Correcting the Wobble
Revisiting some Appalachian Trail journal excerpts to keep my head right
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the Appalachian Trail. I’d planned to spend the month of April continuing my section-hiking adventure, but a nagging foot injury has thwarted things and instead I’m cemented here at home in full-on recovery mode.
I’ve been diligently treating my wonky midfoot with my PT’s prescribed exercises while also using this unexpected time to dive headlong into projects that would otherwise be on the burner. One of which is to reconnect with my beloved community of friends near and far (so don’t be surprised if you suddenly get a postcard from me). Foot pain aside, the fact that I am one lucky motherfucker is not lost on me.
There’s also a bit of a role reversal at play. Over the past two years during my five stints that covered half the AT’s 2197 miles, my dearest friend Katie dropped me off at a trailhead and picked me up wherever I stopped (with only one exception). She logged more than 60 hours of shuttling, a feat most folks, friends included, would find painful. Now she’s heading out for a week-long haul of her own and I get to (partially) return the favor.
Meanwhile, all of this AT hoo-ha has me revisiting journals and notes from my time out there and I’m overcome with yearning. How badly I want to be living campsite to campsite again! To exist only to walk and eat! To poop in the woods! I long to have deeply vulnerable and emotionally intimate connections with strangers during a five minute interaction—then repeat it every day when our paths inevitably cross again. I dream of being feral, which is to say, I yearn to exist where bring busted up and dirty is never judged, celebrated even. Where grime and fatigue are markers of authenticity. Where every day is a clean slate, absent of frills and pretense.
I’ve written tens of thousands of words about my time on the trail, but the majority of these scribblings never made past my composition books. As I’ve rediscovered these pages of undisclosed thoughts, I’m feeling compelled to share some here. I’ll limit myself to five. Thanks for reliving these moments with me.
Here’s the first one:
“All day I think profound meanderings. And no matter how diligent I am at remembering the revelations, they are gone—poof—by the time I sit down to try and recall them. Sometimes I have the forethought to bust out my phone for a quick memory jog for later. But on a rainy day like today, I don’t bother. Not that my notes would mean anything later anyhow. Too often what makes perfect sense in a moment of enlightenment is incomprehensible gibberish a mere few hours later.”
This bit reminds me of riding long and arduous bus rides while traveling through Morocco in 2015. I brought along one book of poetry—Like a Beggar by Ellen Bass. I read that book over and over until I had lines memorized. Until the words and my body were one. Until I regularly had epiphanies about the topics and themes explored within them. On an overcrowded haul between Ouarzazate and Agar I thought, “Yes! That’s it! I totally understand the meaning of time!” Being that close to a thing is a marvelous feeling, even if it’s temporary.
Here’s another:
“The rain on my tent last night sounded like a basketball dribbling in an empty court. The nostalgic ping ping ping of my favorite childhood sport’s glory days. The precursor to some serious hardwood thunder. I dreamed strange dreams as the downpour continued through sunup, then broke camp in the deluge, trying my best to keep everything somewhat dry. I was absolutely unsuccessful.”
To me, existing in nature (although let’s be honest, everywhere is nature, but you know what I mean) makes it nearly impossible to miss the mundane. I can’t afford to. Rain demands different gear and perhaps a shorter day. Heat and humidity require more water, more streams, more filtering stops. Bear scat means, well, bears. A low and heavy branch is a hint to not camp there. And so on. When I am hiking, everyday moments reach back to my past and build unexpected patterns. In this case, rain lead to basketball, which surely sent me down a rabbit hole of my own personal hoop dreams. I never was as good as I thought I was, but I sure did love the sport. I likely spent the last minutes of that rainy day pondering my favorite player, Dr. J., or perhaps Converse Cons. Gosh, those were some fantastic shoes.
This one, too:
“Back out here and feeling a little out of sorts. A little groggy, and hating that I smell like laundry detergent. My feet appreciate the new shoes, but I need them to hurry up and get dirty and busted up. I’m also more than typically attached to my online connections. I’m checking my phone too much. Which is funny because out here I want solitude and aloneness, but I also yearn for its antidote—connection. I want likes and comments on my social media, occasional texts and messages. I need reminders that I have people. That I am not forgotten. I walk and consider this predicament. This detail of lonesome me. I am reminded that so much of what I’ve always wanted I’ve also pushed away.”
Oooh. This one’s a doozy. Lots to unpack here. I’ve spent my life seeking a landscape of seclusion that’s also abundant with human connection—which is an unlikely, if not illogical reality (although one that’s very alive on any long trail). This drive has often led to conflict—personal discontentment, eschewed loves, hasty decisions, and a zillion Irish goodbyes, to name a few. My astrologer says that my chart’s unaspected Jupiter is to blame for a life of push and pull, so I accept it. But my acceptance can’t be blind if I want to find peace. My gut tells me that I must write. I must adventure. I must share stories. I trust that honoring these known places of solace will guide me to exactly where I need to be.
And another:
“Around midday I reached mile 700 and found a burst of energy. I bounded up the boulders leading to Dragon’s Tooth, a mountaintop rock monolith, where I lunched. Someone told me that today is the hardest hike they’ve ever attempted. As I ate my tortilla stuffed with tuna, mayo, and hot sauce, I flicked large ants that somehow made their way onto my bare legs. This inspired me to count the swollen and itchy bug bites on my thighs and calves. Eleven.”
I read this and remember how amazed I always was by my fellow hikers. For many their first foray into backpacking was this gnarly thru hike. Wow! How brave! For others, every day out here was a new personal mileage record. Gosh, to step into each day with that much at stake takes some serious guts. Hats off to them all.
I also love how in the moment I must have been to write this entry. I mean come on—it doesn’t get much more in the moment than counting bug bites on one’s legs. I wish us all at least one moment today that’s completely focused on one simple thing. Just one.
And finally:
“I often marvel at how far I can go by simply pressing on. For perspective, if I were to walk ~600 miles from where I live in central North Carolina, I’d be in Orlando, Detroit, or Syracuse. Walking is an amazing metaphor for change. Every step matters. I spent the day thinking about how little credence I’ve historically given this in-hand potential. Walking the AT is cool, sure. But there are other areas of my life that could benefit from such pinpointed and relentless attention.”
I fact checked the distances and, sure enough, Detroit and those other places are all about 600 miles from where I sit and write this in Carrboro, NC. Dang. I like the fact that I sometimes marvel at myself. Sit back and wonder how the hell I managed to propel my body that far. It’s true that we can do amazing things. Question is, which ones?
And also, I regularly contemplate my current trajectory to examine its truth and wobble. Right now, mine has both. Which means it’s time to make a plan to correct the wobble.
It’s been nearly two months since my foot started smarting mysteriously. There was no trauma, no obvious reason as to why it suddenly kept me from moving. Docs think my inflexible and arthritic big toe is to blame. But nobody is really sure.
I’ll keep on with my regular foot therapy while hoping it will start cooperating soon. Maybe it’ll heal in enough time to get back on the trail myself. But also, maybe not. I don’t want to think this may be the new normal, but I suppose I can’t discount the possibility.
Meanwhile, I’ll approach this pause as an opportunity. An opportunity to give back, to reflect on what’s good, and also a chance to look inward. And if this foot thing is anything like my past injuries, the pain will only subside after I’ve looked deeper inward and found the thing in the way. I obviously haven’t found it yet.
But when I do, I’ll say, Ah yes, there you are. I see and acknowledge you. I thank you for opening my eyes. Now git!
Then, injury-free and refreshed, I’ll pack up my backpack, accept a frugal life of honest effort, and bring my butt back to the trails. Or something like that.
