Soft pink sunset:
Rosy glow that says the day is over, More to come-- But darkness will come first. Perhaps there's beauty there, In the brilliance of glitter on black. Or perhaps the sky, the constellations, Are— will be, always were—shrouded by clouds. I want the stars, The moon, It all. I crave color, vibrance, A breathtaking "wow." I asked for burning red, Bloody orange, Violent magenta. Instead, I'm left with muted carnation, Muffled violet, The afterglow, a subtle truth: There's beauty in the middle, too.
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This is part 2 of a recap of my SOBO LT adventure; click here to read part 1. Day 15: Zero (count them, zero) miles Inn at Long Trail in Killington Although I have the option of sleeping in, I wake up at 5:30 completely and totally alert. I have nowhere I need to hike, no backpack to pack, no Ursack to untie, and it is a beautiful thing. I spend the next few hours reading and scrolling through Instagram until my parents are ready to head to breakfast, where I get hot chocolate and French Toast and bacon and eat some of my mom's hash browns. I do laundry and make a grocery list and then go into the Price Chopper in Rutland, which has a 2lb bulk bag of Welch's Fruit Snacks and life is so very, very good. We stop and eat lunch (a large salad and a beer) and then embark on a quest to obtain the cherry slushie I've been craving since before hopping on the trail. I spend the rest of the afternoon drinking the slushie and reading in the sunshine and savoring the feeling of clean clothes on my skin and charging all my electronics and washing my dishes and water bottle in the room's sink. The rest of the day goes quickly, packing and repacking my food, estimating calories I'll need, eating dinner at a restaurant where the hostess asks if I'd like a kid's menu, talking with my partner on the phone in the dark, sitting with my parents for an hour showing them all the pictures from the trail and already realizing that I will never, never be able to fully communicate what this trail means to me and who I am because of it. In some ways, I'm the same, and it's easier to be off the trail than I expected; it feels like I've always been in an inn on a sofa bed with dry socks and clean underwear. In others, I'm realizing that, even with these comforts, I'm determined to finish and ready to be done and not at all wanting to quit. Day 16: God, I'm lucky to be here 11 miles: Parking lot at US Route 4 to Governor Clement Morning comes fast, and I have to admit to myself that while I don't want to stop the trail, I don't particularly want to get back on it, either. I eat breakfast at the Inn again, choosing eggs and toast and tea to try to avoid making my already touchy stomach (a by-product of vegetables and real food and not hiking) feel worse. I check and re-check my bag and the room to make sure I haven't left anything behind and then my parents drive me to the trailhead and I put on bug spray and strap on my pack and hike away without looking back because I don't want them to see that I'm crying. Ten minutes into the hike, I realize I might have left my ID in the pocket of the jean shorts I'd worn the day before that are in my parent's car and stop, digging frantically through the trail-hiker's wallet (a Ziploc bag with cash and a credit card and, thankfully, my license) to determine that it's still there. The climb to the shelter below Killington at first seems like it will be unbearable — the trail slopes upward and snakes through the woods and I expect that, like other climbs thus far, I'll be hiking up the worst of the mountain. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that, rather than intensifying, it only becomes more gradual and has switchbacks, a climb that allows me to settle into the discomfort and nearly forget that my legs are moving under me. All too soon, my "last real mountain" of the trail is finished and I leave my pack at the shelter below Killington to trek up to the spur, a .2-mile rock scramble up to the most breathtaking views I've seen so far. I cannot stop swiveling my head to look around, following the green to navy to blue to sky gradient of peaks that ripple into the distance and suddenly there are tears in the corners of my eyes as it sinks in that I am here — I'm really here. I am at the peak of the second-tallest mountain in Vermont after hiking nearly 180 miles to get here and I am on my own and I am pushing myself beyond my physical and emotional limits and I'm realizing that there is so much more to me than I knew was there. No one is making me do this, I'm choosing it, and that choice makes me feel like the goddamn strongest person I've ever known myself to be. This photo is the only one of me on the trail that isn't a selfie, taken by two middle-aged couples who are shocked to discover that I'm thru-hiking — how have you gotten here? Are you scared to be alone? How does someone like you start walking at Canada and somehow make it here? I have no good answers, only the simple truth that my 5'2" self has carried nearly 40 pounds each day. Thru-hiking is not nearly as spiritual as I expected it would be — most days, rather than thinking deep thoughts, I'm focused on where to plant my feet and on how much my feet hurt and on when I'm eating my next snack. But here, at Killington Peak, I am filled with a sense of awe at myself, at my surroundings, at my God. Because I am so, so small and this world is so, so big and I am so, so lucky to be here. The rest of the day in uneventful. I go up, go down, and eventually arrive at Governor Clement shelter, which is full, but I don't mind. I pitch my tent and discover that the river is wide and deep and cold, so I filter water and then wander downstream to soak my legs and feet in the most glorious ice bath. I write in my trail journal and cook dinner and do yoga and brush my teeth and secure my Ursack and climb into my sleeping bag and read and then the night's over and it's time to start again. Day 17: (Almost) 20 miles 19.7 miles: Governor Clement to Little Rock Pond I wake up to rain, go through my morning routine, pack as much as I can inside of my tent, and put my pack inside the shelter to stay dry while I take down my very wet tent. Inside the shelter, I talk with several other hikers, all solo guys, who joke that I should shoot for Little Rock Pond, nearly 5 miles farther than my initial plan for the day. I joke back that I would have needed to start much earlier (it's nearly 9), but that plants the seed that maybe, just maybe, I could knock out a "big" day on the LT. The trail is lovely and I meet other hikers when I stop for lunch who assure me that making it to Little Rock is totally achievable, so I decide to make that my new goal for the day. In the first few minutes of my hike, I pass the "500 Miles 'til Katadhin" logbook that alerts AT NOBO hikers that their destination is (kind of) within reach and take a picture as a promise to myself that I will (might) one day pass this on a different hike in the opposite direction. Until now, the AT has been a "hell no" trail, but suddenly the thought of spending 3.5 months doing what I'm doing for 3.5 weeks sounds like the dream. There's a section of the day that almost beats that thought out of me as a gentle grade on the map ends up being a steep trek for 3 miles (punctuated by some switchbacks, but I'm cranky, so those seem less lovely than they should have been), but then I'm passing the shelter that was supposed to be my stopping point and, even though I'm tired and sore, I'm not stopping — I'm moving forward. I come across the rock garden I've been looking forward to all trail, but there are four other hikers there and it's almost 5 p.m. and I have 4 miles left to go, so I stay in the stillness for only a few moments before I keep moving. The rest of the hike becomes more and more painful, but I'm committed to going (almost) 20 miles and hoping to swim in the pond, making it easy to prod myself along. Another hiker, Florida Man, greets me as I make my way around the edge of the pond toward the shelter, showing me where the tent platform is, pointing out the caretaker who will collect my $5 fee, and promising that the pond is well-worth a dip if I have time. I set up my tent, collect water, then take my bandana-size towel and camp clothes back down the path to jump in the water. I'm in my sports bra and underwear and my hair is out of its French braids and the water is warm and I feel deliciously free and surprised by myself. Who is this girl floating in the pond at 7:50 p.m., kicking through the water exactly one week away from completing a hike through the Green Mountains? She is me, and I'm not unhappy with my body for the space it's taking up or self-conscious about the stomach that is pale and slightly green in the water — in fact, my body feels like a gift, a functional thing, a vessel that has ensured that I can and will do this hike. The evening crawls by in a lovely, slow way until the skies open up without warning, leaving the group of us who did not have room in the shelter to scatter to our tents and hope that everything is dry and under cover. Day 18: mediocre at best 9.7 miles: Little Rock Pond to Peru Peak Although sleep has been better than expected on the trail so far, last night was definitely the exception. When my alarm goes off, that is the sixth -- eighth? tenth? — time I've woken up so far, it is still pouring rain, and I am *cranky.* The thought of walking 9.7 miles today, even though it's 10 fewer than yesterday, seems like an overwhelming task. But in true trail magic form, someone at the shelter near where I pitched my tent is strumming a ukulele and singing. I join in the group, all of us eating breakfast and offering to boil water for each other, and spend the morning enjoying the company of others. It's nice to have a conversation that isn't just with me, myself, and I :) The rain has slowed down, so I take down my tent and get ready to rock and roll. As soon as I start walking, though, it starts dumping down rain again. Tucked into my rain jacket, I try to enjoy the morning but already feel defeated. A friend is getting married that day and, although I'm glad I chose to do the trail, part of me definitely wishes that I was getting ready to go celebrate her. I'm feeling melancholy and lonely while walking on a mostly flat trail that winds next to a rushing creek, and to me, that's the tension of the trail: I'm almost never on the same page mentally and physically, but I can hold gratitude and longing at the same time. By the time I make it to the shelter I'm stopping at for lunch, I have decided that I will be nothing but excited for the trail to be over. I am so nauseous that I can't think straight, my body hurts, and I just don't want to hike anymore. So? I don't. I take two lovely hours at the shelter to finish my book on my Kindle, nibble on some crackers, let my feet dry out, and to read through the many entries in the shelter log book. After a while, I've reset — my stomach is happy, I'm cold but content, and I'm ready to leave my pity party behind at the shelter. At one point, a caretaker named Penguin comes by and offers me two Reese's chip cookies, which totally and completely turns the day around. We both chat for a while, and then it's time for me to hit the road again. The rest of the afternoon is wet and long, but uneventful. I go up and over Mt. Tabor and pass a few hikers who try to convince me to take the bad weather bypass because "the rock might be a little slippery," and this is yet another moment where I'm grateful for my choice to go SOBO. Yes, the rock is most definitely slippery, but it's nothing I can't handle and it is definitely far kinder than most of what I've encountered on the trail so far. (Except for the last section, which is most definitely slippery and should be treated with the utmost respect, haha). When I make it to Griffith Lake, my intended stopping point for the evening, I debate for quite a while about whether or not to pitch my tent, and end up choosing to move on to Peru Peak shelter. While the lake seems pretty, the mosquitoes are gnarly, I'm freezing, and the idea of spending another night in a wet tent is not particularly appealing. At the shelter, I meet some incredible people, including a woman named Grand NaeNae who is in her 70s and pushing through Vermont three miles at a time. I 100% made the right call — it torrentially downpours most of the night, and although the rain is loud on the metal roof, I stay completely dry for the first time in two days. Day 19: my squelching day 11.2 miles: Peru Peak to Spruce Peak Thanks to last night's rain, the trail is a complete and total puddle. At this point, the end of the trail (6 more days of hiking) is close enough in sight that this is tolerable, and even though the weather is rotten, I feel like a new person. As always, my bad mood has passed quickly and, now that the miles are behind me, I'm excited for the ones yet to come. I spend most of the day hiking through puddles up to my ankles, which is honestly kind of fun: It reminds me of the pure joy a toddler feels when they get to splash around in mud just for the heck of it. I alternate between being focused on what's in front of me and thinking ahead to the future. Part of me wishes I had gone to yesterday's wedding, and I love listening to a voice memo from my partner telling me about how much fun it was. I'm running through the to-dos that will inevitably come up when I hop off the trail: prepping for my upcoming move to D.C., trying to remember if I have business casual clothing for office work, anticipating the Sufferfest Ryan wants to plan for his birthday, thinking about how great it will be to spend time with my family on our annual vacation. But I'm also thinking about how wild it is that the girl who climbed her first mountain in October 2020 is now out in Vermont crushing over 50 of them. Today, everything is lovely. My cheese and rolls for lunch taste better than usual, the mud doesn't bother me a bit, and by some miracle, then sun comes out for the first time in three days and I hope that I will never again take for granted what a simple joy it is to feel warm light on my face. I'm ahead of my time goal and need to stop at the shelter that's currently on the radar because I'll be resupplying in Manchester tomorrow, so I take a detour up to Spruce Peak (well worth the rock scramble, I pinky promise!), which turns out to be one of the most spiritual, grounding, "I am exactly where I need to be" moments that I experience on the entire trail. I am alone on a rock ledge looking over a valley (that, granted, is filled with cars and infrastructure) that is hazy with the moisture that the heat and sunshine are baking off the ground. I take off my wet shirt and soaked socks, lay out the rest of my gear that has not been dry in three days, spread them out on the rock, and sit in my sports bra with my face to the sun, listening to worship music and journaling. And oh my gosh, I'm so happy that it feels like I am full from the inside out. There are rolls on my stomach and I don't even care because I am so grateful to my body for getting me to this point. I am thinking about how the LT has been an exercise in being present and having a posture of thankfulness, no matter where my heart is actually leaning. It’s shown me how much of movement is mental and how resilient and motivated and determined and persistent I can truly be. It’s brought me back to the peace of burning muscles and steady but labored breathing, and I hope it brings me back to myself once I've stepped off the trail. All the words to "Lean Back" by Maverick City Music feel so true right now. I’ve found joy in both slowing down and in moving forward and in trusting my body to know what it needs while letting my mind move me farther than I thought I physically could. I know the smell of pine and fir trees will bring me back to this moment, this space, and I'm content to sit here until the sun glows golden, which means it's time to get some dinner and make camp. I set up my tent (finally, no rain overnight — hallelujah!) and joke around with the two other people at the shelter, excited to spend the next day with one of my best friends while resupplying. Day 20: this one's a rollercoaster 12.4 miles: Spruce Peak to William Douglass and then to Stratton Pond The first thing I notice when I wake up in the morning is that, sometime between my blissful meditation at Spruce Peak and waking up to sunshine, my Altras have somehow both developed holes between the sole and the upper, and, apparently, today's resupply will have to include finding new trail shoes to last the remaining four days of the trail. (As much as I don't want to do that, I'm even more loathe to spend the next few days walking on the pebbles that will inevitably end up in my shoe and/or ending up having to hike full-time in my Chacos). On my way down to the road to meet my friend for the resupply, I pass a guy ("Little Joe"), who manages to compliment my smile, try to nail down my location for the night, tell me his house is .5 miles from William Douglass, and to offer "a first aid kit if you sprain your ankle." As I try to politely move on, he tells me I can let myself into his house and take a shower if I'd like, which seriously creeps me out, so the conversation ends rather abruptly. *put a pin in this interaction, it comes into play a little later :) I meet up with Desiree and we have the best day; there's a donut place next to the laundromat, we drive around to get new shoes and granola bars and Little Debbie's snacks (plus, you know, actual other food) for the resupply, and then we eat the most delightful pizza I've had in my life. We also manage to find a public park in Manchester Center that has a pool (and, therefore, a shower!), so I unexpectedly get to wash my hair and get significantly less muddy, which is a rush of sheer joy. Before heading back to the trail, we get root beer floats and then make our way to the base of the road that leads up to Prospect Rock. Desiree walks me the 1.8 miles (all uphill) to the trail, we FaceTime a mutual friend, and split a cider as the sun is setting. Life is magical and beautiful and today is incredible. Then Desiree leaves, I head to William Douglass, and things go downhill fast. I have to dig an emergency cathole in the woods (probably thanks to the pizza, ice cream, and donuts consumed in one day, lol) and, when I get to the shelter, I am the only one there and every bone in my body is telling me to get the heck out of there. It's 7 p.m. when I arrive, and I spend 40 minutes trying to logic myself out of my panic, only managing to get more emotional and freaked out. I keep thinking about Little Joe and the way he guessed that I'd be staying here tonight, and something about this situation (with no service and my InReach taking over 20 minutes to send a message) just feels completely wrong. When the hair on my arms starts standing on end, I know it's time to listen to my gut and get the heck out of there. At 7:45, I send another message to my parents and partner to let them know that I'm pushing another 4.8 miles to Stratton Pond. Adrenaline is pumping hard and I am *cruising,* literally jogging in some points to try to make it as far as I can before it gets dark. Less than a mile into the hike, my headlamp batteries start dimming, so I pause briefly to change them out (a task made more difficult in the dark when your hands are shaking). Ten minutes later, thunder starts rumbling in the distance and rain drops begin to slowly splat all around me. At this point, I start playing worship music at top volume (mostly to try to alert any animals to my presence), praying "please don't rain please God just get me to my shelter please let this be okay oh God please let this be okay," and picking up the pace. I am sliding through calf-deep mud as thunder begins to seriously crash overhead, rumbling for more than 3 seconds at a time and booming so hard that branches (already whipping in the wind) are shaking. It is at this point that I decide that I am both a badass and an idiot for hiking the Long Trail. I have Guthooks open on my phone and keep checking to see how close I am to the shelter, watching my dot move and counting down to myself. 2.9 more miles, that's about 45 minutes at this pace. 1.7 more miles, that's about 30 minutes at this pace. 1 mile, 15 minutes. .6 miles, 10 minutes? 11 minutes? When I see signs that tell me I'm .1 miles away, I am relieved — and then all hell breaks loose. I stop at the bear box right as the skies open up, a torrential downpour coupled with thunder that is so loud I can't hear myself think as I try to remember what in my bag is smellable and take my birth control so that it — along with my other toiletries — can go in the box. I start sprinting toward the shelter and notice what is quite literally a beacon of hope: the headlamps of other hikers, who have noticed mine in the storm and want me to know that I'm close. My heart is pounding, everything below my knees is caked in mud, and I am shaking with adrenaline and fatigue after covering 4.8 miles in 1 hour and 50 minutes with a freshly resupplied pack. I desperately want to hear a familiar voice, but the service is too spotty to call anyone, so I huddle toward the middle of the porch with two hammock hikers who have taken refuge from the deluge while I wait for my inReach to let my contacts know I've made it safely. Day 21: All I want are friends and fruit snacks 10.7 miles — Stratton Pond to Story Spring I wake up at 6:30 and simply enjoy the peace of listening to other hikers, nestled into my sleeping bag as the soft sound of rain dripping off leaves sifts through the shelter. Last night's jog through the woods put me way ahead of schedule, so my morning is kind and slow. I've hit the AT bubble, so at least 10 of us chat over breakfast, sharing tips about the terrain we're about to encounter and talking about how much we love PopTarts and what foods we never want to eat again. I eventually wander back down to Stratton Pond to check out the view I missed the night before, sit and soak in the drizzly day, and then begin the gradual trek to the top of Stratton Mountain. At the top, I am so excited to see a fire tower that promises to have the best views on the trail ... until I realize that the ever-present grey clouds have completely rolled in and socked in any possible views. Coupled with the fact that the AT hiker who joins me at the top of the fire tower is eating straight out of a jar of cookie butter for lunch — something that sounds like the most delightful treat and that I am wildly jealous of — I spend most of my time feeling mildly mopey and sorry for myself as I eat dried pineapple, hamburger rolls, and slices of cheese for lunch. Despite my whining, the picture I take as a "see how bad this is?" moment turns out to be one of my favorites for the trail. The rest of the day, quite honestly, is a slog. It is hot and humid, I have a pounding headache, my legs are heavy, and the mud is totally over my ankles. I spend most of the day praying with every bone in my body that there will be other people at the shelter tonight, trying to mentally prepare myself to hike farther if needed to have some company. About two miles from my destination shelter, I come across a hiker going through some sort of withdrawal who is waiting for a ride and has lost his map. He is jittery and keeps coming close to me, trying to use my phone or see my map or get some sort of assistance. I try my best to help him out and eventually determine that he is right where he needs to be to meet his friend, but two days in a row of odd encounters with large men makes me feel extremely ready to no longer be alone in the woods. When I make it to Story Spring, I catch a glimpse of someone's bright orange tent, hear voices coming from the shelter, and get mildly teary when I realize that I'll have company for that evening. (I really, truly cannot remember a time when I have ever in my life been more grateful to see strangers). The couple staying in the shelter talk with me about their children, their experiences section-hiking the Long Trail, and about other favorite adventures they've done, and my body is just flooded with peace throughout that entire evening. Day 22: Easy easy easy — the end is in sight 9.5 miles — Story Spring to Goddard & Glastenbury Fire Tower When I wake up in the morning, it is with total relief that today will be an easy day. I got an extremely solid amount of sleep, it's not raining for the first time in 6 (!!) days when I wake up, and I get to spend breakfast chatting with another SOBO hiker who is rocking some longer days and plans to finish the next morning. The only mild hiccup of the day is when I get a voice memo from my partner responding to the one I left the night before, where I had mentioned being lonely/anxious/kind of ready to be done with the trail. I give myself 10 minutes to cry at the top of the hill (apologies to the hikers who passed me during that point, we've all been there ;)) as I realize how much the night hike/weird interactions on the trail have rocked my confidence. I'm sad that I've allowed something out of my control to so significantly impact my experience on the trail, but I try to give myself grace as I realize that I have never in my life felt the type of gut-deep fear telling me to remove myself from a situation as I did that night at William Douglass. Once my 10 minutes are up, I eat some fruit snacks, dust myself off, and decide to reset my attitude on the trail. And suddenly, that reset kicks in on a soul-deep level. I am achingly grateful for the rocks and streams I cross, for the mud that still soaks through my shoes, and for the sunshine that occasionally makes it onto my skin. Even when I trip over a rock and end up turtling onto my backpack just before summiting Glastenbury Mountain, I feel like life is good and like the laughter and joy that have been so out of reach in my funk are easy to find now. The rest of the day is just supremely incredible. I sit at the top of the fire tower for an hour, where suddenly, there are views. Vermont has views. I am two days from the end of the trail and I can suddenly see more than tree branches and clouds and oh my gosh, this is what pure satisfaction feels like. While I'm not totally thankful that it's rained so often, there's something about feeling sunshine instead of damp that is unbelievably exhilarating. I eventually make my way down to Goddard shelter, where there's a clearing that I use to spread out my tent to try to finally dry it out after sitting in my pack for days. I read and I journal and I stretch, but I mostly just sit on a rock in the sun and listen to the white-throated sparrows and let the feeling of warm sun and a soft breeze get etched into my bones. I make conversation with other hikers who pass through and decide around 6 p.m. that I would like to go tent-camp at the fire tower. There's many of us up there, and I really truly feel like a thru hiker as we all swap trail stories and eat pasta and laugh together. One sweet couple, with the trail name of Gone With the Wind, invite me to sit with them at their campfire; they're retired, going NOBO on the AT, and they are truly some of the coolest people I've ever met in my life. The sunset is subtle and quiet, just like the day has been, and I chat with several AT hikers as dregs of color fade into a soft purple. Tonight, I realize how much control I have in the face of nature, which is wild and wonderful at the same time. No, I can't make the sun shine or the rain stop, but I can choose to be grateful and loving. It's not a new lesson, but it's a needed reminder, and I snuggle into my sleeping bag with my puffy zipped to my chin as I listen to the laughter coming from Gone With the Wind. Day 23: You know how life can just be really, really good? And how you don't deserve it but it's lovely anyway? And how hard things don't have to break you? 14.4 miles — Glastenbury Fire Tower to Congdon Shelter My alarm goes off at 4:50 and I am cold, tired, and super excited to get out of bed. In the quiet pre-dawn, I retrieve my bear bag, make my instant decaf coffee in a ritual that has become one of the simplest pleasures in life, and slip a PopTart into my pocket to eat while watching the sunrise. I forget my glasses, but this is still the most glorious sunrise and view of the entire freaking trail. This morning makes absolutely everything — the mud, the blisters, the arch pain, the fear, the loneliness, the soul-crushing climbs, the knee-crunching descents — worth it and more. I chat with other hikers, one of whom I pair up with another to give a trail name to (Golden Year: It's her 23rd birthday on July 23rd), and take a timelapse of the sunrise while chatting about life and dreams and what the most superior place to sleep is (we're divided between tents and fire towers). The sun rises three times, coming first over the horizon, then poking through the clouds, and then rising above the clouds again. The pond in the distance is Stratton Pond, and there's something redemptive and holy about watching the sun light up the mist that hangs over what was, literally and figuratively, the darkest part of the trail for me. After two hours of shivering in the fire tower, once the sun is fully awake and the morning is losing its golden light, I climb back down to my tent and huddle back into my sleeping bag as I make oatmeal and reheat my essentially iced coffee that went stone cold in the tower. Gone With the Wind admire my PocketRocket and how quickly it boils water, joke about which one snored more the night before, and tease me about being far too perky for 8 a.m. We all tear down our tents together, wish each other the best on our respective hikes, and move on with our day. Time is flying too quickly for my taste, and I spend the day trekking up and down hills that probably would have infuriated me on day two of the trail, but 20 days later feel like a part of my regular routine. Don't get me wrong: They're hard, and there is one ascent in particular that is a half-mile of stone stairs that provokes a few good-natured "Holy f***, this is a workout," but most of the day looks exactly what I imagined thru hiking would be before I hopped on the trail on July 1. And suddenly I'm up and over my last hard climb, crossing through a clearing that opens up into Harmon Hill, and there's another sign that marks the distance to Canada — but this time, I'm on the right side of it. This day feels like a love letter to Liz, a letter I write by apologizing to my body for thinking it was bad and by reflecting on everything I've lost — some weight, some insecurity, some shame, some urgency — here in the woods. The trail hasn't remade me and it hasn't drastically altered my life trajectory, but it has reminded me of how worthy I am of coming home to myself. I do not have to be perfect. I do not have to be positive all the time. I do not have to look in a mirror or be a good girlfriend or second-guess whether I'm living up to people's expectations of me as a leader. Instead, I can cinch up my waist belt as tight as it goes every single morning, French braid my hair, shove it into my beloved lemon hat, and take sips of water that is either cold from my water bladder or warm from sitting in the plastic tube that stretches across my shoulder. I do not have to like myself. I have to trust myself, I have to live with myself, and I get to hike with myself — and that's a totally different thing. Before I know it, before I'm ready, I've gotten water and made it to my final shelter at Congdon Camp. And everything feels like it's coming full circle: I'm writing advice in the trail journal to remind hikers to hike their own hike, to not add "just" to their Long Trail hike when talking to AT hikers, and to remember that all hills end eventually. I'm laughing with a hiker named Tagalong who started the AT with his girlfriend and continued once she decided she was done (with both him and the trail). I help a young woman who is starting her NOBO thru hike hang her bear bag, I eat my last dinner of pasta sides, and I (in an act of extreme generosity for tomorrow Liz) save my final Honey Bun to eat as a snack tomorrow. Day 24: Meanwhile, the world goes on. 13.6 miles — Congdon Camp to the southern terminus to Pine Cobble Road Oh, man. My watch alarm goes off this morning and I, quite simply, do not want today to be over — even when it's barely begun. I get out of bed as soon as I can to prolong the morning and, for the first time ever, manage to finish my tea while it is still hot because I take the time to make my oatmeal, eat my oatmeal, and then reboil water for peppermint tea. Today is a day of luxury: I can wear my last pair of dry socks. I can wear my short-sleeve shirt I haven't put on since I did laundry in Manchester, so it's still clean. I can wear my shorts that I usually save to sleep in. Today, I decide, is good. I come across a hiker who had just begun that day, a hiker who is already pissed about the mud and the rocks and the humidity. And while I try to be nice, internally, I'm thinking that this poor guy is about to have a rough hike in front of him. (Do I bother to say that? No. He'll figure it out soon enough). For the third day in a row, there is sunshine and blue skies, and holy moly I'm so thankful it feels like I'm overflowing with smiles and joy and warmth. (I come across four snakes on the wooden walkway across this pond, which is the only negative part of the day — I internally freak out, externally prod them off the bridge with my pole, and then jog to the other side because oh man I do not like snakes). I climb my last named point on the trail (Consultation Peak) and stop to strip off my shirt, hiking only in a sports bra for the rest of the day. I pass AT hiker after AT hiker (which I know because I somehow always manage to be going downhill, so my rhythm pauses again and again as I yield to them, as is proper trail etiquette. P.S. ALWAYS YIELD if you're on the downhill. PLEASE). I'm meeting my partner at the terminus around 3 p.m., so I hike slowly and savor the sun and eat my last honeybun at a power line crossing as I sit and think about how much I've changed and how much I'm the same and how I wish I had planned ahead and decided to hike the AT from VT to PA to get home instead of catching a ride home. I pass a sign reminding me I have 3.1 miles before I'm done, which is wild. I used to run this in high school, I think. One more Tuesday XC meet until you're officially an LT thru hiker. You're amazing. I eat lunch at Seth Warner shelter and then I'm back on the trail, ready and eager to reach the end and happy to stay totally present in the moment. I pass a woman who tells me "I hate to tell you, but it's mostly uphill your way," and I joke back, "I hate to tell you, but the same thing applies." About half a mile from the terminus, I'm hiking up (of course I'm going up — how else did I expect the Long Trail to go?) the last hill when I run into two guys who are day-hiking the stretch of the trail. "Where are you coming from?" They ask. Canada, I say. "What the fuck?!" This is the moment it sinks in: I really, truly am doing the thing. They ask how long I've been out here (24 days!), if I've been doing it solo (pretty much!), and seem amazed that this 5'2" 22-year-old is doing the damn thing (yeah, same, honestly). Before I know it, I'm at the terminus. To be honest, it's ridiculously anti-climactic. There are no other hikers or people in sight, and it feels odd-but-right to finish alone. I take a bunch of self-timer pictures in front of the sign, write in the trail log, and then just sit on a rock for 10 minutes as I read the words "Welcome to the Vermont Long Trail: A Footpath in the Wilderness," over and over and over again. (I never make it past those words). And then? Then, I'm out. I have 3.6 more miles to get to the car, and I am soaking every step in. I text my parents and Ryan, then set off down the trail. I am absolutely floating. In a funny little twist, the only time I ever say "Where am I?" is after I've finished the trail, when I miss the sign directing me toward the trailhead and end up on Pine Cobble rock itself, where I accidentally disturb a peacefully meditating woman who graciously redirects me to my destination. And then I meet Ryan on the uphill, a mile from the end, and we finish together. I don't feel overwhelmed with accomplishment or even like I'm done, but I feel ... happy. Just purely, completely, incandescently happy. We drive the five hours back to Ithaca, stopping for pizza and listening to live music, and then I shower and borrow clothes from Ryan to sleep in since everything I own is sweaty and muddy, and then that's it. I'm done. I'm a thru hiker. Calm woods, steady footsteps, labored breathing. Nature has a heartbeat that pulses through the rhythmic patter of my hiking poles and the three-toned call of the white-throated sparrows in Vermont's Green Mountains. And while the hike might be over, I hope that heartbeat meets mine over and over and over again.
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LizWriting, running, reading, and keeping it real along the way. Archives
February 2022
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