The next adventure

Everyone who hiked the Trail is now looking for what to do next.  We're all feeling many of the same things:

1.  We look at all the stuff we had in storage for 6 months and we wonder, "what the heck do I need all this for?"  So we begin the purge.

2.  We look at the four walls of the house or apartment and we think, "This seems a bit... constricting."  So some of us continue with the hiking/camping, or we get in a car and continue traveling, or we pick up and move somewhere completely different (perhaps close to the Trail, but definitely out of the city).  Some of us just kavetch about it on Facebook, not quite prepared to pick up and move or continue traveling.  Some of us just need the paycheck.

3. We all fear losing the... whatever it was... that we gained from the Trail.  We fear becoming "normal" as if normal equates to boring (which it doesn't have to).  So we say, "What now?  Does it really come down to going back to the way things were?"

So, I got rid of some stuff.  I kavetch on Facebook.  I am procrastinating getting a job because I just don't want to... be normal.  I don't want to get stuck in the routine, predictable life I had before.  Yeah, it was safe.  I'm tired of being safe.

I also know that things CAN'T be the same as they were on the Trail.  Why?  Well, I don't have a good answer to that exactly.  I am a bit of an idealist.  But I know, realistically, it can't.  So how do I adapt back to normal without giving in to boredom and safety?  How do I bring the lessons from the Trail to my life as I'm getting to know it now?

Huh.  Not sure.  Yeah, yeah, you were hoping for a better answer.  Sorry, don't have one.  But here's a theory.  I was intentionally homeless in the woods for 6 months.  Being homeless in a city is an entirely different monster.  Perhaps it would be good to learn what that is like.  No, not for 6 months.  But, perhaps my next adventure will be a few days in a shelter, a few days at food pantries and dumpsters, a few days on the bus system and walking around with my backpack - experiencing the stares and non-looks from passersby who assume I'm... whatever people assume when they see people without ready access to hot, running water.  One thing I learned on the Trail is that any of us are really just 2 days of non-showering and non-laundry from really looking homeless. And all the consequences for looking that way to other people.

I think it will be an experience akin to the spiritual transformation of the Trail.  And then, perhaps, I will be ready to live with stuff, in four walls that I pay rent for, and I won't kavetch about normal or being safe.  Because maybe, right now, I'm taking normal and safety for granted.

What I am more sure of is that I need to experience life in other people's shoes.  What is normal for others, but not me?  Let's try walking for a bit like that.

Next step - write a book

It's amazing to me how many people ask me if I'm going to write a book about my time on the Trail.  Maybe it's because everyone is just used to people getting their 15 seconds of fame, or because everyone seems to want to write about their own life - as if it's really important and riveting to the average American (really, people are way to narcissistic, but that's just MY opinion, in case YOU were interested in my opinion.  Hmmm.)

And maybe walking in the woods for 6 months really is quite riveting.

But then I wised up just a bit.  I started asking all these people who asked me if I was going to write a book if they had kept up with my blog.  Surprisingly, many of them said, well, um, no.  They had gotten a little behind in all that.  Often, a little behind meant they hadn't read the blog since the first or second post.

And yet they want me to write a book.  For what?  I'd be really surprised if they'd take the trouble to buy a book if they couldn't read the blog.  Don't get me wrong, if you are reading this, you aren't one of those people.  Obviously.  And maybe YOU want me to write a book too.

So, there are two trains of thought in my head at the moment.  Non-philosophically, the good news is, yes, I want to write a book.  No, it's NOT just a tale of my Trail.  It would be a fictionalized story based on my life - both on and off Trail.  It's a story I've wanted to write for years but had never found the right voice for until I met some folks on the Trail.  It's not just another person's experience on the AT; there are plenty of books out there already for that.  This would be, hopefully, a story about identity, redemption, emotional healing.  Yeah, all those feel good, sappy things that women write about for other women to read.  Sorry, guys.

However, philosophically, there's another thought.  It's the liberating idea that no one is REALLY watching.  Often, I get caught up in the "other" person's world.  What do they think of me?  Will they approve?  Is what I'm doing the "absolute" best thing?  Should I be doing something else?

If no one is really watching... then, what does it matter?  Who am I truly accountable to?  If no one really notices or cares, then why should I be so concerned about their opinion of me?

And who is watching?  Well, some of you.  Otherwise, I really am writing this blog for my own self-aggrandizement (is that a word?).  But, really, the only Person who REALLY cares is God.  And there's a real freedom in that.  I don't have all the judgement to worry about.  I don't have all the other opinions.  If someone watching doesn't like it, well... oh well.  They don't like it.  Probably, I don't like everything they do either. No problem.  I have the freedom to live self-responsibly.  I like that.  It's not freedom to act selfishly.  But rather, to act as I see fit with others. Because no really cares about me (or my story) as much as me or God.  And I don't care as much about anyone else as they or God care about them.

So, for those still reading this blog: THANK YOU.  I really appreciate you continuing on my journey with me.  There are things about walking in the woods I'd like to share with you.  For anyone else, well, you may have the opportunity to buy a book someday.

Go hike your own hike!

Getting back to normal

Bear bags in the Smokies

I remember those early days - way back in late March and early April.  That first time I hung a bear bag... in the cold rain (that turned to snow by morning).  I remember the first night I did NOT hang a bear bag... and never did again unless a hiking partner begged me to (and offered to do it for me).  I had learned that food was safer from bears in my occupied tent than hanging in a tree.  And I was still just as safe too.

This is Uke!!!

I remember the first person I shared a 2-person tent with.  Uke... you are awesome!  We had decided to night hike and had taken off from the shelter at 2 AM.  I had horrible stomach pain, and finally Uke decided we were just going to sleep.  Set up tent, use food bags as pillows (first time!), and lay down.  Uke snores, and likes to take up room in his tent.  I sleep for a while, but then I get up and feel much better.  I suggest to Uke that we keep going.  He mumbles something incoherent.  So, I leave a thank you note in his shoe and keep going solo.  Still being afraid of bears, I keep singing the "Go away bear" song.  Ah, yes, in our early days - we were still afraid of bears.

I remember all the awkward conversations at first.  "What's your trail name?"  "Oh, you don't have one? Ummm..."  We still weren't sure what the Trail etiquette was.  Could we ask for their real name?  Or where they were from?  Could we pop our blisters on the same log as they were eating dinner?  We all went well out of sight to change clothes - before we learned to change in our sleeping bags or just change in front of people.  Oh yeah, that was when we still changed clothes.

I remember taking the pack on and off and on and off and on and off.  Leave camp with two jackets, gloves, and buff (thingy that goes over my head).  In a couple hundred yards, get too warm.  Take off pack, put away gloves, buff and jacket.  Put pack on.  Walk another 0.3 miles.  Stop, take pack off, take off other jacket and stow it away.  Put pack back on.  Walk 50 feet before you realized you forgot to have a drink of water before putting pack back on.  Stop, take pack off, get drink of water, put pack on.  In that time, you get a little chilly, so you put the jacket back on.  Walk another 1/2 a mile trying to figure out why you are so hot when you were cold just a few minutes ago.  Finally, stop again, take pack off, put away jacket, put pack on.  And so on.  You get the picture.  Eventually, I learned to just leave camp a little chilly and to camel up on water before leaving.  You'll warm up and be fine.  Oh, and put snacks in your pockets, not your pack.

All these little things that make life sooooooo much easier on the Trail.  All these things that aren't important enough to really write home about (or a blog for that matter).  All these things that - as they became natural, routine, normal - we didn't have to think about them or be taught.  We just sort of eased into the cadence of the Trail.

Now that I'm back, I'm having to find the new (or former) cadence of life NOT in the woods.  I have more stuff - that's OK.  I need to spend more time on the computer - that's OK.  Makeup is not a necessary evil; it can be good and fun.  I actually will receive money for some work I do rather than just eating in exchange for food or a floor to sleep on.

Today, I picked up my backpack for the first time since getting back to Wisconsin.  There was a little twinge of nostalgia, that feeling of normalcy that I should be packing up and heaving it up onto my back.  It felt like home.  But that isn't home.  It's merely normal.  I've been staying at my parent's the past couple weeks - on the porch with all the windows open.  My "civilized" clothes are in a suitcase, and I'm still sleeping under a sleeping bag (though not my down one from the Trail).  That was beginning to feel normal - sort of a halfway house between "real civilized" living and being in the woods.  It still wasn't home (though I love my parents, don't get me wrong).  Now that I'm moving to where I'll be renting, it's another step to find normalcy in the permanence of non-Trail life.  Stop living out of bags altogether.  Sleep where there are no windows to the fresh air.  I'll be in the city where I'll actually have to drive somewhere I could walk on non-lawn grass or a wooded path.  But that place isn't home either.  But what I'm seeing in all the transitions I've had to make - to the Trail and back off of it - it will all become normal.  And maybe normal IS home.  Not sure.

My "toncho" blowing in the wind - tent by night, poncho by rain!  Home sweet home!

Church on the Trail

I went to church three times on the Trail in addition to a partial worship service another evening.

The first time was in Erwin TN.  It was a very small, dying church.  It began with 6 people at the front singing 4 hymns, never making eye contact with the 11 people sitting in the congregation (5 of them being first time visitors - all thru-hikers).  They didn't give us page numbers so we could sing along.  We just sat and watched them sing.  Then the preacher did his thing, in his frenetic, judgmental style.  And he went on and on until someone broke down in tears, begging for repentance at the altar.  Not to mention, the preacher completely misquoted scripture to make his point.  I left there with tears on my cheeks as I was praying for my fellow thru-hikers to not condemn all of Christianity based on that service.

The second service was in Waynesboro VA.  It was a small, but growing church.  Nondenominational.  In a strip mall.  They served coffee.  It was full of young families.  Drums, electric guitar, bass (but not too loud).  All the stuff I'm used in my church back home.  People talked to me and the other hikers I brought with me.  We were welcomed.  And yet, sitting in someplace that felt so familiar, comfortable, and homey, I felt out of place.  It was like I was an observer just passing through.  In many ways, that's exactly what I was.  But I wasn't just watching THEIR service.  I was witnessing the changes in ME.  The changes that realized that all that vibrant, hip, modern, cool way of doing things was not where it was.  It was church, and it was structured, and it... just didn't quite fit me anymore.  Well, to realize it never really DID fit me, but now, it was even more so.  God is cool, I love Jesus, and I really don't have anything against the church as a whole (in fact, I support it), but, somehow, I still don't know how to fit in. I liked what I saw them doing and what i heard them saying, but somehow, again, I was changing.

The next service was during Trail Days in Damascus VA.  One of the churches offered food and activities throughout the festival.  In the evenings they would have a live band out front playing covers of classic vinyl, 60's, and country/bluegrass.  It was fabulous, and I brought several hikers in to dance and party.  After that band was done, they invited us for more "live music" in the back room.  OK, I knew that it was going to be a worship service, but they didn't tell anyone that.  I tried to tell a couple people what they were walking into, but it didn't sink in on time.  We all got back there, and after the first two songs, they started to realize they had been duped into attending a religious service.  Don't get me wrong - it was very much like the worship in Waynesboro - modern music, lyrics on the screens to sing along with, dessert and lemonade in the back, even lighting cues.  But my hiker-buds were tricked into it.  By the third song, they were mocking those trying to worship.  I took a step back, away from everyone.  I didn't like that the Christians had not been forthright in inviting hikers to a worship set.  I didn't like that the hikers responded with open mockery.  I was caught in the middle, understanding both sides, wanting both sides to see each other for the good they were, and in that moment, seeing the flaws in both.  What to do?  I decided to start singing along in worship.  The lyrics were "Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna in the highest."  One hiker saw me and walked over.  "Are you a church girl?"  I said that I was for all practical purpose though that's not the phrase I usually choose.  "Can I ask you a question?"  Sure, I say.  Pause.  And then what I deem to be a completely honest question.  "Who is Hosanna?"  Huh, um, yeah.  This chorus I'm singing would make no sense to anyone outside of a certain knowledge level of church-goers.  So I explain it's a Hebrew word that is a exclamation of praise, much like the word "Hallelujah" is often used  - both religiously and secularly.  Ah, he says, thanks.  And then all the hikers decide at once to leave. They've had enough. They don't ask if I want to go with them because, well, I don't truly belong in that group either.  But I follow.  I'm somewhere in no-man's land between church and hiker trash.

The last service I went to was the day before I left the Trail in Rangeley Maine.  It was a small, mainline church.  Traditional music, robes, acolytes, pulpits.  The woman pastor explained the meaning of the color change in the linens on the altar - they had entered "ordinary time" after pentecost and before advent (google the liturgical calendar if this intrigues you).  We sang hymns accompanied by a piano.  The regular piano player was out on vacation and the pastor thanked the gal who stepped in as back up.  Then something unusual happened.  The pastor had three different people get up from the congregation and share how God had transformed their life... instead of a sermon!  After the service, Odie and I were invited to the coffee hour afterward which was a celebration for a person who was moving out West and leaving their congregation.  To be honest, I can't say that I agree or disagree with this particular church's doctrine or theology - they didn't go deeply into anything that day.  Perhaps that is a flaw.  But what I did see was a community where people were genuinely acknowledged, allowed to share and be celebrated.  They spoke of personal God-stuff. They laughed and cried together.  Yeah, that's what I wanted.  That's where I want to belong.

I know I only saw two hours into the life of that church, and every community has it's flaws.  Being back home in my church now, I am reminded of why I like my church, but also how I've changed and don't quite fit back in yet, or how I have never completely fit in.  It's not something wrong with the church, it's just I haven't adapted to their hike again.  I long to be hiker trash AND a part of the church.  I long to live all the facets of who God made me to be AND be fully accepted by a group of people who love Jesus they way I do.  Somehow, I always just find myself standing in between, on the fringe of, but never truly a part of any group.  Maybe I'm too much the devil's advocate, always running to the opposite side of a listing ship.

I'm sure my feelings say more about me than it does the church or anywhere else I'd like to be on the fringe of.  But I'm also guessing maybe this is how most people feel - they're just looking for a place to belong.  They want to be all of who they are and still be accepted.  I know that can happen with Jesus; that's been my experience.  I'm just not sure it can ever fully happen with humans.  So, I keep standing in between with everyone else who doesn't fit in.  Maybe that, in and of itself, can be a community.  Hmmmm.

No church here, but I did sleep in this "sanctuary" at the hostel in Hot Springs NC.  Just me and Odie on a pile of yoga mats in the middle of the floor.  

I forgot I went to this church service on the porch of someone's home in Hot Springs NC.  This was a cool service too.

Appalachian Apparitions***

I'm seeing many hikers posting their Katahdin pictures on Facebook.  They are all finishing up.  Some have even made it back to their prospective homes.  It occurred to me what a phenomenon traveling home really is.  Here we are - a few thousand people with backpacks all converged on a path 18 inches wide in the middle of nowhere.  People sometimes see us, at road crossings or the town laundry or in front of the beer cooler at the gas station.  But, we're really quite ethereal.  We fade back into the woods.  We cross the road, the lucky car to be there when we appear does a double take, and then we're back in the woods.  "Honey, did you see that?  Was it a person?  Was it Sasquatch?"

Apparitions.  Shades of reality.  Now you see us, now you don't.

And as we all end our treks, we fade back into the world.  Our moment of glory, our months of hard work, the buggered few we hiked with and fought with and slept with - we all go our separate ways, by plane, train, bus, or thumbing it.  Some had families waiting at the end.  Most had a beer and a Facebook post.  Some stayed for several days, not ready to fade into urban obscurity.  And as quickly as we had begun the Trail - just started following white blazes - that is how quickly it ended.  Put away the pack, take out the purse.  Put away the pants and socks you wore for 6 months straight - no one wants to see (smell) that here.  Speaking of which, don't forget to put on deodorant; oh, and shave your pits if you're going to wear a sleeveless shirt.

It's not that I disagree with any of these social mores.  It's just that... I'm not used to them.  It's not automatic anymore to grab a new (clean) pair of underwear.  I find it strange to actually own more than 1 pair.  I only started wearing underwear again on the Trail when I put a hole in the crotch of my pants and didn't have a sewing kit to fix it.  That's unheard of here in middle class suburbia.  I have to remember not to inspect my feet while sitting in the kitchen having breakfast.  That's uncouth.  Unhygienic.  And just kind of gross.  Yeah, I get it.  I just have to think through it.

I was at a high school volleyball game - and there was a lost and found.  I saw a cool hat.  Score!  I put it on.  Then someone reminded me that the hat wasn't mine and someone may be looking for it.  I couldn't just take it - that was stealing.  It never occurred to me like that.  I just figured the lost and found was like a hiker box - take it if you need/want it.  Put something back in if you don't need/want it for someone else.

And so as the Northbound class of 2013 thru-hikers graduate back to reality and forward to the next chapter in their lives, we all fade away from an elite class of bad-asses who climb mountains before breakfast, to simply... just another person on the bus.  One moment you see us, the next you don't.

Sometimes, you end up in a cave - this was part of Mahoosuc Notch

The view from this shelter was AMAZING!  But I'm giving you a glimpse of us hikers.

Patchouli sighting!

AWOL and me.  He wrote our guidebook.  This is at McGrath's Irish Pub in Vermont.

This is Miss Janet - mama of all hiker trash and has the BEST unmarked, white cargo van ever.  Love her!

Sometimes, you find yourself rock climbing when you mean to be hiking.  At least I had the ropes!

Mt Moosilauke - the precursor to the White Mtns.  Beautiful.

Wouldn't you want to be here?

This picture just looks like a ghost bird.  I feel a kinship - we're all apparitions.

Sifting sh... erm, compost from the privy.  Doing a work-for-stay.

I'm about to die according to the sign.  Why am I smiling?

Again, who wouldn't want to be here?  Y'all are missing out.

Evidence of lots of hikers.  This garage was pretty rank, I must admit.

***FYI, I stole this phrase from an article in some long-distance backpacking magazine I saw at some hostel.  Credit to whoever came up with that, because it wasn't me.

In lieu of my Katahdin picture

When I was a kid and before I learned the lesson that human children MUST grow up to be human adults, I used to want to be a moose.  Yes, I grew up wanting to be a moose.  I mean, if you think about, who wouldn't?  They're majestic.  They're brave.  They look somewhat unassuming, but they can kill wolves or bears or just stomp over human adults before breakfast.  They are the Chuck Norris of the antlered mammals.  So, as a kid, I would pretend I could shape-shift into a moose. 

Then I grew up, and realized, no, human children don't grow up to become moose.  They have to grow up and become... a contributing member of society, an insurance carrier, a responsible... adult.  *gasp* and Ugh.

So, I go hike this really long trail on the east coast.  I cancel my car insurance.  I get rid of a lot of my worldly possessions.  I quit my job.  I choose to be unemployed and homeless for 6 months (and less than clean).  I make Maine within walking distance of Georgia.  I rival the Canadian goose in its migration patterns.  Yeah, and I fly a little short of the original goal.  I land in Rangeley Maine, a sleepy little town with a sports bar and a quilt shop.  I do not get to stand atop Mt. Katahdin and get my obligatory picture of me triumphantly waving my trekking poles by the sign.  And that's important.  It's THE picture of all pictures for thru-hikers.  You made it to Katahdin.  Congrats.  So, what do I get in lieu of my Katahdin picture?

Well, I get to be a moose. 

Sure, it may be a fairly anti-climactic, unassuming picture.  But in the grand scheme of things, I just fulfilled a childhood dream.  For 6 months, I lived in the woods: majestic, brave, and unassuming.  And in Rangeley, Maine, it seemed only appropriate that this be my final picture of my trek.  I grew up and was a moose.

Back to the "real" world

Having a few days with friends in Boston is a good thing.  They didn't have much warning that I was coming so they weren't able to take off work.  During the day, I'm on my own.  But in the evening, they hang out with me.  They are even going through all 2000 pictures I took while on the Trail.  That is a sign of true friendship.  Two THOUSAND pictures.  We're on evening #3; we might finish tonight.  So, here's how it's gone so far since my horrific bus ride.

Evening after bus ride:  Jaime and Dan took me to Five Guys hamburger restaurant.  I realized I would now need to start counting calories - well, LIMITING calories - no more hiker hunger satisfaction for me.  Back to sedentary metabolism, preparing for menopause and learning how to not eat... anything.  I failed - had a huge cheeseburger and a whole bag of fries.  OK, will start the permanent diet tomorrow. 

By 9 pm I was really tired - afterall, the sun had gone down and "hiker midnight" had come and gone, but we were hardly home yet, and I hadn't seen them in a year so I should stay up and talk with them.  They went to bed at 11:30.  "Goodnight Sarah!"  "Goodnight Jaime!"  "Goodnight John Boy!"  Doors close, and I'm all alone.  In a room that could easily sleep 2 more on the floor and a bed that could hold 2 people.  Yeah, 4 people should be sleeping in this room.  Why am I alone?  I realized I hadn't really slept by myself in 6 months.  It was kinda' lonely.

Day 1:  wake up and cry; wonder if I made the right decision; look at weather in Maine about every 30 minutes on the internet; look at Facebook to see if anyone posted new pics from the Trail every 15 minutes; call friends and family to let them know I was off Trail and where I was.  cry more.  In between, I walk around restlessly in the four walls of Jaime's house.  I could go outside, but it's all cars and road, and I don't know my way around the streets.  I should go get clothes, but... well, I have clothes on, and they've been good enough for 6 months. 

I realize around 2pm that I hadn't eaten anything.  I open the cupboards and am overwhelmed by the choices.  Now, the kitchen is not a strength of mine to begin with and I'm usually at a loss of how to put together all the individual ingredients staring back at me.  Today was total overload.  I saw peanut butter- what a comfort.  I grabbed jelly (it was even strawberry).  And though they didn't have tortillas, they did have a flat bread product.  Perfect.  Tomorrow, I will try to begin to eat like a normal human.  Today, this seemed productive enough.

Once Jaime and Dan get home, it's OK.  We all make dinner together.  We get through about 600 pictures.  We all go to bed, and I'm alone again.  It's not quite as weird tonight.  Deep breath.  I can do this.

I learned something about myself - I love community and being with people more than I even realized.  I need to go home.  I was thinking I would do a little more traveling before I went home.  I thought that would be a good transition back to real life.  But no.  I think I need to go home and be surrounded by friends and family.

Day 2:  wake up and determine that I will be somewhat productive today.    Maybe yesterday was a needed zero day for me.  But first, I needed to have a good cry.  Then, I put on my shoes and start walking toward the consignment shop to buy clothes (after checking for Trail pictures on FB and the weather in Maine).  The shop was closed, and I realized that if I wasn't traveling around for a bit that I really didn't need clothes, so I kept walking.  I passed several people on the sidewalk.  I began asking every one of them where the Walmart was - just so they would have to stop and talk to me.  I knew where it was, but it was a good excuse to interact with strangers who were also walking on the same sidewalk as me (we had that in common at least).  I found Walmart and a grocery store.  I walked around the grocery store for an hour, talking to my mom on the phone, trying to absorb all the various food choices again.  Wow, canned goods - so heavy, and yet... I don't need to worry about that anymore.

I get the brilliant idea to make dinner for Jaime and Dan tonight.  First attempt - get overwhelmed, buy nutella, go outside and sit on curb and eat it.  Ah, that feels normal.  I look for packs leaning on the wall outside, or bearded men with filthy shirts.  Oh, this is not normal.  Deep breath.  Go back inside - learn to cook a real meal.  Second attempt - not too bad.  I ended up with ravioli, pesto sauce packets, salad fixings, and a brownie mix.  Not exactly cooked from scratch stuff, but still, not too shabby in my book.

Before I went on the Trail, I was a night owl - rarely went to bed before midnight of 1 AM.  I'm realizing how much of that is because of artificial lighting.  How quickly my body moved back to wanting to stay up late.  I was certainly cured of hiker midnight.  I went to sleep a little after 1 AM. Part of that time was spent online looking at car insurance - something I will need to purchase before I do too much else when I get home. 

Day 3:  Woke up this morning ALMOST feeling normal.  Felt able to make decisions on how to get home and when.  Made actual plans for this weekend (no I won't be home quite yet).  I haven't even been on Facebook yet today (that will be next).  Rather, I looked at some fun classes I could take when I got home.  I looked at a few places to see if they were hiring.  I compared a couple more insurance quotes.  Huh, it's like I'm a civilized human being again.

And sadly, the Trail is already starting to seem more like a dream than reality.  It was "this thing I did".  It's not so present.  Oh dear, now I get to cry again.  Better go do a Maine-weather check.