Thoughts on Re-Entry
(and a shout-out to R.E.M.)
I reached the PCT Northern Terminus on Labor Day this year, the culmination of an effort that began five years earlier—and the fulfillment of a dream I had held since childhood. Once the PCTA gave the go-ahead for a “self-contained section hike” during this season of COVID-19, my husband and I hustled to Washington so that I could walk the final 400 miles of the trail I had grown to love. He has been my “support crew” all along, and he was far less surprised than I that I was about to actually finish.
I hiked through central and northern Washington for a blissful three weeks that lulled me into the quiet peace that only the trail provides. Though short by thru-hiker standards, it was enough time for me to reconnect to all that feels important. Strange year that it was, with Canada barring entry to Americans, I put one toe in Canada and turned around to retrace my steps to Hart’s Pass, the nearest road on American soil. I was ready to celebrate. I thought that the backtrack might feel anti-climactic after finally touching the border monument, but those extra 30 miles were an unexpected gift. They gave me the time I needed to absorb all that I was feeling about coming to the end of the greatest adventure of my life, one I had never really expected to finish. Every step felt like an undeserved gift. I was 61 years old and all I could think as I walked toward my ride home, was that I was the most blessed woman alive.
I knew about the challenge of “reentry” into a world separate from the PCT, and I was curious how this final ending would feel to me. As a section hiker I had had to adapt to life off the trail many times, but I knew this would be different. I would never again experience any step of the PCT for the first time. I was, like most fellow hikers, caught in the paradox of pride in finally finishing a journey that I had never wanted to see end. Even more than that, I was returning to a world that was feeling ever more chaotic. I knew re-entry might be challenging, but I never expected that it would happen so suddenly. In fact, the first jolt of tough reality hit me while I was still on the trail, as I woke on my last morning to the overpowering smell of smoke. My beloved West was literally on fire. Reaching my husband later that day, I found that other national news was no better: COVID-19 had most definitely not disappeared, as it had in my imagination, and our nation was even more politically divided than ever. The contrast to the peace of the trail was jarring. All I wanted was to rewind and hike a little longer.
As I traveled toward home that day the silence of the trail was replaced by emotional turmoil. I couldn't keep the chorus of “It’s the end of the world as we know it...(and I feel fine)” by R.E.M. from rattling around in my head.
"It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it... and I feel fine!"
Thank you R.E.M.
I was off the trail, and returning to what felt like the end of the world as I'd known it" BUT I most definitely did NOT “feel fine.”
After some rest, and a few calories, though, I began to reflect on some of the things I had learned from walking what I calculated to be over 5.3 Million steps on a trail that I was still both celebrating and mourning. I had been changed, not just physically, but emotionally. Now that I was headed home I needed to ask myself: “What do I need to remember so that I will be at peace here, with myself, my God and my world? What lessons did I absorb from time on a trail so beautiful and often so remote that I had no choice but to pay attention to what it had to teach me? What can I say to help others who might not be feeling too darn “fine” either?
A still, small voice inside answered: “Just show up and share what you learned.” And so, these are some of the lessons the trail so graciously shared. They are like a compass that guides me back to the sanity and serenity of the trail.
I will remember the wisdom of the Desiderata (a poem from the 1920’s by the American writer Max Ehrmann that hung on my teenage bedroom wall) and do my best to “Go placidly amid the noise and haste, remembering what peace there may be found in solitude.”
The world has become a very noisy place. Words, opinions, and the fears of others compete for my attention. In the forest I’m often alone, but never lonely. It is a forced isolation that brings order to my crowded head and peace to my soul. Now that I’m home it’s up to me to press the mute button on daily life, and to carve out the solitude I need to remember who I am, and that I, not others (especially cable news and social media) remain the best judge of whether I am actually in jeopardy. Gratefully I have everything I need for this one day.
I will remember to carry my own weight. When I hike alone it is up to me to take responsibility for packing all I need to see me through. The trail has taught me that I am up to the task of self-sufficiency. I can trust that I have within my pack, and within my emotional reserves, all I need to meet the demands of my day. That is no less true when I am off the trail. I have acceptance, and I have gratitude; These are my most valuable supplies. They help turn any ordeal into an adventure.
I will remember to be grateful, and to accept any help that is kindly offered. One of the advantages of having a hiking buddy is sharing the load. You carry the stove, I’ll carry the fuel. If you are really strong, I may let you have the stove, the fuel, and the steri-pen! Today I’m home and there are days I’m letting others shoulder hope or optimism or anger or outrage when I’m just too weary. Like a chorus that can hold a single note longer when members take turns taking the breath they need to carry on, I am relieved when I remember that we can do together what we can’t do alone.
I will remember to leave no trace. The most basic trail tenant is to pack out what you pack in and leave the tread behind you with no evidence that you were ever there. I’ve learned to do my best, but I know I’ve made messes without meaning to. A wrapper corner here, a forgotten tent stake there. A confidence broken here, angry words spoken there. I can’t always go back and undo the damage I’ve done but sometimes I can make an amends by helping repair the damage done by someone else’s mistake. That makes me feel a little better about the messes I’ve made and brings a little needed meaning to my day.
I will remember to leave the right type of lasting mark. I have gone weeks on the trail without seeing another human being. I’ve also had stretches that felt far from private. South of the Sierra, I had a terrifying encounter with a rattlesnake. I was sure I couldn’t keep going, though there was no trail exit. I felt paralyzed by fear until the first human I had encountered in five days appeared out of nowhere. He assured me he had encountered no snakes north of where I sat frozen. It was the reassurance I needed to carry on. Later, I met two young men in Washington that had been present for the death of their hiking companion in Southern California. I assured them that they had done well to continue, that some tragedies just needed to be “walked off.” I hope it was the right “mom’s voice” at the right time, especially since they had heard so many other less supportive messages. It helped me as much to offer affirmation as I hoped it helped them to receive it. These are tender times; Sometimes I desperately need the marks that others leave on my heart, sometimes I am the one who holds the marker.
And lastly, I will try to remember that today is all that really exists, and I am simply called to walk its minutes and miles well. Sometimes as I hike, I alternately celebrate or fret over the days, campsites or water-sources that I imagine lie ahead. Rarely are the reality of my anticipated celebrations or catastrophes quite what I imagined in advance. Hiking teaches me to be where my boots are, to take life as it comes. Anything else is a waste of energy that takes me away from celebrating and being glad in the day I’ve been given. I have an old woman who chases me down the trail. As long as I’m able I’d like to outpace her, but at 61 I’m not naïve; One day she will jump on my back and wiggle her way inside me, but, as long as she keeps a bit behind I want to savor the heck out of today. None of us have all the time in the world, but we do have today. I for one want to do my very best to walk it well!
This trail has so many lessons to teach those of us fortunate and able enough to walk her many miles. These are just some of the ones I’m using to help navigate life now that I’m headed home. Maybe you will find them useful, too. Like the goodies found in a box of trail magic, help yourself. Feel free to take what you like and leave the rest!
Sunrise just North of Chinook Pass, Washington
