Being a Nomad... But NOT a Loner.

I like people. I much prefer to do things with people. Sometimes it's good to go do things on my own because then I can actually meet people. But other times, I want someone I have some sort of shared history with which to do things. I think that's called friendship. But I'm discovering that I'm a nomad. I have wanderlust. I like to do new things and go new places and meet new people. Historically, I've had difficulty finding friends who were willing to wander with me.

I found some of them on the Trail. And although I'm not sure if I've made any truly long term friendships on the Trail, I learned that there are others who think like me. Or at least, like me in that wandering sort of way. They are out there. Not sure they are here, specifically. But they are somewhere. If the Trail gave me anything... it gave me hope that I'm not just some anomaly in the universe. The anomaly being someone who desperately wants a deep group of friends who also wander about the planet.

Acorn, a fellow AT hiker (and has hiked 1000's of miles since then) told me that "I was the happiest when I was in a hostel."  So true. I love being in that communal place with so many different people who all share at least the same commonality of hiking North.

One of the reasons I went to the Trail was to find a "home." I thought that was sort of counter-intuitive at the time because it doesn't make any sense to become homeless and wander 2000 miles in search of a home (hmmm, I guess I should be reminded of Abraham and Ur). But now I see that I really was searching for that group of people who also loved to travel yet stay connected.

So, as I continue to hike the trail of life, I'm still looking for that elusive thing called "home." I've tried a couple of things so far, and it hasn't been quite right. Not entirely wrong, but... it needs to be tweaked. So I will keep searching. And tweaking. And hiking.

A nomadic home. Somewhere. But hopefully not alone.

Why I Relate to the Walking Dead

I was hooked on the AMC TV show "The Walking Dead" before I left for the AT. For everything else that's changed pre and post Trail, THAT has not changed. In fact, watching the new episode each week is one way that I continue to feel normal. For instance, remember when they were all scattered in the countryside, there was this one scene where a couple of them were fantasizing about what foods they missed - like hamburgers. I remember that too, deciding three days before getting into town what I was going to eat - and how much.

Now that the Walking Dead group has been welcomed into the new "town", they are all trying to get used to being back in civilization. Two recent episodes were like reliving coming home from the Trail. For those of you also addicted to the zombie apocalypse, but perhaps not as familiar with thru-hiking, let me explain the commonalities:

1. They all slept in the same room in the same house for the first few nights. That was like most hostels and shelters. That first night post-trail that I had to sleep alone... terrifying. 

2. When Carol and Carl scoped out the next door house to see if it was safe, Carol swiped a pile of papers from the desk. It wasn't stealing, but it was a different way of seeing "ownership". If it's not useful to someone else, but it is to you, then you can use it. Like in a hiker box. Or a dumpster. Or a lost and found. I was fussed at when I attempted to raid a lost and found upon getting home from the Trail. I did not consider it stealing; I was re-owning it (like re-cycling).

3. The group is invited to a welcome party. While there, Sasha freaks out a little bit when a town-person says that she's "worried about making a dinner she won't like." Sasha (along with others) just cannot fathom the seeming silly and superficial things that people are concerned about in society. We often call them "first world problems". When you've been more concerned about clean water, rationing food that won't spoil in hot weather, and duct-taping your shoes to get to the next town, some things just seem so trivial. I suppose in the Walking Dead world, even duct-taping your hiking shoes is fairly trivial, but I hope you are getting the parallelism.

4. At that same cocktail party, it was apparent that Rick's group were the outsiders, and they felt like they were on display. It was awkward for them to fit in. And they didn't. That's a familiar feeling. The same, but different - an outsider. Here I am at the same parties I used to go to before the Trail, and now, I'm an outsider.

And the most important thing that I related to in the recent episode:

Carol and Carl both said that being back in civilization was going to "make them weak." Yes, I have gotten weak. At least, that's how it feels. I find myself getting "worried" over superfluous things. I've lost my trail legs (and lungs). I'm a little nervous about getting "back out there" to another Trail, yet I really want to. I know I'm not weak, but... heck, I hyper-extended my knee... at church. At church!?! Not even a good story to go with it. 

So, I wait patiently until next Sunday to get my "walking (dead)" fix, and feel a little normal, to be in a world slightly more familiar.   

Lessons I learned on the A.T. (and had started to forget in the "real world")

Several of us had a great conversation last week. We talked about what had taken us out to the Trail, what we had hoped to get from it, and what we actually DID get out of it. We talked about the transition back to "real life" and in what ways are both working and not so much. We talked about the ups and the downs. In the interest of confidentiality, I'm not going to go into any detail of what others said. But I'll give you a few thoughts I've had since that conference call.

The Trail gets a little more distant each day, and sometimes I'm a little afraid of forgetting it altogether. There's good reason for that fear too. In this cold bitter winter, it's hard to remember the feel of the warm sun or the sweat drying in a cool breeze. I had forgotten that Odie made the Darth Vader sound EVERY night I blew up my air mattress, and I ALWAYS laughed (he had a closed cell) - that is, until our phone conversation. It was nice to just "talk Trail" again with others who were there, who know.

And, there were a few lessons I learned out there that had started to get a little hazy, things I wanted to remember and apply to this new life I was creating post-trail, but had put off to the side in the busy-ness of paying bills.  Those were:

1. Being in the Present Moment. I forgot that I don't need to be completely productive every moment of the day or that it's OK to just waste time once in a while. Yes, I like to work, but I had just decided that if I didn't have anything better to do (i.e. anything planned), I might as well work. So, today, I went to an Irish pub, bought myself a whiskey, and after that, a leisurely walk- with not just one stop for ice cream, but two. Yup, wasted time, ate lots of ice cream because... well, just because. Yay me.

2. Friends. I forgot friends? Well, kinda. This is hard to explain. I have friends, but I feel separated from them. Separated by distance from my hiker family. Separated by commonality from those near me. And, when the friends from home have gotten on with their life during the 6 months I was gone, I still haven't really gotten back "in" with them. So, I worked (see above paragraph). Or I do things on my own. Which is fine. Except I'm a nomad... not a loner. There's a difference.

3. Simplicity. One reason for all my part time jobs is to put together a life that isn't as mind-numbing as pre-Trail. However, I had started to forget that my paying jobs are not what makes my life. Just like before the Trail, the most meaningful moments happen when I'm not getting paid. I don't look good on paper - my resume sucks. But when I take the time to remember the simple (and present, i.e. unexpected) moments, I realize that I have a pretty entertaining, and meaningful, life. Like above, when I remember to waste time (and NOT be sitting in my room), the simplicity of what's in front of me takes priority.

All that said, I'm grateful. Grateful for my life the way it is currently. I can't say I feel this way in every moment of every day, but I still wouldn't change where I'm at currently. I want to move on and move out of this haze. I want to get to the place where life is what I want it to be and I'm surrounded by like-minded people. But, until then, I choose to enjoy the journey, the learn from the struggle, and hone my orienteering skills as I find the new North of life.

Blazing Beyond Post-Trail Depression & Post-Suicide TOGETHER.

On January 2, 2014, I was called by a fellow hiker who asked "What the hell is going on!?!?" The hiker community had been surprised by the suicide of one of our own. Then, the hiker on the phone with me received the double-whammy of having a second friend commit suicide within just a few days. About a week and a half later, a gal I had shared coffee with here in Wisconsin also committed suicide.

It seems many of us in the past year have been affected by suicide. Hearing about another recent suicide in the hiker community in the past week, I felt like I had to do... something. From my experience, suicidal thoughts CAN happen (not always) when people feel isolated and alone. When hikers come back home, they are absorbed by the rest of the non-hiking community, and it's easy to feel separated from the positive and healing experiences from the trail. Hikers really are a "band of buggered few" with memories that just can't be shared and understood by someone who hasn't backpacked. Likewise, people who survive through someone committing suicide are another group that are bonded together through unique circumstance - only this one usually isn't as bonding because we don't know where we all are.

So, let's start to regroup. Let's have a phone call where we can all get together and express a little about what the Trail meant to us, what lessons we learned, and how we may be having difficulty applying those lessons back in civilization. Let's get together to talk a little about how we feel about the friends we've lost, about the friends we've helped, about how we're afraid of losing ourselves.

Want to join the conversation? It'll be Friday, February 27 at 7 PM Central Time (8 PM Eastern, 6 PM Mountain). Email me at hikerslisten@gmail.com. I will respond with the call-in information. Check your time zone and get it in your calendar:

***Please share this with other long-distance and thru-hikers - I don't care what year they hiked, which direction they hiked, or even what Trail they hiked. They may need to feel "normal" again with others who "get it." Let's try to keep everyone on the Trail of Life! Keep Hiking!

Struggling with post-Trail Depression? Want to help others who are?

I have wanted to begin blogging again. I didn't think this was going to be my "come-back" post. I didn't want another hiker's death to be the reason I resumed "Appalachian Oasis." *Sigh* We don't always get what we want. But... something needs to be done. And this is what I can think of to do to possibly help.

If you are a long-distance hiker who is struggling with feeling "normal" now that you've returned to the "real world" (and you understand why I'm putting these words in quotes), please keep reading... 

I'm Patchouli. I used to be a bad ass.
In 2013, I hiked 2000 miles on the Appalachian Trail. Some of you may remember me - I was known as "Patchouli". For six months, I only had one direction to go. Everyone else was going in that direction too. We all had the same goal - Katahdin. We were all doing the same wild and crazy adventure that everyone back home was either jealous of or they didn't understand. Either way, we were elite, we were special, we had purpose.

Then, I returned to my hometown, moved back in the house I had been in, and... wandered aimlessly. I was lost. I had changed. The Trail had changed me. I tried to go back to what I knew, to be who I had been, but that didn't fit anymore. My friends... well, I guess we all had changed while I was gone because we didn't have much in common anymore. Working for 12 years in one full time job previously was boring and painstaking, but it HAD paid bills and was secure. Now... my priorities had changed. I had to re-create my very existence. Square One. Springer Mountain - only this time I didn't have AWOL's guide and no blazes to follow. It was dense undergrowth I'd have to hack my way through in this urban jungle.

I have stayed in touch with a few people from the Trail, but mostly, I feel somewhat forgotten. Forgettable. I'm no longer a bad-ass that hikes mountains before breakfast. I'm just... nothing. So I try, I strive, I work really hard for a bit and that... that feels false as well, not like the ease and simplicity of the Trail. Not much holds excitement anymore. Where are the damn blazes? What am I supposed to be moving toward now?

Post Trail Depression
Zach Davis (Good Badger) speaks of Post-Trail Depression in his book, "Appalachian Trials". I read that book before I left for the Trail, so I thought I understood what I was getting myself into. A couple months after I came home, and I was listless and purposeless and numb, I thought, "Oh, this is just Post-Trail Depression." I could accept it, get through it.  But it continued. On and on. Sometimes it lets up, but mostly, it's still there - just in the background. Thankfully, I have resources to reach out to for help. I have loving family and friends, that - although they don't understand and I don't have much in common with anymore - they still care and try to be there as they can best figure out.

I know there are others who do not have that.

I know because I hear things through the grapevine - mostly Facebook. I called 2014 the 'year of death'. It opened with 3 suicides in January. Then attempts, and cutting, and other self-destructive behavior. No, not all from hikers, but several. This Post-Trail Depression was deeper than I ever thought possible. I was so relieved when 2015 rolled around. Except that... unfortunately, I'm still hearing that hikers are feeling isolated, disconnected, depressed, fighting to find purpose - even to find the will to live.

But... we are NOT alone.
We are ALL still thru-hikers, yes, separated by miles and time. But we still have the commonality of the culture and experience of being a long-distance hiker, a backpacker, a thru-hiker, a bad-ass. Call yourself what you will.

Therefore, I want to create a place for us thru-hikers to talk, to reminisce, to converse about our struggles and our victories, to give and to receive hope as we need. I'm soul-weary to hear of another hiker take their own life, to self destruct, or to feel isolated. Especially when I know so MANY of us also feel that same way. There's just no need to struggle alone.

Let's start a conversation. I'm going to host two conference calls. They won't have much of an agenda other than, like we did on the Trail, to encourage each other to keep hiking the trail of life, to not give up, to find the strength to continue. Let's help each other find the blazes again. We'll just talk, like we did around the campfires.

I feel I'm only starting to find my footing again in the "real" world (why is THIS world the real one?), and I'm not sure it's entirely secure. But I have hope. And... I have a little hope to spare. So, if someone else needs a little, I could give it. I'm not the expert here or the one with the answers; I'm just the one providing the platform so we can all tell the stories of what has and hasn't worked for us.

Want to join the conversation? Email me at hikerslisten@gmail.com. 
Tell me which conference call you want to attend, and I will respond with the call-in information for that time. I can only take 25 people per call - which is a lot of people if we want to encourage everyone to share. Oh, and it's free (Trail Magic!).

The dates are:
Thursday, February 26 at Noon Central Time (1 pm Eastern, 11 AM Mountain)
Friday, February 27 at 7 PM Central Time (8 PM Eastern, 6 PM Mountain)

***Please share this with other long-distance and thru-hikers - I don't care what year they hiked, which direction they hiked, or even what Trail they hiked. If they took a dump in the woods and carried their toilet paper out with them for more than a few days, they may relate to this post. They may need to feel "normal" again with others who "get it." Let's try to keep everyone on the Trail of Life! Keep Hiking!

Gratitude Revisited

The other day I found myself re-reading all of my posts from my hike.  One, in particular, stood out.  It was the very first one I wrote from the Trail itself.  I said that the overwhelming feeling on the Trail was gratitude.  I detailed several things that had happened for why I was so grateful.

Funny thing.  They were such LITTLE things.  Gloves. An offer of a slackpack (one that didn't pan out).  Finding shelter in snow.  Even now, they don't really SEEM like little things.  At the time, they were HUGE! Gloves may have been the difference between further nerve damage or not.  That's a lifetime consequence... not so little.  Being able to work at Len Foote Inn... my hiking partner, Yeti, was fighting illness and exhaustion.  Having that place could have been the difference between her continuing her hike or not even before she got to the actual Trail.  Or worse.  Again, not little.  

On the flip side, I could have been ungrateful about all the cold and snow we started in.  The fact that I needed to be concerned about nerve damage or hypothermia - well, that's a bummer.  Shouldn't I be focused on THOSE things instead?  But no, instead, I was grateful for the small things people could offer us to help.

It's hard to keep that focus here in frigid Wisconsin.  Believe me, I have tried.  But I find that I tend to focus more on what I do NOT have instead of the small things that are being provided.  I miss hiking.  I miss people.  I miss warmth and sunshine.  I miss not waking up to a window-full of the neighbor's house.  I miss the smell of my backpack straps (I know, that's disturbing).

I have spurts of gratefulness.  That's actually what prompted this blogpost.  I wanted to write about what I was so grateful for, even here in condo-land: my housemates, daily coffee, the freshly fallen snow, the fact that it was warmer on Sunday so I could hike with new people, the bread recipe my sister shared, lunch with my other sister.  

But, I must admit, it's harder here.  Not impossible.  And certainly something I need to continue working on.  But I'm not there yet.  I'm not your always-smiling-silver-lining-pointing kind of gal.  There's a lot more to take for granted here, and thus to complain about.  On the Trail, there were so few needs, but they were so apparent that it was easy to see when those needs got met.  Here my needs are less tangible, more complex, more spread out in several directions.  I don't always see them being met.  Or I take it for granted.  

It's strange how I can be so grateful one millisecond, and the next (and sometimes emotions can occupy the same mind at the same time), I'm all cynical-genX-snark.  Not sure how to cure myself of that other than to keep pointing my way back to gratitude when I see I'm not there.  

Yup, I know.  That's not much resolution for a blog post.  No lesson learned or something achieved.  But, that's what I got for you at the moment.  You're welcome ;-)

New Year's Resolutions

Well, 2013 is over.  There may yet be a few stragglers hoping to finish up their 2013 thru-hike of the AT - picking up the last sections they may have skipped over; however, for the most part, that is over.  The class of 2013 NOBO's is a thing of the past only to be remembered now in photos, new hikes, and reunions with fellow hiker trash.

There are many lessons I learned in 2013.  Many were ones I thought I knew and had to relearn, or learn at a new depth of understanding.  Some, I'm sure, will be forgotten and need to be relearned in upcoming years and hikes.

I learned that it's OK to just be me.  I don't HAVE to produce, achieve, or be special.  In fact, no one really cares if I am.  Those who do care, care about me just by me being me.

I learned a job is not where my security is.  Yes, I need money.  Yes, a job will achieve money.  But a job doesn't define me, it doesn't give me meaning or purpose, and no one really cares what I do, as long as I'm not a burden on them.  Those who do care, care about my being able to have a well-lived life with the comforts and work that is best for me.

Here.  Climb this.  For fun.

I learned that I like to work.  I used to think I was lazy because I hated the idea of going to a 9-5er.  I used to think I must not have a good work ethic or maybe I'm just hiding my "mooching" side of me because I wanted to do something other than have a "traditional" job.  I learned that I really LIKE to work.  I like to make things that help someone else.  I don't enjoy not having something to put my hand to.  I'm not lazy.  I just don't have to settle for the same work that most do.

I learned that I'm OK being by myself.  I had known that before, but I learned a new depth to that.  I learned how much I love being around people.  I knew that before too, but seeing this in a different capacity gave a new layer for me to noodle around.  I've learned that I need time to be by myself AND time to be social.  Newsflash:  I'm a social butterfly who likes vast amounts of time to myself.  Weird.  If you can figure out how to make that work in real life, you let me know.

So many more lessons, but I won't bore you.  But let's take a moment to look forward.  2014.  Now what?

Not to sound overly dramatic, but I think that I would be selling my soul if I were to go back to the "way things were" before last March.  If I just got myself a job, I wouldn't be honoring the lessons learned on the Trail.  I'd devalue both myself AND the Trail.  Sure, if my reserves get low enough, I know that I will need to just take whatever I need to for income.  Because I'm not a mooch, and I'm not lazy.  But... if I have the ability now to live on very little so that I can slowly create the income that I need to move toward the next path for my life, then... that's what I will need to do.

I'm trying to fit in to the mold I lived in before.  And everyone is noticing that that isn't working overly well.  A new mold needs to be built, and that takes time.  So, this mold of where I go, what I do with my free time, who I hang out with, what volunteer choices I make, etc etc.  All of those things are under scrutiny.   That's not to say I do not love and cherish the people and events from the previous mold.  Or that I won't somehow incorporate some of them into the new mold.

The new me emerging.

But things are a-changin'.  Out with the old.  In with the new.  Cherish the past. Look to the future.  Live in the present.

I'll keep you posted, but I think it's safe to assume things may be a-changin' on this posting as well.  The winds of change may be pointing toward another blog before too long.  I hope you will continue to follow my adventure.

Time Waits for No Man

I've been back in Wisconsin for just over three months.  And it shows today.  It's snowing like crazy.  It's been a cold winter so far.  Not pleasant to be outside in.  This weather makes it difficult to recall those hot, humid days on the Trail.  It seems like a far away dream.

And yet, yes, it definitely happened.  How can I tell?  Well, for starters, I am still mostly unemployed.  Three months home and I still don't have "a job".  Or at least some means of meeting the monthly bills.  Today is Sunday.  Nine months ago I would have been joining in with the millions of Americans who dread Mondays.  Today?  Not so much.  In fact, I'm looking forward to doing the project a friend offered to pay me for while the snow comes down.  It's a really good day to be indoors working on the computer.  Yeah, weekends don't mean a whole lot at the moment.

I've been home three months.  One year ago, I was just starting to test out some gear.  I had the first of 5 sleeping bags that I'd try before I'd finally settle on the right one for the trek.  My room was getting the first signs that it was inhabited by an outdoorsy gearhead - three different sleeping pads, random carabeeners, guylines, and tent stakes littered the floor.  Someone offered to let me use their dehydrator.

Wow, it was a year ago that I gave up my ferrets, knowing I couldn't let someone else take care of a geriatric ferret AND a young ferret for six month in my absence.  The other night, I actually found myself listening for the scratching sounds my ferrets used to make while I was trying to sleep.  It seems that now I'm always listening for sounds of "others" in my room at night - whether it be fellow hikers or ferrets.

A week and half until the end of 2013.  The class of 2013 Thru-Hikers is about to be relegated to a place in the past so that the new class can emerge and start their hike.  Hikers are starting to make plans on Facebook to go to Trail Days in Damascus in May - a reliving of their glory days from this year.  Heck, I even joke that if I'm still unemployed in March, maybe I'll just hit the Trail again.  Why not?  I got 220 miles to finish up.  Might as well attempt the whole 2200 miles over.  Or maybe I'll just start from Damascus... Or...

... Maybe I'll find a job.  Maybe I'll settle back into this north-midwest lifestyle.  Maybe I'll swing that one leg out of the (not so distant) past so I can have both feet firmly planted in the present.  Perhaps even with a step toward the future.  There is something future I would like to move toward.  Just not sure how to get there.  The Trail is definitely not blazed for the destination I have in mind.  So, today, as I look out at the winter wonderland out my window, I'm amazed at the passage of time and all that's occurred in the past year, and what could possibly occur in the next.  And I wonder how I will keep up.

Just need to go for a walk

I still walk a lot.  I walk back and forth from church.  There's not much in the way of jobs within walking distance, but I have given that much thought.  I've walked to the library, to friend's houses, to the community center.  I find it more difficult to walk without some sort of destination, so if I can find even a simple reason to go somewhere that I can walk to, I'm fairly apt to make that happen.

Why do I walk?  Well, it gives me time to think.  My mind clears so much when walking.  I talk to God. I talk to myself. I have imaginary conversations with other people.  You know, all stuff I did while walking all day, every day.  There was a LOT of talking while walking.

When I'm walking, the world seems a friendlier place.  It doesn't seem so daunting.  Goals aren't so far-fetched as to be called only dreams.  Ideas seem more possible.  God's voice seems more obvious.  My voice sounds a lot less like God's (don't ask me to explain that one!).

When I walk, I can come up with a hundred blog post ideas, I get motivated to write a book, excited to work toward another hike or another dream.  When I walk, my shrinking bank account doesn't seem so needy, the healthcare act deadline isn't so imminent, and my resume even seems SLIGHTLY impressive (Hire me; I hiked mountains).

When I walk, I'm glad to be where I am.

Then I sit in front of this computer with all one hundred blog post ideas and attempt to type...
...
    ....
          ....

Ahem.  Yup.  Where are those ideas?  My mind gets all muddled with everything in front of me, and I think... "I used to be so busy!  How can I get so befuddled by the relatively few things now?"

I just need to go for a walk.

Putting words to a feeling, or something like that

I bet you had started to think I was never going to post on this blog again, didn't you?  Well, to be honest, I have thought about this almost daily, but something always gets in the way.  It's not for lack of time, mind you.  I have plenty of that, still being mostly unemployed.  It's also not because I don't constantly think about the Trail.  I do.  It's always just below the surface of my thoughts.  Constantly processing, but I have such a hard time putting words to the thoughts.  This is a phenomenon that is new to me; I can usually verbalize.

I'm a changed person.  In some ways I'm more reserved, quieter.  In others, I'm much more liberated or liberal.  I miss the camaraderie of the Trail, but I also know full well that I never really fit in there either.  I miss the simplicity of always knowing I just need to hike North, but I also realize that can't realistically continue forever.  Nor do I want that to always be my goal.  However, I have no idea where to go from here.  It doesn't have to be North.  But where?  Literally and figuratively.

I feel the pressure to find income.  From myself, not so much from others (yet).   I'm not completely out of my reserves, but I would like to find a stream of revenue so I could start saving up again for... something.  However, I'm pulled between finding "a job" to get money vs. finding something meaningful that will allow me to also pay bills.  And also save up for... something.  

I find myself pulling away from the familiar.  I'm finding that what was comfortable 8 months ago is no longer. The familiar is often UN-comfortable.  Things just don't seem as "real."  I find myself thinking "how did I get here?"  Or more accurately, "how did I get BACK here?"  

I think I've always been a free spirit, a bit of a nomad.  Most of life has taught me that being free-spirited is a bit selfish and not what a "good girl" should be.  But, I also do have a fierce loyalty and a need for deep connection and roots.  Can contentment be found where freedom and connection occupy the same place and hold equal value?  Can I become truly content with myself?  Does that fly in the face of me wanting to overcome my damned self-sufficiency?  And does that mean that I will still be alone?

What worked in the past isn't working these days... to distract myself, to find meaning, to bring fulfillment or achievement.  So, I need to find what will work.  Yes, yes, I know the simple answer is God.  Don't worry.  That's still firmly in place.  I know that God will provide.  I know He's here with me now.  That makes me smile.  And I'm not WORRIED about the future.  I just can't see it, can't see my next move, my next blaze.  I can't go back, and don't know how to move forward.  So, I continue to process.  

It's also a comfort to stalk fellow hikers on Facebook and see what they are up to.  Many have made HUGE changes to their lives - moved across country, radically changed career paths, or some haven't gone home yet and are still traveling about.  Many seem to be in this "in between" place like me.  They are back in familiar surroundings, but it feels foreign.  They feel a bit lost now that they are no longer wandering.  There's a lot of "missing the Trail."  I think many are also processing, but having difficulty verbalizing.  If I don't have a deep connection with most of my fellow hikers, at least I know I'm not alone in still feeling a bit displaced, comfortable in my own skin but uncomfortable in the clothes I had put on before.  

I've been trying to put words around these feelings for almost a month.  I haven't done it justice.  I've been trying to find the end of this tunnel, so I don't leave anyone reading this at a loss, or feeling like you should be doing something different, or offended or whatever.  That is DEFINITELY NOT what this post is about!  This is my journey.  And although I'm floundering at the moment, there's not a moment I would trade out for something else.  I don't regret a moment.  I don't enjoy being down, but I know there's an up.  After all, the Trail ALWAYS goes up, right?  I just gotta keep climbing.  The Trail is there, and He always provides.

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.

All good things come to an end

Well, at some point the Trail has to come to an end.  I made it GA-->Maine; all 14 states; just shy of 2000 miles (1,965.5 to be exact).  I didn't quite reach Katahdin, the terminus of the AT.  Remember that little setback in the ER in Massachusetts?  Well, after getting my full pack returned to me in Gorham NH, and hiking for a few days with that, I realized that my back was not as healed up as I was hoping.  Maine is a very remote place, and I was realizing going into the 100 mile wilderness may not be the best idea with my back still not completely healed.  I certainly don't want to deal with MRSA in the wilderness. 

So, a bittersweet end.  I felt I needed to make a long-term decision for my health rather than the desire to stay in the woods for another 3-4 weeks.  So, yesterday, I got a ride to Augusta ME where I could pick up a bus to get to Massachusetts to stay with friends for a few days and regroup.  Now what?

The bus trip was... quite honestly, terrifying.  Here were so many people in such a small space, and NO one was talking to each other.  20+ people with 20+ silent, impenetrable bubbles.  Why weren't we talking?  Plus, we're flying down the interstate.  How can anyone see the trees or rocks?  What if there was a moose by the pond we just whizzed by?  Do all of these silent people not care about seeing a moose? 

Then, we got to the city.  It was after dark.  Wow, so many lights, so much stimuli, going by my window oh so fast.  I couldn't take it all in.  I had to shut my eyes.  We went through a tunnel, brightly buzzing with fluorescent lights, trying to comfort the claustrophobic (like me).  The bus spit me out at the airport where my friends were going to pick me up.  All alone, surrounded by concrete and echoes of engines reverberating off the road above me and beneath me.  People passed me, and I'm sure they were choking on my sweat-vinegar-pack-stench as much as I was choking on their perfume and hairspray wafting behind them (which, by the way, masked the laundry detergent). 

This world... so familiar, so foreign.  I've stood at this very spot previously at this airport.  I know about manicures and business suits and mascara and patent leather.  But it's been so long since I've seen it.  It all seems very... overwhelming. 

Yes, I'm a little lost - not having white blazes to follow now.  The path isn't quite as clear and there are many forks to choose from.  Which one do I choose?

But, ahhhhh, the Trail provides.  My friends came, and they were a comfort.  They asked about the Trail and my stories and I could begin to process the meaning of all the monotony that was the green tunnel of the Trail.  I  could start to share maybe a glimpse of why someone would want to sleep in mouse-infested shelters, eat peanut butter every day for six months, walk every day with every step having a pain in the knee, forsake the comforts and conveniences of tunnels and lights and manicures and perfume.   

I'm going to continue blogging because it's my way of processing this experience of the Trail.  If you keep following along, you'll keep hearing stories, and I'll post more pictures.  And someday, I'll get back to Rangeley Maine and I will walk those 220 miles north to Katahdin.  I think I've actually already finished the Trail - as Odie said, "Some people don't need the WHOLE Trail (and some need more than one trail)", but other people need a photo to prove the accomplishment.  And I would like it as well.  Maybe after I get the Katahdin photo, I'll swing back to Vermont and finish the Long Trail.  Or fly to Europe to hike the Camino.  Or...  *sigh*  Where are those white blazes?

Perception is Reality

I'm in Maine!  After 1900 miles and 13 other states, I'm on the home stretch.  Yesterday, I traversed Mahoosuc Notch, known as the "darndest" mile on the trail.  It takes an average of 2 hours to go through 1 mile.  It's all bouldering mostly over, but sometimes under (and through), large rocks.  Odie and I hiked with Kentucky, a section hiker who plans to finish up Katahdin next year.  It took us 2 hours and 50 minutes.  In the guidebook, this mile is is described as either the most fun or most difficult mile of the Trail.

Now I ask you, if you had a choice, would you choose to take the most fun mile or the most difficult mile?   What if you didn't know that they, in fact, were the exact same mile?  Would you choose it to be fun or difficult?  Or, maybe, both?

I LOVED the Mahoosuc Notch.  It was challenging, remote, beautiful, used ALL your muscles (not just the legs) as you hauled yourself over a rock, clinging to a small ledge enough for three fingers, or using a (hopefully well connected) tree root to lower yourself down a sheer slope.  In fact, I loved it enough to do it twice.  Once through northbound, then back through it southbound.  I mean, lwhen will I be this way again?  I better get my money's worth now.  Second time through... I'm guessing it was about 90 minutes.  Odie made me promise to get to the trailhead before him (he and Kentucky climbed the Mahoosuc Arm and back down a side trail) or else he'd worry.  So, I made it a challenge to go through as quickly as I could.  Fun!  The darndest mile on the Trail - twice in one day.  Yup, I felt pretty hardcore.

So, we all chose to to make the Mahoosuc Notch the most FUN mile, rather than focus on its difficulty.  That worked pretty darn well.

Now, let's fast forward another 3-4 weeks and another 300 miles.  Summit Katahdin.  Get the obligatory picture with the sign.  Look around and... for the first time in 2185.9 miles do NOT follow the white blaze.  Do NOT go North.  Huh.  Now what?

I'm observing that many people came out to the Trail to figure out what they would do next (including me, to a degree).  And as Katahdin looms in the not so distant future, many are becoming very nervous.  They only have 300 miles to figure out what they gave themselves 2200 miles to figure out.  And they haven't.

As for myself, I have no idea what I will do when I descend from Katahdin.  Heck, I don't even know HOW I'm getting home - greyhound, airplane, hitch?  Then, when I get back, I suppose I should find a job.  I've considered the ministry.  I've considered health coaching.  I've considered bartending.  Is it possible to do all three?  I think so, but not sure.

I may not know what's around the next corner, or in the valley after Katahdin.  There's only one question I can ask myself:  Shall I choose to consider this next Trail after Katahdin fun or difficult?  Or both?

Wind Storms and Ice Caves

Phew!  I made it through the White Mountains in New Hampshire.  I've been nervous about them since I started the Trail.  They are definitely the motherload of hiking.  In fact, sometimes it's more akin to bouldering or technical climbing (without the luxury of rope and harness) than it is hiking.  And except for a few minor slips on wet rocks, I made it through unscathed and uninjured.

My mother was very worried about me hiking over Mount Washington in bad weather.  And who wouldn't be worried?  Mount Washington has the worst recorded weather in the world!  Now, not on a daily basis, mind you.  But many people have died over the years and, admittedly, it's got its dangers.  I was nervous about it.  But we had great weather, well, over Mount Washington.

It was a gorgeous day.  We hiked from one hut to the Lake of the Clouds where Odie and I washed some dishes in exchange for coffee and a bowl of soup.  Then we started the ascent to Mt Washington - the tourist trap of deadly places.  We got to the top, and I headed over to the side to get a picture of the view.  The view was of a two-terraced parking lot over the side of the mountain.  Yes, you can drive there.  You can take a train there.  You can get on a mini-van and get shuttled there.  Why in the world was I hiking?  Odie and I had a really good laugh at that.

However, we needed to keep moving.  Rain was moving in during the afternoon, and we still had 2 miles of ridge above treeline to hike before we could get down safely.  Well, that was not to be.

The clouds were coming in and we decided to stealth camp at this one little place just at treeline by a spring.  Beautiful place.  Pitched the tent and crawled inside.  No thunderstorm (thankfully) but it rained pretty hard and the winds really picked up speed.

In the morning, we crawled out of the tent into dense fog.  We HAD to get off that ridge, and it was 1.5 miles to the next hut where we could get out of the weather.  There are small piles of rocks (instead of white blazes) indicating where the trail went on the ridge.  The fog was so so dense we couldn't see the next rock pile (called cairns) from the one we just passed.  So, that was slow going.  Also, there were gusts of wind that almost blew us over, probably nearing 60-70 mph.  Not to mention the wet rocks to boulder over.

But we got the beautiful weather AND the scary ridge-running moment (Odie wanted that) - all within 24 hours!  Perfect.

One more story about the Whites.  Odie and I had this crazy idea that we could slack 16 miles.  That was our 1st mistake.  We left our sleeping bags and tent behind, and started hiking.  10 miles later, we realize we aren't going to make 16 miles before dark with the ability to get off the mountain and hike back to our gear.  So, we make it to the last hut in the Whites - Carter Notch Hut.  We admit to the stupidity of what we did and asked if we could work to stay on the floor of the dining room, with perhaps the luxury of a blanket.  They fed us, they gave us mattresses and blankets, and we had great conversation and guitar performance.  In the morning, they gave us breakfast.

And then they told us about this ice cave.  Who could pass that up?  Led by one of the hut caretakers, Odie and I crawled through these collapsed rocks and down into the earth  below the mountain.  We got this amazing sight of ice and water droplets reflecting back like diamonds against the lichens that lived there.  Wow.  I didn't have my camera so this is an esoteric experience I won't be able to share with you.  But diamonds shining in the darkness.  So amazing, an ice cave.

We ended the day by hiking the rest of our "failed" slack pack, taking a gondola ride down the mountain (great pictures of another storm over Mt Washington) and hitching into town to an all you can eat chinese buffet.  They put us as far away from the other patrons as we were just so muddy and wet, smelly and I did get a few scrapes on my legs from the sharp rocks in the cave.  But nothing that didn't get washed away in the shower at the hostel that night before a good night's sleep.

And you all think I'm roughing it out here.

It's been a good week, and I think I'm adjusting to Odie's hiking style, and he's adjusting to mine.  We're communicating much better and I think it would be a delight to summit Katahdin with him.  We'll see what the Trail provides.  And what I decide on the Trail too