Way back in March, we made a bet on who would cry first and I swore up and down it wouldn’t be me, I’m not a crier. It was me. It was the fourth day in a row of pouring rain and I stood ankle deep in mud with a cold river of water running down my back and into the top of my waistband. Six more miles until the next shelter. I cried for about thirty seconds, out of breath from hiking and heaving like a fish out of water. Then I realized I wasn’t carrying enough water to lose precious hydration on my tears. So I sucked it up, yanked my boots out of the mud, and trudged forward.
And trudge I did, for the next five months and one thousand miles, from Georgia to Pennsylvania. I hiked, I climbed, I sometimes even limped and staggered. Occasionally, I reached mountaintops and lifted my arms in victory, forgetting for a moment that my body was too weary to spend a little energy on celebrating.
We’ve been home for weeks already, though it still seems as though I woke up in the woods this morning. Truthfully, I’ve been putting off this last post because it makes me sad to be finished hiking. I keep receiving updates from other bloggers posing at the holy Katahdin sign- a symbol of everything we worked for- and trying to come to terms with the fact that I will not be posting my own eagerly-awaited summit photos I had been looking forward to for so long.
Though I am home now, I miss the home I’ve become accustomed to, the one with the sky for a ceiling and dirt for a floor. I miss having The Proclaimers, or Eye of the Tiger playing over and over in my head as I edged closer to the peaks. I miss the most basic hiker communication of rocks and sticks spelling out warnings of snakes ahead or celebrations of mileage. I miss the quiet of the woods, of hearing myself think and the chatter of chipmunks being the loudest noise I encountered in an entire day. I miss the surprise of stumbling upon a road after miles of rock trails- having forgotten already that some paths are smooth and level. I miss the giddiness of coming into town, the sheer bliss of satisfying an endless hunger at a diner. Hell, I even miss rolling out of the tent in the morning, leaning against a tree to push my aching body skyward and stretching out my muscles to discover which of my limbs decide to mostly function today.
Though I miss lots of things, there are others that I’ll carry with me even when I’m not on the trail. I’m so glad I learned the kindness of strangers, often whose names I never caught, but faces I’ll always remember. I learned to rely on others, and mostly on myself, both my body to carry me without giving out and my mind for persuading me to push a little farther- to feel my lungs expand bigger than I ever knew they could. The trail taught me lessons in simplicity, of stopping to catch my breath and noticing a toad or a little bird sharing my path, of adapting to the quiet and listening to the animals and leaves rustling. If you think childlike wonder has been lost, you should see a grown, bearded man speak to a caterpillar or watch his eyes light up in the glow of a campfire when you offer to share a piece of chocolate after a long day of hiking. These are the things I will think of when I’m in my ‘happy place,’ the things I daydream of, and the things I reiterate when people ask me why I’d want to live in the backwoods for months. I tell them I loved spending time living without interruption, without stress or agenda, and realizing how fortunate I was to be allowed this chunk of time in which I had no worries or immediate responsibilities- that was for later. Now was the time for being present. And present I was, drinking in my surroundings, complete with challenges that I took in stride. Sure, it was hot, steep, buggy, rainy, thirsty, hungry, exhausting at times- ok, all the time- but never boring. Never unworthy of my time.
Of course, I couldn’t have done it alone. I had the help of family and friends encouraging me from home, the help of strangers who were willing to give me their food and their time, and most of all, my two hiking companions who were there to literally pick me up when I fell down and push me forward when I wanted to turn back. My tent mates, my campfire builders, my buffet destroyers, and spider web clearers. Even on the cruelest days we still laughed, usually at ourselves.
There was this one guy in particular for whom I was, and am, always grateful. He carried the heavier half of a tent he never slept in for a thousand miles for me. He fetched water when it was too far. He swatted mosquitoes I couldn’t see and told me I was still pretty even when I hadn’t showered in a week and was covered in welts from bug bites. He continued on a twisted ankle for literally hundreds of miles, partially of his own determination but partly because he knew I wasn’t yet ready to give up on this grand adventure. He was there every step of the way, from the valleys to the peaks, to share in the misery and the celebration. A lot of people told us backpacking together would be a test of our relationship, but I would never have considered doing it any other way. Who better to share this experience with than my best friend?
I consistently find myself doing the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I think it’s pretty great. It means you’re always getting stronger and challenging yourself in new ways. I highly recommend it. When I look back at the last thousand miles, what I see are opportunities in my future. If I can do this, I can do anything. Even though we didn’t finish the AT, the seed of exploration has been planted and continues to grow within me. When I read about other long distance trails, or traveling in general, I know now that I am capable of setting out on any quest I choose. You know how after a long day of driving you close your eyes to fall asleep and you still see the road? It’s what’s burned into your brain after staring at nothing else for so long. When I close my eyes I see the trees.
Folks, it’s been a great adventure, and as always, it’s not over yet.