Hike Your Own Hike

I've been home from the trail for about two and a half weeks now. I am overflowing with big, wide, gushy contentment after conquering over 1000 miles of the PCT across my amazing home state. I am overcome with gratitude. And I am done.

Here's how I got here...

After skipping over the Sierra, having a magical rendezvous with one of my best childhood friends in Mammoth Lakes, and setting back on trail in northern California - I had an experience that now defines this hike for me.

It started with a couple days of massive defeat. We were working our way north towards Shasta and had just come through some challenging burn zones. The miles had started to get longer, the climbs were starting to really get to me, and on one particular day, we were heading into several miles of snow covered track. I was beginning to get in my head about my ability to keep up, and was feeling really fatigued and frustrated in my body. Knowing that we needed to tackle the snowy section together to be safe, and not wanting the group to have to wait on me, I woke up well before dawn to get a head start towards the snow junction. Even with my early launch, I was still nearly last to reach the meeting point - an understandable blow to my ego and confidence going into what was sure to be a tough stretch.

Grace and Michael were kind enough to walk with me through those snowy miles. The trail was completely hidden and blown-down trees made bushwhacking through the icy ridge especially challenging. Even with micro-spikes, we were all slipping through the slush as the heat of the day overtook us. And I think the mental and physical exhaustion got the best of me - by the time we reached camp I was inconsolable. It seemed impossible to keep up with the group and I couldn't see past the defeat and betrayal of my body's cruel limitations. I convinced myself that I wasn't getting stronger and there was just no way I could continue to take on the serious miles now required by my tramily, due to the constraints of their visas.

They tell you when you set off to do these kinds of things, to never quit on a bad day. In "normal life" I try to take that guidance one step further. For a moment - take 10 deep breathes. For a tough day - sleep on it. For a meltdown - always take at least three days of space before making any major life decisions.

You can't always trust your feelings.

They are real, they are valid, and they need to be honored - but they are not facts.

So I was honest with the group, but I didn't make any decisions. I wasn't ready to give up. But I did realize one very important thing that I still hold as true:

I realized that the trail, my trail, had become these people for me.

Somewhere out there in the wilderness, the trail had transformed. This experience was no longer about the miles or the views or the sense of accomplishment - it was entirely about the community. And not just any community - mine. My people. The humans I had discovered and fallen in love with and fought to keep together over hurdles of pace, and injury, and competing priorities, and struggle, and achievement, and transportation, and schedules, and time.

When I considered the possibility of walking all day up and down mountains and not having dinner and setting up camp with the humans that made it all worth it for me, I realized I didn't want to keep walking. Not on my own. And not with the other groups I had encountered along the way. I had found my tribe, and they had become my home.

One of the most common, and probably overused, phrases on trail is the simple guidance to "hike your own hike" - which is often meant to say: follow your gut and don't let other people's judgments or opinions influence or interfere with the journey you set off to have for yourself. And I don't disagree with the sentiment, but somewhere along the way my humans had become my hike.

So I pushed on.

Two days after my snowy meltdown, I started my hike a little over five miles behind most of the group. Nothing had materially changed about the weight of my pack, or the water carries, or my aching muscles, or my sleeping patterns, or my stride. But I woke up different. I woke up determined. I needed to feel like I was in control of my body, and my destiny, and not the other way around.

That day I hiked over twenty-one miles by 2:30pm, with an 8-mile climb ascending nearly 3000 feet right in the middle. I caught up with part of the group by midday, and walked with them into town a day ahead of what I had planned.

After that, I felt unstoppable. I conquered another massive climb out of Shasta with views of Castle Crags and a lakeside campsite waiting for me on at the end of that 24-mile day. I dove into that lake with a big grin on my face by 5:30pm that night, with loads of daylight to spare and enjoy the spoils of my grand effort.

Two days later I hiked a marathon. 26.2 miles. Up a fucking mountain.

I ran the last mile.

I found my trail legs. And I proved to myself that I could, in fact, keep up. I could keep going. This incredible body I had been given was, in fact, capable of growing stronger, and conquering bigger miles, and carrying me into new reaches of accomplishment.

And knowing that, having proven to myself that I could carry-on, gave me the permission I needed to ask myself again if I really wanted to.

And it turns out... I didn't.

I was ready to be done. I would finish in Ashland, OR.

I would hit the 1000-mile mark, and cross the Oregon border on my birthday, and then I would head home. Happy. Content. Grateful.

The trail had provided everything I had set out to receive and more. My trust and confidence in myself, in my worth, and in my love had been restored by my journey.

And I had done what I set out to do:

I showed up for myself.

So thank you - thank you to my tramily, my tribe, my humans, my home (you know who you are). Thank you for making me laugh, for empowering me to love, for believing in me when I doubted myself, and for taking such good care of me out there in the great big wild. But most of all, thank you for reminding me how to take care of myself and for helping me believe again that I am worthy of that care. I couldn't have done this without you, and I will be forever grateful for the experience you've given me.

P.S.

Just days after arriving back at the ranch I was approached with an incredible job offer that has me grinning ear-to-ear with anticipation. I start next week. I am over-the-moon excited to begin this next professional chapter and I am still in awe of the incredible timing of it all.

So cheers, my friends, to knowing ourselves and to trusting our guts and to loving big and embracing the adventure of it all.

Until next time... yoo-hoo!