The trail was a beautiful thing.
It was hard — harder than expected, to the point where a girl who doesn’t swear spent a lot of time saying the f-word. Why? Because there was a lot of fucking mud. Because there was a lot of fucking rain. Because there was a lot of fucking climbing. But mostly, because I was choosing to do something that should have been miserable and instead found that there was something beautiful in that pain. I don’t mean that in a silver-lining way — I didn't give thanks for the hard climbs or for the way my arches felt like rubber bands that were too stretched too tight and every so often had a little knife stabbing into them -- In fact, that’s when the swearing kicked in. But for the first time in years, I was miserable and in pain, and I was also totally and completely in control of that. I could stop I could stop I could stop I could stop It’s the wettest July on record My blister got a blister (literally) My hiking partner left early My arches are crying with every step I could stop I could stop I could stop I should stop I should stop I should stop I should stop But I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back to mirrors that remind me that I don’t like my reflection; I can see myself more clearly out here anyway. I don’t want to sit under artificial lights; I’m grateful for the sun that bakes into my skin. I don’t want to forget how thankful I am for cold streams and dry socks and a warm puffy. Out on the trail, I’m a better person, a stronger one, a calmer one, a person who is kinder — not to others, but to myself The Long Trail has been an exercise in coming home Home to my breath, which is harsh and labored and rhythmic; Home to my resiliency, which reminds me that I am capable of choosing hard things rather than soldiering through those that are thrust upon me; Home to my body, which has always felt like an enemy, but also an old friend — one who is waiting for me to realize that there’s nothing but worthiness here. In the middle of the trail, I realize I don’t even know who I am anymore, and that’s the most freeing thing I’ve experienced. Who is this girl swimming in a pond in her underwear after hiking 19.7 miles just because she could? Who is this person sitting on top of the second-tallest mountain in Vermont after hiking 180 miles to get there? Who am I to be here? Who am I to think I can do this? Who am I to think I can’t? When you’re at your physical limit, when your legs are screaming and your back is tired and you cannot possibly take one more step but you somehow have to climb 1.7 more miles straight uphill, When you spend 2 hours and 15 minutes fighting with yourself, whispering “fuck” to yourself, telling yourself “relentless forward progress” “I can’t do this” “I can do this but I don’t want to” When you finally reach a shelter and stop climbing and sit and eat pasta while sitting on a railing watching the dregs of a sunset slip into purple in the alpine zone, When you hike through the terror of a thunderstorm in the dark, Praying with every step that the rain will wait Please God, let it wait -- Just 4 more miles Just 2 more miles Just .29 more miles The bear box, The shelter, The headlamps pointed into the darkness because other hikers saw you and realized it was 9:30pm and the wind was whipping and the rain was pouring and they knew that light would be a beacon, a reminder to say: You are safe, You are here, You made it. And you’re dripping sweat and covered in mud and adrenaline is pumping through your body And that light from the headlamp feels like a hug -- In those moments, There is no room for hatred for a stomach, for insecurity about legs, for thoughts of acne and greasy hair, There is no room for tearing yourself down and besides, The mountains do that work for you. The rocks break you and the mud sucks you in and the trail relentlessly pushes you until you forget how to hate yourself and realize that the enemy is not you or your body, The enemy is not nature or the trail or another fucking climb, The enemy is not even your mind. In fact, there is no enemy at all, you just felt like you needed to release your loathing, your anger, your deepest emotions, and you had nowhere to send them, So instead you tucked them into your soul and into your belly and into every piece of you that you wish you could hide. But now you’ve slipped into the rhythm of the hike, where nature is a spiritual practice and the trail is a liturgy of sorts, A ritual that stays routine but is never the same. Every morning, the PopTarts are the best you’ve tasted and the uphills wreck you and the downhills wreck you too and you hike and you eat and you cry and you smile and you sometimes think deep thoughts but you mostly think about where your next foot placement is going to be and then suddenly the miles you were dreading or eagerly awaiting or simply moving through are behind you and you’re held in your sleeping bag and find that the emotions you wanted to push away are now held too, Because now the trail holds them all, a worn path that has heard your wrath and your exhaustion and your joy and has made space for all and in turn has made space in you. It's taken the highs and lows and the fantastic and the monotonous, Mixing those moments with the fog that rolls in and the views that aren’t there and the views that ARE there and the stars that wink above you when it’s 2am and you had to pee and now you don’t want to go back to bed because holy hell even pitch black is beautiful out here, You are held and you are whole and you are hiking. And tomorrow, You’ll lose yourself and find yourself and will be reminded once again that The trail is a beautiful thing.
1 Comment
Esther Rogers Baker
9/22/2021 12:33:40 pm
This is wonderful writing. And I was just thinking about a podcast talking about how when we look at our body through the eyes of others we don't get to be 100% within our body experiencing its power. I felt similar things on the long trail and it changed me... I didn't quite do all of it, so hope to get back... keep holding onto that you!
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