11.28.18
Calm descends to the post-hike world. A sense of acceptance. A sense of space in the midst of tall brick and mortar buildings. It's been almost two months since I left the trail at the Kearsarge junction and looked down on Independence. We'd gotten a ride from the trailhead down to town, grabbed some sugary beverages at the gas station and walked across the street to a taco truck. Four carne asada tacos with a modest salsa bar out front. The wind was blowing and our Styrofoam plates went airborne as we finished. We'd chased them down the dusty lot along the road that would take us into Bishop and hitched in with a fellow that had been working on water conservation projects for a committee in central California.
Nothing felt the same and yet we were both so acclimated to the movement, the climbing, the weight on our backs for so many months that it felt like any other day on the PCT. The idea of being 'done' wasn't part of the energy or language yet.
"Done" is when you agree to meet the same friend who dropped you in Campo back in March and realize how profoundly different you seem to be, struggling to communicate the most basic elements of the trail, of this overwhelming reality, and watching it fly right past. "Is it her? Is it me?" You feel crazy for a minute and laugh it off because surely, it's the rest of the world that's simply uninitiated to your brand of magic and surely you'll share this experience with other thru-hikers and explorers of your choosing for the rest of your life...but it felt like a premonition.
My first night back I went out to dinner and ran into an old friend who simply laughed and asked if I was sponsored by Patagonia. I didn't realize I was wearing Patagonia from head to toe. I'd had to snag the last down jacket in Flagstaff (literally) before we went back into the Sierras and when my Crater Lake cap wore out started losing velcro in the back I'd picked up the first hat that fit...which happened to be at the same store in Flagstaff a week after the end of the trail.
Nine out of ten people were interested in one thing and one thing only: "How many big animals with sharp teeth did you run into?". "Eight. I saw eight bears". "What did you do?" "I grabbed my bear spray and kept moving except for one time when I thought a bear was charging us at which point I froze with mortal fear." Then it would invariably detour into the topic of grizzly fatalities as depicted by Youtube...which are nowhere near the PCT.
The first week back I heard gunshots a few blocks from the apartment. POP-POP-POP-POP-POP-POP. Half-asleep I only thought "Well, those probably aren't hunters."
I scoured Craigslist for jobs back in any city along the trail. Bishop, Idylwild, Shasta, Etna, Cascade Locks-anywhere other than Albuquerque. Within a week I'd moved again into a great old historic building east of downtown. It was less noisy and I was closer to the Bosque trail along the Rio Grande where I could take my bike on long rides. The energy was...and is...still relentless. Two seventy+ mile rides up the Sandias and one to Santa Fe through Madrid which was beautiful. I was stunned that somehow neither compared to a single day on the trail as far as overall exertion or exhaustion. Only now with the onset of winter am I starting to feel pain in those joints that had given me mild issues on the trail.
There was a clear and present claustrophobia always menacing. Always waiting. I didn't know how to talk about anything but the trail because it had defined and refined so much of my mind and spirit. So much of what I'd been through, not only on the trail but in terms of the entirety of the experience which seemed to stretch back to late September of 2017 when my mother had first called with news of her diagnosis; that alone had defined everything. It was as if I'd been on one track for a year. Fighting, praying, writing, walking, communicating everything as lucidly as possible trying to say "Look, this happens. It's happening...how do we go through these things as humans?"
When I came back it seemed like the entire city was permeated with tales of misery and desperation. Insane women screaming at me from street corners, grown men in grocery stores throwing temper tantrums over baskets, news of violence, theft, break-ins...even fellow cyclists during the annual Day of the Tread ride viscerally unable to cope with being around other cyclists. It felt like society was an absolute madhouse from my vantage point and my anxiety went through the roof.
My most pressing question was "Did it get worse or had I become so acclimated over the years that I didn't even notice anymore?" Both possibilities raised stark concerns that left me yearning for the woods in a way I'd never yearned before.
But then...the clouds cleared. I realized Albuquerque has always been Albuquerque. Most people are here because it's affordable. You can start a small business here. There's peripheral industries and tax breaks. Its always had a massive crime problem and yes, you do become acclimated. The usual refrain when someone complains is "Well, I've never had anything happen to me personally ergo there's nothing wrong with the sort of kabuki nepotism and apathy that passes as a functioning city."
There's worse places believe me. Much worse-but you simply have to carve your own life. My heart has a strange loyalty to this town. I want to defend it because I became a semi-functioning adult here. I want to speak kind reassuring words to tourists who ask "Is there anywhere we can actually walk after dark for more than 1/4 mile?" I say "Of course, but there's problems everywhere like every city", which is a bit of a white lie. Other times I've thrown up my hands...for instance, when I heard on the trail from someone that the Art project was in full backpedal I just laughed and thanked God I was somewhere else.
And now...I'm both here and there. It's not black and white. My heart isn't reeling from the post-hike blues. I read about it. I'm aware. I share as honestly as I can but I'm not exasperated when people can't connect to a particular perspective that happened in a particular way at a particular point in my life. I say "Yeah it was a real life-changer" and leave it there. I've found a pocket of my former life that feels safe enough to navigate through the day with and I'm not overtly interested in converting anyone. What I enjoy more than anything is putting out seeds that have the faintest potential of inspiration. That's how I personally get inspired. Not when someone tells me "Oh you absolutely must hike 2,652 miles!" But when someone makes a grainy amateur video about their hike for family and friends and leaves it sitting quietly in a corner of the web. If people want to get out there they will. I've had a few wonderful conversations with folks who got a legitimate gleam in their eye after asking every question that came to mind and quietly said something like: "...I wonder if I could do it..." The answer is simple: You can do anything you actually want to do...the number of caveats you allow into that sentence is up to you.
You will face a sort of post-hike phenomenon. I don't call it depression because it's not exactly a clinical set of bullet points. This winter the boards are lit up with talk of this condition because this year, around 900 people have completed the PCT (a record, thanks to Reese Witherspoon) and oddly enough they all seem to be going through the exact same thing right now. Inability to relate to people, longing for trail-life, charging head-first into the next Big Adventure to keep the momentum up, debilitating levels of claustrophobia, or just generally thinking society is like, bad vibes, man. I've been through all and more in just over a month but would I trade it for anything? Not in a million years.
A couple days ago while visiting my sister's for Thanksgiving I was able to show the short documentary I'd made. Able to reconnect. To answer all the questions that I hadn't answered...even to myself. After four weeks dealing with a bizarre feeling of isolation I found that family remains my most potent source of healing and strength. It was heavy and full of deep love at the same time. My mom's influence carries on and touches lives in the same quiet unstoppable way it always did. In those two days I forgot the trail completely and remembered it wasn't about what I'd just physically accomplished. It was the great "Why" of it. The great Why of all endeavors big and small. I found that despite everything...the most important elements of life remain the same. At the end of the day we do these things because we love. It might sound saccharine but our core motivations are always the same. We're trying to connect...and we're willing to do just about anything to find it.
Nothing felt the same and yet we were both so acclimated to the movement, the climbing, the weight on our backs for so many months that it felt like any other day on the PCT. The idea of being 'done' wasn't part of the energy or language yet.
"Done" is when you agree to meet the same friend who dropped you in Campo back in March and realize how profoundly different you seem to be, struggling to communicate the most basic elements of the trail, of this overwhelming reality, and watching it fly right past. "Is it her? Is it me?" You feel crazy for a minute and laugh it off because surely, it's the rest of the world that's simply uninitiated to your brand of magic and surely you'll share this experience with other thru-hikers and explorers of your choosing for the rest of your life...but it felt like a premonition.
My first night back I went out to dinner and ran into an old friend who simply laughed and asked if I was sponsored by Patagonia. I didn't realize I was wearing Patagonia from head to toe. I'd had to snag the last down jacket in Flagstaff (literally) before we went back into the Sierras and when my Crater Lake cap wore out started losing velcro in the back I'd picked up the first hat that fit...which happened to be at the same store in Flagstaff a week after the end of the trail.
Nine out of ten people were interested in one thing and one thing only: "How many big animals with sharp teeth did you run into?". "Eight. I saw eight bears". "What did you do?" "I grabbed my bear spray and kept moving except for one time when I thought a bear was charging us at which point I froze with mortal fear." Then it would invariably detour into the topic of grizzly fatalities as depicted by Youtube...which are nowhere near the PCT.
The first week back I heard gunshots a few blocks from the apartment. POP-POP-POP-POP-POP-POP. Half-asleep I only thought "Well, those probably aren't hunters."
I scoured Craigslist for jobs back in any city along the trail. Bishop, Idylwild, Shasta, Etna, Cascade Locks-anywhere other than Albuquerque. Within a week I'd moved again into a great old historic building east of downtown. It was less noisy and I was closer to the Bosque trail along the Rio Grande where I could take my bike on long rides. The energy was...and is...still relentless. Two seventy+ mile rides up the Sandias and one to Santa Fe through Madrid which was beautiful. I was stunned that somehow neither compared to a single day on the trail as far as overall exertion or exhaustion. Only now with the onset of winter am I starting to feel pain in those joints that had given me mild issues on the trail.
There was a clear and present claustrophobia always menacing. Always waiting. I didn't know how to talk about anything but the trail because it had defined and refined so much of my mind and spirit. So much of what I'd been through, not only on the trail but in terms of the entirety of the experience which seemed to stretch back to late September of 2017 when my mother had first called with news of her diagnosis; that alone had defined everything. It was as if I'd been on one track for a year. Fighting, praying, writing, walking, communicating everything as lucidly as possible trying to say "Look, this happens. It's happening...how do we go through these things as humans?"
When I came back it seemed like the entire city was permeated with tales of misery and desperation. Insane women screaming at me from street corners, grown men in grocery stores throwing temper tantrums over baskets, news of violence, theft, break-ins...even fellow cyclists during the annual Day of the Tread ride viscerally unable to cope with being around other cyclists. It felt like society was an absolute madhouse from my vantage point and my anxiety went through the roof.
My most pressing question was "Did it get worse or had I become so acclimated over the years that I didn't even notice anymore?" Both possibilities raised stark concerns that left me yearning for the woods in a way I'd never yearned before.
But then...the clouds cleared. I realized Albuquerque has always been Albuquerque. Most people are here because it's affordable. You can start a small business here. There's peripheral industries and tax breaks. Its always had a massive crime problem and yes, you do become acclimated. The usual refrain when someone complains is "Well, I've never had anything happen to me personally ergo there's nothing wrong with the sort of kabuki nepotism and apathy that passes as a functioning city."
There's worse places believe me. Much worse-but you simply have to carve your own life. My heart has a strange loyalty to this town. I want to defend it because I became a semi-functioning adult here. I want to speak kind reassuring words to tourists who ask "Is there anywhere we can actually walk after dark for more than 1/4 mile?" I say "Of course, but there's problems everywhere like every city", which is a bit of a white lie. Other times I've thrown up my hands...for instance, when I heard on the trail from someone that the Art project was in full backpedal I just laughed and thanked God I was somewhere else.
And now...I'm both here and there. It's not black and white. My heart isn't reeling from the post-hike blues. I read about it. I'm aware. I share as honestly as I can but I'm not exasperated when people can't connect to a particular perspective that happened in a particular way at a particular point in my life. I say "Yeah it was a real life-changer" and leave it there. I've found a pocket of my former life that feels safe enough to navigate through the day with and I'm not overtly interested in converting anyone. What I enjoy more than anything is putting out seeds that have the faintest potential of inspiration. That's how I personally get inspired. Not when someone tells me "Oh you absolutely must hike 2,652 miles!" But when someone makes a grainy amateur video about their hike for family and friends and leaves it sitting quietly in a corner of the web. If people want to get out there they will. I've had a few wonderful conversations with folks who got a legitimate gleam in their eye after asking every question that came to mind and quietly said something like: "...I wonder if I could do it..." The answer is simple: You can do anything you actually want to do...the number of caveats you allow into that sentence is up to you.
You will face a sort of post-hike phenomenon. I don't call it depression because it's not exactly a clinical set of bullet points. This winter the boards are lit up with talk of this condition because this year, around 900 people have completed the PCT (a record, thanks to Reese Witherspoon) and oddly enough they all seem to be going through the exact same thing right now. Inability to relate to people, longing for trail-life, charging head-first into the next Big Adventure to keep the momentum up, debilitating levels of claustrophobia, or just generally thinking society is like, bad vibes, man. I've been through all and more in just over a month but would I trade it for anything? Not in a million years.
A couple days ago while visiting my sister's for Thanksgiving I was able to show the short documentary I'd made. Able to reconnect. To answer all the questions that I hadn't answered...even to myself. After four weeks dealing with a bizarre feeling of isolation I found that family remains my most potent source of healing and strength. It was heavy and full of deep love at the same time. My mom's influence carries on and touches lives in the same quiet unstoppable way it always did. In those two days I forgot the trail completely and remembered it wasn't about what I'd just physically accomplished. It was the great "Why" of it. The great Why of all endeavors big and small. I found that despite everything...the most important elements of life remain the same. At the end of the day we do these things because we love. It might sound saccharine but our core motivations are always the same. We're trying to connect...and we're willing to do just about anything to find it.
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