had made the trip to Springer Mountain, looking for a little adventure before beginning graduate school at the University of New Haven.

Rondeau was initially floored by the question. He knew what lay ahead; a hike filled with steep inclines, sharp turns, poor footing and miles of ridgebacks with sharp drop-offs.

He didn't think Trevor Thomas could make it. But he had to admit it was intriguing.

"Why the hell not?" Rondeau said.

WHEN ZERO MET NOAH

Rondeau helped Thomas adapt to the trail, establishing a pattern that many would follow.

He would walk ahead and tap rocks and trees so Thomas could avoid them. Whenever they hit troublesome spots _ steep dips or sharp curves _ Rondeau would wait for Thomas and help him through them.

As a part of trail tradition, Thomas took the trail name "Zero-Zero," a climbing term that denotes zero visibility above and zero visibility below. Rondeau took the name "Noah John," after a famous hermit in the Adirondack Mountains.

But as the first week drew to a close, Rondeau had to hike on. School would not wait, which meant he needed to pick up the pace.

Rondeau left Thomas with another group of hikers, who had agreed to help out. Still, whenever he would hit a tough part of the trail, his mind would drift back to his blind friend.

"I hated to doubt him," Rondeau said. "He was one of the most determined, stubborn, persevering people I had ever met. But I would get to some parts and think. ... 'There is just no way.'"

What started that first week ended up a trend. Thomas would hike for a while with one group, until they had to move. Then, amazingly, another group seemed ready and willing to take over.

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There was Big D and Bundy, who hiked with him across North Carolina.

And Blue Butterfly, who managed to get him lost in Tennessee.

There was Zen and Keychain, who got him through Vermont.

And K1 and Walky Talky, who shepherded Thomas over Mount Washington, the most dangerous mountain on the trail.

And there were many others who helped him set up camp, find water, locate privies, resupply and keep from walking off the side of a cliff.

Meanwhile, back home Thomas' family followed his trek. A small GPS system Thomas carried relayed his location to Judith and Mark Thomas, who marked his progress on a map, kept on the kitchen refrigerator.

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Initially the parents were not happy their son had decided to hike the trail. Judith Thomas, a long-time nurse, thought of all the things that could go wrong. And secretly she and her husband thought Thomas was just trying to run from his problems.

"We thought he would last about two days," she said. "We were amazed every day that he kept moving forward."

And move forward Thomas did, though he did have his troubles.

He fell while hiking Mount Greylock in Massachusetts, chipping a bone in his hip and gashing his wrist.

He cracked two ribs trying get over Maine's Saddleback Mountain, after a wind gust sent him tumbling.

"Most intense pain, ever," he said. "I almost quit. I would have quit, if I hadn't been so close to the end."

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His determination became an inspiration to those who hiked with him.

"He was able to push on, no matter what," said Blue Butterfly, whose real name is Sherrie Farries, 50, of Raleigh, N.C.

Farries met Thomas early in his hike.

"Every once in a while I would close my eyes just to experience what he was experiencing," she said. "I would take two steps and then I would be like 'No, way.'"

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KATAHDIN

The last week of the hike was maybe the toughest. Thomas' body was beat up and sore. Making matters worse, Hurricane Kyle hit just as he entered Maine's 100 miles of Wilderness, possibly the roughest stretch on the trail.

He was wet and cold by the time he made it to the foot of Katahdin on Oct. 7. He camped there, then made his ascent the next day

Katahdin rises 5,200 feet. It is something of an oddity on the trail, more like a Colorado mountain than one on the East Coast. It is rocky, with jagged edges and rough footing. Wind gusts can reach 60 mph.

More than half-way to the top Thomas said he reached a wall of rocks he could not pass. The wind had numbed his fingers, making it hard for him to find purchase on the cold granite surface above him.

His fellow hikers tried to help by verbally guiding his hands to the right spot, but Thomas was unsure and scared. For more than a half-hour he tried to find a way up the section.

Finally, in frustration, Thomas jammed his hiking pole into a crevice and used it to pin himself against the rock. This gave him the leverage he needed to reach a perch and throw his leg over.

He lay there for a moment, collecting his strength and then trudged on. About an hour after making it over the rocks, Thomas could feel the ground beneath him begin to level out and he knew he was getting close.

Up ahead he could hear hikers celebrating, yelling. They had made it.

Then the cheers grew louder. They started calling out to him. Then several pairs of hands grabbed him and shuffled him forward, cheering the whole way.

"You've made it," Thomas remembers Zen saying. "You made it."

EPILOGUE

It has been almost two months since Thomas finished his hike.

When people hear his story, they immediately ask him why he hiked the mountains. After all, he can't really appreciate the scenic views.

"What they don't understand is, I appreciated the summits in my own way," he said. "I heard the snow crushed underfoot, felt the wind against my skin, felt the sun on my face and enjoyed the sheer silence of it all."

On the trail, Thomas got into the habit of picking up rocks. He brought them home as keepsakes, sort of like photos for the blind.

He has marble from Vermont, granite from Katahdin, sandstone from North Carolina and some shale from Virginia.

Sometimes he will pick up one of the rocks and roll it around in his hand. His mind will go back to the time and place that he picked it up and the people who were with him.

And he will think that while he cannot see what the future will bring, it doesn't seem that scary anymore.

"I put my life in the hands of complete strangers over and over again," Thomas said. "And whenever it seemed the darkest, whenever it seemed the magic had run out, someone would be there."

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BLIND HIKERS ON THE APPALACHIAN TRAIL

The Appalachian Trail Conservancy estimates that since 1948, 50,000 people have attempted a through-hike on the Appalachian Trail and only about 8,000 have finished one. Of those, only five were blind.

They are:

Bill Irwin, 1990

Hassan Oji, 2003

Anthony Manfre, 2005

Thomas O'Brien, 2004 and 2005 (SEE NOTE)

Trevor Thomas, 2008

Bill Irwin was was a resident of Burlington, N.C., when he made the hike. He chronicled the 8 ˝-month trip in his book "Blind Courage." Now 68 and living in Maine, Irwin says of the hike, "The toughest thing on the trail is controlling that 4 ˝ inches between your ears," Irwin says.

(NOTE: The Appalachian Trail Conservancy considers a person who hikes the entire trail a through-hiker regardless of how long it takes them to finish. O'Brien hiked the trail over the span of two years, breaking the trip into parts.)

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© 2008, The Charlotte Observer (Charlotte, N.C.).