After losing his wife to breast cancer, Paul Stutzman decided to make some big changes. He quit his job of seventeen years and embarked upon a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail, a 2,176-mile stretch of varying terrain spanning fourteen states. During his nearly five-month-long hike, he battled brutal trail conditions and overwhelming loneliness, but also enjoyed spectacular scenery and trail camaraderie. With breathtaking descriptions and humorous anecdotes from his travels, Stutzman reveals how immersing himself in nature and befriending fellow hikers helped him recover from a devastating loss. Somewhere between Georgia and Maine, he realized that God had been with him every step of the way, and on a famous path through the wilderness, he found his own path to peace and freedom.
If ever there was someone I'd admire for their ways of dealing with the death of a loved one, it's Paul V. Stutzman. The loss was powerful enough for him to quit everything and take a 2,176-mile hike across fourteen states. What could someone possibly learn from this? Nothing but nature as far as the eye could see...what thoughts went through his head? Did he ever want to give up before his journey was finished and how did he deal with the cold and hunger, not to mention trying to get over the death of his wife?
These questions and more can be found in Paul's new memoir, Hiking Through: Finding Peace and Freedom on the Appalachian Trail. If you'd like to find out more about him and his book before you commit to buying, travel virtually with Paul as he treks across the blogosphere in March and April 2010. Visit his official tour page here where you can literally follow his tour day by day, blog by blog.
Here's a snippet of what you'll find inside his book:
It always happens to someone else. A dreaded knock on the door late at night while parents lie in bed wondering why a child is not yet home. A call from the hospital saying a spouse is waiting in the emergency room and heart-wrenching decisions need to be made. For me, it had always happened to someone else; the bony finger of death had lifted people out of my sphere, but so far that grim reaper had only been working at the periphery of my life.
That all changed with one phone call.
My wife Mary called me at the restaurant I had managed for seventeen years. Her strained voice said, “It’s malignant.” My mind raced—benign, malignant—which is good news, which is bad? I couldn’t remember.
“What does that mean?”
“I have cancer.” The words jerked out between sobs. I told Mary I was coming home, hung up the phone, dropped my head into my hands, and for the first time in years, wept.
As I prepared to go home to my wife, the daily calendar on my desk caught my eye. On that day, August 30, 2002, the meditation came from the lyrics of an old song by Harry Emerson Fosdick, a song I had often sung growing up in the Conservative Mennonite Church:
God of grace and God of glory,
On Thy people pour Thy power.
Paul, a former restaurant manager, is now retired and planning his next big adventure: a cross-country bicycle trip. He currently lives in Berlin, Ohio. To see pictures of his hike or to find out more about Paul and his book, visit his website at www.hikingthrough.com.
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