MAKING MEANING OF THE MILES

Spoiler alert: long distance hiking can get a little uncomfortable.

There are times, for instance, when it is a Saturday, and you haven’t showered since last Saturday. Or washed your clothes since the Tuesday before. The smell stopped bothering you a few days in – luckily you can no longer smell yourself or your hiking partner. Now it’s more the grit of dirt and sweat under your backpack straps driving you crazy under the midday sun. And that your hair in no longer capable of being out of a messy bun - it just stays up with or without assistance. The realization that your insect repellant won’t work if your skin isn’t clean enough to stick to. That you aren’t actually that tan, just that dirty. Or that you need to go into a town for groceries and a quick lunch. And that those people are not immune to your scent. Or that it is indeed possible to get diaper rash as an adult.

I hate that we’ve had so little time to contribute to our blog, but on reflection, I think the above would be just a sample of our complaints had we had more time to write in Pennsylvania (also known by hikers as Rock-sylvania and Pennsyl-tucky for its ridiculous terrain and less than sophisticated populace.) The last two weeks of that state were some of the hardest, least rewarding hiking I have ever experienced: 10+ miles between most water sources, unceasing rocks, multiple daily rattlesnake sightings, and few pretty views to make it up to us. It’s a good thing we have since passed through New Jersey and New York, with their lovely forests and mountain views and exciting bear encounters. Now, Connecticut promises to be more of the same.

Regardless of the ease and fun of hiking though, I have found myself struck by a consistent observation. Once or twice each day as cell service allows, I try a little escapism to see what is going on in the “real world,” and each time that I glance at my Facebook feed, I am bombarded with bad news or further commentary on it.

Orlando – Baton Rouge – Baghdad – St. Paul – Dallas – Nice

It feels a bit helpless. It feels like I am sitting out a dark time without making a contribution to a hurting society. We could have, after all, spent five months and the cost and effort on some more utilitarian cause, some greater service to the world that sending ourselves on hike of the Eastern seaboard.

But then I recall that these events always feel helpless, no matter where I am or what I find myself busy with. As we become more exposed to the suffering of people across the globe, it sometimes slips past our capacity to shoulder. If we cannot fix it, we begin to feel that nothing can. And then the next tragedy. And the next. And our hearts grow harder. Then someone turns the light back on.

A few days ago, we were walking down the sidewalk, prepared to buy some overpriced Ramen and snacks at a convenience store and get back on the trail in Bear Mountain, NY, and an older man pulled over to offer us a ride. Bruce “the Moose” hiked the AT in 1974 and has lived near it ever since, helping hikers when he has the time. All he had to ask was: “Do you want to go to a real grocery store?” He drove us to the next town, waited patiently as we bought what we needed, and then offered to let us get organized on his back porch over drinks instead of on a public stoop. Our day really took a turn for the better.

Our conversation with Bruce then turned from his hike, before the ultralight equipment and smart phones. To his work as a high school science teacher. To his environmental research. To the late 60’s when he was among the earliest modern rock climbers as the sport was being pioneered in the U.S., climbing alongside the likes of Yvon Chouinard in the White Mountains of New Hampshire when he was still selling equipment out of the back of his car. (For those less nerdy about outdoor recreation than myself, Chouinard went on to found Patagonia – which has graciously employed me for two years – and the company that became Black Diamond Equipment, all while doing more than his fair share to save the planet.)

As we traded stories with Bruce and gratefully received his hospitality, I rediscovered my reason for hiking. These same sorts of stories are what created an insatiable hunger for the outdoors when I was a child. My parents raised me with a respect for competitive sports as they facilitated cycling races on the weekend, with Mom scrubbing gravel out of road rash by the finish line and Dad opening a bike shop in our backyard. They pushed me to try 5K’s and sports camps, and they took me kayaking and camping. Scouting introduced me to the strong, independent women I wanted to be like as I got older. Tolkien, Bryson, Krakauer, Twain, and Gilbert opened me to the possibility of my own adventures.

These things have become for me a counter narrative to the darkness of the world. Like art, music, and poetry, hiking is a purposeless act of positivity, a reflection of beauty, and a candle in the night. My heart, and I suspect the hearts of others, cannot constantly be at war with the worst of humanity. We need joyful stories to make us whole and human again. So if in hiking, I fall into a story that inspires someone to be kinder or more creative and brings with it more light and laughter, there will be a reason for my wandering after all.