604 Steps

BEFORE one gets to the official Appalachian Trailhead on Springer Mountain in Georgia, there is an 8.1 mile long approach trail.  In other words, Day 1 of hiking will be GETTING to the AT.  Hike 8.3 miles to the first shelter on the AT, and you’ve accomplished 0.2 miles of the 2, 174 miles you plan to walk.  Blow up air mattress, flop in sleeping bag, sleep peacefully from being so exhausted that you did a whole 0.2 miles.  Personally, I find it really funny.

Oh, and to add to the hilarity, there are 604 stairs that one needs to climb on that 8.1 mile approach trail.  Six hundred and four stairs.  I don’t know about you, but that seems like a heck of lot of stairs to me.  I wonder how many people plan a thru-hike to Maine that give up BEFORE they reach the actual trailhead?  Six hundred and four stairs. 

So yesterday I strapped on my 33 pound pack (did you notice it’s down from 42?  Woot!) and “hiked” 604 stairs.  16 stairs at a time.  16 up from the basement, 16 back down.  16 up, 16 down.  To keep track, I realized that if I did 6 sets of up and downs that I would have gone up 100 stairs.  So I needed to do 6 sets of 6 up and downs to get to 600 stairs up.  I turned on some Gypsy Swing music, and had a glass of water waiting for me at the top of the stairs as a reward. 

Every time I got 6 sets done, I took a little mini-break to drink some water.  I didn’t sit down or take the pack off, but just gave my knees a moment’s rest.  Then I’d do another 6 sets.  Then another.  And another.  Before the 2^nd song of Fishtank Ensemble was over (they are long songs), I was 2/3 done with only 2 more sets to go.

To keep a uneventful story shorter than I normally would make it, I completed my 6 sets of 6 faster than I thought and my knees weren’t hardly even complaining (I’m not even sore today!).

But here’s what I learned.  Well, two things I learned.  First, 6 repetitions of 6 sets of 16 stairs does NOT, in fact, equal 600.  It equals 576.  Oops.  I told you math is not my forte.  To help, I did have to end at the bottom of the stairs and do one more 16 steps back up to the main floor – so I did 592 stairs.  OK, just needed to clear that up for all you Einstein’s who were beginning to think I was an idiot.  Yeah, I figured it out just now with a calculator. 

More importantly, I learned the value of meeting little goals within a larger task.  6 sets of 16 stairs seems do-able.  Six hundred and four stairs makes my lungs hurt just thinking about it.  It takes about 5,000,000 steps to hike 2, 174 miles (that does not include steps taken to get into a town to restock or that poor miserable day you hike 10 miles SOUTH before realizing Maine is not in that direction).  But my trek is not 6 months of 5 million steps.  It’s 3 days then restock.  Then it's 5 days with a reward of staying in a hostel.  Then it's 4 days with happiness brownies waiting for me in the mail drop.  Then 7 days, then 5 days, then 6 days... you get the picture.  If I just keep an eye on the next “set” of days, and forget about the 5,000,000 steps, I’ll be on Katahdin before you know it!

Home (where my love lies waiting silently for me)

Four weeks left of work.  Five weeks until I leave.  Six months away from all the things about ‘home’ that keep me tied to Wisconsin.  ‘Home’ has been a word I’ve struggled with the past few years, or perhaps most of my life.  I’ve desperately wanted a home, someplace to belong.  At the same time, I’ve fought against it – wanting to be free.  I’ve been a home-wrecker in various ways over the years.  Simultaneously, I’ve encouraged others to sink more deeply into their own home.  I’ve tried to not need it, told myself I don’t deserve it, and have attempted to find lesser substitutions for it – but let’s face it.  We all, on some level, want someplace to belong.

 

Now I wonder if I am absolutely crazy – to leave behind all the things and people that feel like some semblance of ‘home’ in order to be homeless for half a year.  I mean, it’s a bit counter-intuitive.  If I need a home, why become homeless?  And what will be here for me when I return?  Everyone else will continue living while I’m gone; everyone else will move on.  And I’ll have to try to catch up.  Conversely, I’ll have 6 months of creating a different trajectory from everyone here at home.  Will I be so different that I will end up fitting in even less than I do now? 

Yes, yes, I know.  That’s fear talking.  Not faith. That’s shame talking, not love or hope.  Give me a moment.  I’ll come around.

The Sunday School answer is “God is your home.”  And in many ways, I’m realizing that more and more.  I’m just a thru-hiker on earth, making my way back home to heaven.  Yes, the answer to the question of the Universe really is simply “God.”  And perhaps when we all achieve nirvana, truly transcend life’s fallen circumstances, when we find Utopia, we’ll all sit around, playing harps, laughing as we reminisce about days on earth and how we struggled for the answer when He (the Answer) was calling to us every moment of every day.

However, I’m not in Utopia, and I haven’t transcended all my doubts and insecurities and imperfections.  So, therefore, I live divided.  I know God is home.  I know He is enough.  And yet, I still want more.  And God, in his infinite goodness, has something for me.  If I am patient enough to sit in my non-transcendent state until that Home on earth develops.  Egads, I’m waxing philosophical. 

I’ve been listening to Simon and Garfunkel’s “Homeward Bound” quite a bit.  I’m putting it on my mp3 player to take on the Trail.  It seems ironic.  I’m the opposite of homeward bound, and yet, this trek feels like a step toward home – toward what could become a place I do belong.  Perhaps it’s merely a settling more into who I am so I belong in my own skin, and not always trying to fit in with others around me.  Perhaps it’s a break away from the patterns and substitutions for ‘home’ that I’ve made for myself that aren’t healthy.  Perhaps it’s a sieve through which what isn’t ‘home’ now will fall through, but that which is remains steadfast to the end of the Trail.  Perhaps it’s a time away from all that’s familiar so I can sift through internally what is truly ‘home’ for me here.  Perhaps I’ll become less divided, and God can really become my home.  Everyone else will be a blessed extension of God’s home for me.  And perhaps I can become a better home, a better oasis – for God and others.

My journey away from this version of home begins very soon.  I have no idea what will happen when I step into that void of solitude, of anonymity, of total surrender to the elements of nature around me.  It’s a white fog – one I can’t see into or through to the other side.  The reality of the relationships I could lose (or significantly change) in the next six months is becoming tangible.  I grieve for the potential loss, and I’m not quite ready to embrace the potential new future because I haven’t let go of the present reality.  That’s where I am today – recognizing a need to let go of one potential for the sake of another, but not quite ready to do so because my fear of losing what I have of ‘home’ now is larger than my faith that God will provide what I really need. 

They say self-awareness is half the battle.  Thanks for the opportunity for a little self-discovery.

The Art of Administration

Today’s post may be very boring for some of you.  If you don’t give a hoot about organization, if words like ‘management’ or’ maintenance’ make you shudder internally, or if you just don’t think that structure and programs are very in tune with the Holy Spirit, then this may not be the post for you.

I only know this because I used to not care, used to shudder, used to think that all things ‘administration’ were of the devil (after all, the devil IS in the details).  Many of you may also chuckle reading this because I work in (gasp!) administration.  The very word is in my job title!  Wonder of wonders, this was not my dream job (however, I have a great boss and co-workers, so it makes it good).

What does this have to do with hiking?  Well, strangely, quite a bit when one will be hiking for 6 months straight.  There’s a heckuva’ lot planning that goes into this.  Not only are there decisions on what gear, how much gear, where to put said gear… but then there’s food.  Do you buy food along the way?  Do you do maildrops?  How much of each?  How many pounds of dehydrated fruit do you really need?  Well, let’s see, ¼ cup for breakfast, another ¼ cup for a snack in your gorp.  OK, multiply that by 150 days (assuming 30 days in towns).  There’s 14 servings per pound of the average dried fruit.  But wait, I want more dried apples than raisins, and definitely need some mangoes and apricots to keep things interesting.  OK, you get the point.  Math + administration = Not my biggest passions in life.



Thanks Mr U. for ordering me the 2013 book!



Currently, I’m going through the trail guide to determine a tentative schedule of where I want to sleep each night, and where I want to tent (near a shelter or not) vs. go into town or stay at a hostel.  Naturally, a lot of this might depend on torrential downpours or horrid heat or those pesky mosquitos.  And I can’t administrate those things.  So, therefore, I try to have a back-up plan.  For example: I’ll hike 24 miles to this campsite, well, unless it’s really hot, rainy, or buggy – then there’s a shelter at only 21 miles that I could get to.  Yup, that’s close enough to still make miles but able to decide depending on weather.  Oh, and if I’m really tired or it’s nasty, there is another cabin at only 11 miles – kind of expensive, but it’ll do if I just need a slower day.  Or am craving a shower.

You get the picture.  There’s an gifting and an art to administration.  And, boy howdy, do I really appreciate people with that gift these days.  Thank God I’ve been in a job for *mumble mumble* years that had ‘administration’ in my job title.  That’s right, I just thanked God for my job in administration!  I don’t think I have the gift naturally, but I’ve been taught the skill over those years.  I’m grateful because, with all this planning right now, I should be able to better flow and roll with the punches weather, insects, injury, and general chaos will bring me and my hiking buddies on the Trail.

Free Floating

I want to share something really cool with you.  But for you to really experience it, here’s what you need to do.  Get a backpack.  Put a blanket at the bottom of it.  Put 20 pounds of bottled water or canned veggies on top of that.  Shove another blanket around said bottles and cans (this keeps the cans from digging into your back).  Put on the backpack.  Get on the treadmill.  Walk for at least 30 minutes, maybe at an incline.  Enough so that you are slightly fatigued and the heart rate is up.  Stop.  Take the backpack off. 

Go do it.  I’ll wait.

OK, what happened?  For me, I get this wonderfully transcendent floating feeling as my arms just want to raise and I feel like a huge weight has lifted off of me.  Oh yeah, it HAS.  I took the 20 pound backpack off.  And suddenly I feel so much lighter, floaty, like I might just levitate a couple inches off the ground.  Where just moments ago, I was grumbling at how heavy my legs felt and having to plop one in front of the other, now I was literally taking the stairs two at a time, almost leaping and dancing my way up from the exercise room.  Not to mention I have to sing the words 'free floating' in a Tom Petty style while bouncing up the stairs with my arms above my head.  So weird.

But it’s a wonderful feeling.  I’m not sure what this tells me about myself, God, or the universe around me, but I’ve decided I like the idea of experiencing free-floating from time to time.  I’ll try not to get addicted to it as I’ve already learned that it takes a little longer on the treadmill at a slightly steeper incline for me to get that same feeling.  Wow, it really does sound like a drug (I just need a LITTLE more, man!)

There are other times I’ve experienced that completely empty, weightless feeling.  That transcendent floating above your body.  Like when you’ve had a really good cry.  Just sobbed and snotted all over until you were so dehydrated and spent there were no more tears left.  Yeah.  Like that. 

Or like when a moment of unexpected sheer beauty takes your breath away.  That moment when nothing else exists but you and the wild dolphin swimming around you.   Or the energy you feel when standing in a spring thunderstorm, and that moment where you are simultaneously one with the grandiose scene ALONG with realizing just how small you are when compared to such strength as the wind and lightning.   So large yet so small.  Yeah.  I love that.

Not that I want the grief or pain to sob like that too often.  Nor do I want to actually be struck by lightning.  And I do want to build up my stamina so I can carry 30 (or closer to 40) pounds with ease for longer and longer periods of time.  So, that free-floating feeling seems to only come with trial, or at least with a price.  But perhaps, that is the gift in the pain or exhaustion.  It is the gift of being completely emptied and filled simultaneously.  It makes those moments of overly hard work, or painful emotions, or sudden shifts in worldview possible.  And even, perhaps, enjoyable. 

Yikes!

So, last night, I spent several hours putting everything together that I thought I would bring.  It didn't seem like much when I laid it all out in little, various colored stuff sacks on the floor.  I was quite proud of myself. 

Then I put it all in my pack.  That wasn't so bad except I was somewhat surprised at how quickly it filled up.  I got everything in - including food and water (as if I had just stocked up on both), but it was REALLY stuffed full.  I couldn't quite get the top shut all the way.  But you couldn't tell once I put the small pouch over the top.

OK, not too bad, right?  I mean, once I get used to packing things every day, I'll become more efficient.  I'll find all those little wasted places that I could put something small.  I already recognized that I could put things in smaller bags and that would pack easier.  So, I didn't panic until...

I tried to lift the pack to my back.  Holy. Freakin'. Cow.  Huh.

My denial was telling me that I just needed to do more push up's because CLEARLY, I wasn't used to lifting 30-33 pounds.  Um, yeeeeaaaaaah.

Then I got on the scale.  What the...?!?!?!  42 pounds.  Yup, my pack was 42 pounds.  I've been talking a good game all along thinking I'd be at 30 pounds.  I've been walking on the treadmill with about 22 pounds, and I'd up that amount here soon.  Yeah, you bet I'll be upping it if I gotta carry 42 pounds.  Did anyone else notice that's almost double what I'm on the treadmill with now?  Yeah, I noticed.

So, what to do?  Well, I've decided I just have to go with a down sleeping bag, and I'll figure out how to keep it dry.  That'll save me over 1 pound.  I can get a silk liner instead of the really comfy fleece one - that saves me almost 1/2 a pound.  Do I really need that 2nd layer of insulation?  Leave the gloves - use socks on the hands - it's only until they get warmed up anyway.  And really, I never use Pepto Bismol OFF the trail.  What makes me think I'll need it ON the trail?  (No, I'm taking Pepto, maybe a few less tablets though.)

I had just decided I would take my slightly heavier, but much more comfier, air mattress instead of the hard closed cell foam sleeping pad.  Why?  Because I sleep SOOO much better on the air mattress.  But now... gotta rethink that.  That is almost a pound.

I say all of that to say this... sleeping bag #5 is being shipped to me as we speak.  Thank God for REI's return policy.

Happiness Brownies

I love my sister.  For Christmas, she gave me a piece of paper that said she would do “something” to help me prepare for the Trail.  So, I went to her house the other day with my little alcohol stove and 1 liter aluminum pot, and she gave me “happiness on the trail”, aka just-add-water-brownie-mix.  Once she saw how that worked, her little mind was a-whirrin’ on other recipes for biscuits and peanut butter cookies.

She taught me that I can bake on the Trail.  Little piece of tin foil spattered with a little olive oil, put in aluminum pot over less than an ounce of denatured alcohol set on fire, and a few minutes later, TA-DA!  1 trail-made brownie.  Or what we are calling Happiness on the Trail. 

Everything I carry weighs something, so I’m hesitant to take anything more than I absolutely need.  However, sometimes it’s worth the weight to have something that will make the trip more enjoyable.  Happiness brownie and biscuit mix will be one of those things.  I’ll have to carry extra fuel (denatured alcohol) and the mixes themselves.  But here is what it will give me…

Every time I make a Happiness Brownie, I will be reminded of the good time my sister and I had figuring that out.  It will remind me that my sister is supporting me in this crazy endeavor in a way that ONLY she can.  She bakes.  She likes to make people feel at home.  She’s using both of her loves to make ME, her sister,  feel a little more at home on the Trail. 

Every time I make a Happiness Brownie, I get to share that memory with anyone else on the trail with me.  They get to taste my sister’s hospitality from over 1000 miles away.  I get to create community and home and comfort on the Trail for someone else.  And I get to create yet another memory with a newfound friend that I get to tuck away in my brain next to the day I spent with my sister and bro-in-law shopping for dry mix ingredients and eating a fabulous meal at their home.

I must admit, I was tempted at first to simply have her give me money toward a pair of hiking boots, or something else ever-so practical, uncreative, and simply financial.  Ewwww.  I’m ashamed to say I had that thought now that I’ve written it out loud.  Please forgive me.

Sure, I may have a little less in my checkbook at the end of this because I didn’t have her pay for my hiking boots.  But what have I gained by her gift?  So much more so than I could ever describe or put worth on.  I have memories, stories, knowledge, and comfort.  I have the assurance that no matter how transient my life is, there is something akin to home. 

And without that experiential knowledge of home for myself, how could I have ever created a comfortable oasis for someone else?  I’ve learned and grown because my sister and I bake a couple of brownies.  Thanks sis!

P.S. I found this artwork, and I thought it appropo.  Thanks to the artist, John Szymkowicz (hopefully you don't mind me posting a link to your website). 

Buy THIS!

Everybody’s got opinions.  And that’s a good thing.  I have purchased a lot of my gear based on the opinions of others.  It seems that just when I feel confident that researching and reading reviews and testimonials on a certain something means that I am making the universal best choice for a pair of socks that everyone can agree on, I come across a glaring contradiction.  Someone ELSE has an opinion.  Suddenly, that pair of socks has fallen from grace.  They don’t last.  They are too expensive.  They aren’t eco-friendly enough.  They aren’t light enough.  They aren’t warm enough.  They simply do not measure up in someone’s opinion.

Likewise, we all have opinions on how we hike.  You can hike fast.  You can hike meditatively.  You can hike socially or monastically.  You can hike ultralight.  Or dirt cheap.  Or eco-friendly.  You can hike with all the best gear.  You can hike with great hygiene.  Or be a damn dirty hippie.  But one thing is true.  You can NOT hike ALL of those things at once.

When I first began looking at gear, I wanted small and as light as possible.  Then I realized how expensive that was.  Not to mention the irony in needing to buy all new gear in an effort pare down how much crap I have.   After that, I found a “pat-on-the-back” website for those people who hike the AT for under $3000.  So, I decided to go with dirt cheap and DIY.  Then I had to admit that I just don’t have the know-how to make my own backpack or sleeping bag, nor did I have the time to get myself properly educated before I would have to leave for the trail.  Next, I started finding eco-friendly equipment – recycled polar fleece, non-fossil fuel made fabrics, biodegradable, locally-made, fair trade, etc.  Well, that also has a steep learning curve as well as potentially steep price tag. 

In other words, everything has limitations.  Nothing is enough.  I want an indestructible, waterproof, breathable shelter that can fit 2 people plus gear, and keep me safe from ticks, mosquitos, mice, and bears.  And I want it made with all natural materials by a local artisan.  And I want it under 1.5 pounds.  And under $100.  Are you laughing at me yet?  You should be. 

I’ve got limitations too.  I cannot be all things to all people in every moment.  And that doesn’t make me less lovable, less acceptable, or less worthy.  I love Smartwool socks – my feet are happy every time I put them on.  The person I talked to at REI last week hates them.  But that person’s disdain does not lessen Smartwool’s lovability, acceptability, or worthiness in my eyes.  Even if they are more expensive than other socks, even if they don’t last as long as other socks, I will still love them.  And tell everyone they should buy Smartwool too.  That’s my opinion.  I guess it just depends on whether you trust me enough to buy into Smartwool as much as I do.

So, last thought on this.  Given my limitations and imperfections, I am clearly not the be-all, end-all.  But that does not make me less lovable, acceptable, or worthy in God’s opinion.  The question is will I trust God’s opinion of me enough to buy into me as much as He does?  Or will I constantly strive to be… enough?