"I got it in my head, 'That's a cool idea,'" says Jocius, a 1999 graduate of Fremont High School.

The Appalachian Trail is long and hard and one most people never finish; a few have been attacked by bears and others stranded in violent storms. But Jocius decided to trek it alone. What she found was a support community both on and off the trail that helped her along the arduous trail from beginning to end.

In 2005, 1,600 hikers started and 280 finished, said Brian King of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy, the organization that manages the trail. About 10 percent of those who finish are women, according to Kelly Winters in her book Walking Home, the story of her own through-hike on the Appalachian Trail.

Skye Leone is not surprised that his niece completed the hike. "She's quite remarkable. She sets a goal and will meet it at all costs. She follows through and makes it happen," he says.

Following her graduation in 2003 from UC-Santa Cruz, Jocius traveled alone for three months in Europe. She was working at coffee-shop jobs in Santa Cruz when she got the idea to walk the Appalachian Trail.

To save money for the hike, she moved home to Sunnyvale and got a job at Any Mountain. She figured she needed $2,500. Some say you need $1 per mile. Jocius says that is low.

On April 15, 2005, she took a red-eye flight to Atlanta, napped in the airport, took the subway to its northern point and waited for a shuttle to take her to Amicalola Falls State Park. There Jocius signed in and began the eight-mile hike to the beginning of the trail, which is atop Springer Mountain, Ga. A bronze plaque greets hikers: "Appalachian Trail: A footpath for those who seek fellowship with the wilderness."

The Appalachian National Scenic Trail was the idea of Benton MacKaye, a federal employee trained as a forester and planner. MacKaye proposed the trail in 1921 in an essay titled "A Project in Regional Planning." Volunteers spent years making his dream reality. In 1937 the A.T., as it is known, was completed.

In 1948, Earl Shaffer was the first to hike the trail in one continuous journey. He began in Georgia to walk "north with the spring," Winters wrote in her book.

In 1955 the first woman thru-hiker, Emma Gatewood, 68, mother of 11, hiked the trail. "Head is more important than heel," she said, according to Winters. Grandma Gatewood, as she was known on the trail, hiked the entire A.T. twice more before she was 77.

The trail was designated the first National Scenic Trail under the National Trails System Act of 1968. According to the National Park Service, more than 4,000 volunteers maintain the trail annually. The lowest elevation is 124 feet; the highest is 6,625 feet, at Clingman's Dome, N.C.

There are 165,000 white blazes, which are 3- by 6-inch dashes on trees or rocks, marking the trail. In one place the blazes go right down the middle of Duncannon, Penn. More than 8,000 have reported hiking the length of the trail.

Jocius, like most A.T. thru-hikers, was a "north bounder."

"The weather is better going north and following the seasons," she says. And she says it also allowed her to save the best for last--New England.

To start early enough to allow time to get to Maine before Baxter State Park closes Oct. 15 usually means hiking through ice and snow and cold weather in the beginning.

"The first week was perfect," Jocius says. "Then it got cold."

Going Light

The gear makes a difference. The challenge is bringing enough gear to enjoy a small degree of comfort without carrying so much weight that the hikers' knees give out or the pack chafes one's back raw with blisters. In the beginning Jocius carried 50 pounds.

"That was way too much," she says. "I came with two weeks of food. I only needed three to four days'."

To lighten her load even more, she sent things home along the way, such as her three-pound Chaco shoes. For her birthday June 1, her mother sent a lighter tent. Jocius even sent her cell phone home.

Then there was her two-pound bear can, for keeping food away from bears. Jocius had hiked a lot in the Sierra and was used to bear cans for protecting food.

"Everyone made fun of it," she says. So she used it for a seat. "Everyone else was doing bear ropes" for their food.

Hikers know each other by trail names, such as Amazing Grace or Raindrop. Jocius became Bear Can--Not and sent the can home.

She bought herself a lighter pack at one of the gear stores along the way. She switched from a water filter that was big and bulky to iodine tablets. She brought two pair of socks and kept the same pair of shorts on that she bought in a Wal-Mart along the way.

"I hiked all day, I'd go in a river, they'd dry and I'd sleep in them," she says. She even broke her toothbrush in half to shed a few more ounces.

Her 50 pounds in the beginning shrank to 25 pounds by the end, with 18 of them just gear. After finishing with her winter gear at the beginning of the hike, she shipped it ahead to a New England town for the end of the trip. Hikers send things ahead to themselves, general delivery, with instructions to hold for an A.T. thru-hiker.

Along the trail people were always "talking the gear talk," Jocius says. When you'd first meet someone, they immediately asked three things:

" Where are you from? Why are you doing this? And what about your gear?"

"They would compare gear and get nervous. Some people like going luxurious and carry a heavier pack. Hike your own hike," she says, repeating the mantra of the trail.

Jocius had help from her uncle choosing and organizing her gear. Leone, 51, who lives in Santa Cruz directs a wilderness studies program for Humboldt State College.

There's a big movement into ultra-light gear, with a whole culture around it, he says. "How light can I make my pack? How much comfort am I willing to forego? But you don't know until you go." Thru-hikers tend to take a 1.5-pound tarp instead of a seven-pound tent. "More damp, more bugs equals a lighter pack," he says. "Thru-hikers sleep cold." Weight becomes a big issue for staying with the hike. "In the culture of the ultra-light weight, a bear can begins to be a little absurd," Leone says. A rule of thumb "is one-third of your [body] weight is tolerable. You want a certain amount of comfort."

Jocius carried a down sleeping bag for her hike.

"The rain, the elements, heat and bugs, that's how hiking is," Jocius says. "You deal with it."

Jocius carried trail soap and "took birdbaths in streams," she says. Or she would stop and jump into rivers and lakes. Sometimes she went into town and spent $2 on a shower that was available along the trail.

She averaged 13.76 miles each day of her hike, allowing for 12 zero-mile days when she rested. She did two 30-mile days back to back during one stretch.

Trail Angels

"The trail community is awesome," Jocius says. People who live near the trail and help hikers are called trail angels. "They do magic," she says. "Sometimes you'd find soda or beer in a creek, sometimes a cooler with apples and snacks. There would be a notebook to leave a thank you. Sometimes there would be fresh-baked cookies at a shelter. It's a cool support system," Jocius says.

In town there would be boxes where people could drop off gear they didn't want--too heavy, perhaps. Hikers could "swap it out" if they needed it.

Care packages also kept up hiker morale. Jennelle Haggnark, 28, one of Jocius' three sisters, sent at least six boxes. She'd mail "random stuff, candy we liked as a kid, gum, trail mix, disposable cameras, anything I could fit into a box," she says.

Haggnark had a baby in January, and Jocius was missing his milestones. So Haggnark sent pictures of baby Justin. After a week, Jocius then sent the baby pictures on to her mother. Jocius kept in email contact with her sister enough to tell her the next area she would be with at estimated date.

"I can't believe she did it," Haggnark says. "That's a lot of miles. It's a long time to be out of physical contact" with your family.

But on the trail she found good support, too.

Where the trail passes through towns, there are hostels, churches or private homes that offer a place to sleep.

"People bought us ice cream. They would let us use their TV, their refrigerator," she says.

Jocius says she was struck by how giving people were--usually.

One day in New York state, Jocius became seriously dehydrated. She had headaches. She hiked 20 miles to get to a shelter. After she ate dinner, she threw it up. The next morning everyone headed back to the trail. "Nobody stayed with me. I was left alone," she says.

She made it to the road, a tenth of a mile from the shelter, hoping to find a house and someone who could help her.

"I found a neighbor and asked him to take me to a hospital. He said, 'Call an ambulance. The hospital is an hour from here.' "

Then along came a day hiker who turned out to be a true trail angel. "He took me to the doctor, an hour away. He waited with me for three hours. Then he took me home, and his family gave me dinner, did my laundry and let me stay all night." The next day Jocius was able to be on her way.

Such random acts of kindness are part of the trail community, Jocius says.

"You had to trust each other," Jocius says. But sometimes a hiker violated that trust. One day there was word of a thief on the trail.

"That got people really uneasy and undermined the trust," she says. At the shelters there is a register where hikers sign in and leave comments. People who had things disappear would put it in the shelter register. One hiker lost a sleeping bag, another a rain jacket and food.

"This was essential gear," Jocius says. You cannot hike without it. Soon rumors started, and the news traveled up and down the trail. Hikers warned each other to be wary, to watch out for the thief.

He was busted when a hiker recognized his own new Teva sandals on the thief.

"He was caught and escorted out of town," Jocius says. The hostels would not accept him.

Woman alone

Jocius had been an avid runner and one who rode her bike whenever she could. So she felt 90 percent more prepared than many of the hikers she met at the beginning.

"How can you just jump into this? It amazed me that some [A.T. hikers] had never slept a night in the woods," she says.

Jocius was no stranger to sleeping in the woods or backpacking. For years growing up she was involved in the girls' camping program through her church. Her mother was the backpack leader.

"It was weird," Jocius said, of how few women were on the trail. "I'm the one without the beard."

As a woman alone on the trail, "I was a lot more approachable," Jocius says. "People wanted to hike with me."

Sometimes the trail goes along a highway, or hikers need to head into town for provisions. "Hitchhiking was scary in the beginning," Jocius says. But guys learned that women got picked up more quickly. So they'd say, "I'll wait for you; we can go together."

Actually, in spite of the hope of a wilderness experience, "there were tons of people on the trail all the time," Jocius says. "It kind of annoyed me."

Sometimes guys made passes. One night there was only one other guy in the shelter.

"Then he hiked with me and was definitely hitting on me. But I knew his pace and just went faster," Jocius says. She says she did not feel threatened. In fact, she felt flattered.

"Here I was, in my most disgusting state, and people were hitting on me. Sometimes guys hiking with me made fun of me for hiking fast and the number of miles [she hiked each day]."

Every night, Jocius says, she'd see the same people.

"[Toward the end of the hike], people clump up," she says. "You want to summit [Mt. Katahdin, Maine, 5,267 feet] with your friends. Plus, the 100-mile wilderness at the end is safer with another hiker."

Some hikers, once they reach their goal, have a hard time returning home. Jocius says the first week was rough. She has a computer job now, and she misses being outside.

She says she felt different after the hike, but it didn't show on the outside.

"Nobody treated me differently. 'Oh, she can just jump back in.' But it wasn't the same," she says.

Jocius has kept in touch with her trail friends, but they are all out of the area.

For Jocius, the hike was not just a physical event. "It was a whole-body experience. I did [the hike] because it is everything I am, everything I like to do. I did my drawings, I had a reason to wake up early and go to bed early. It was an embodiment of my ideals. It was natural for me to do it.

"I learned to deal with situations as they arrive," she says, "not to complain, deal with the weather, the dirt, and keep on trekking."

She didn't use maps for her hike; she didn't want to plan anything. "I'll just go and figure it out as I go, learn as I go. I'll hike my own hike."

She's back to taking a shower very day, but "the soap is drying me out." She still does not like fancy food. "But it's nice to have fresh food."

Now Jocius faces the "what's next" question. She is applying to the Peace Corps.

"I can rough it. I can walk everywhere. I'll give service to whomever needs help. I'm not picky. I want to explore more, to experience more."

Now that she is off the trail, without the blazes pointing the way, Jocius says, "I am trying to figure out my path."