Soon.

Soon I'll be home, venturing back to the East Coast after wandering the West for more than five months. I don't have any regrets. I don't regret my failure to document my journey on here (ok fine, I feel a tiny bit remorseful) and I don't regret the hardships I endured both to accomplish this adventure and while it was happening. Perhaps there is a subconscious reason for abandoning writing, both digitally and in a tangible journal; perhaps the need to spend time alone processing emotions and experiences in an alien place requires no meditation or exploration other than the physical act of walking.

Soon I'll be walking much less, embracing shorter mountains and steeper climbs up them. Soon I'll be bitterly cold but terribly happy. Soon I'll be in New England again.

Here is one last snapshot of the trail before I head home in two days to sift through hundreds of photos and countless memories. I'll see you soon. I promise.

It's been a while...

76 days, to be exact. But hey! I'm alive. I'm still hiking; I didn't quit, skip, or have anything bad befall me. Instead at the end of the day I simply just felt too tired or inclined to socialize. So I stopped writing. I might start again. Maybe.

I am after all in Oregon now (finally!) and perhaps that deserves documentation. It certainly feels important enough to me. I've stalled out in Ashland, taking a whopping 4 days off and not accomplishing very much. I suppose I am ok with that. It felt better than walking, that's for damn sure! I'll try and quickly detail some of the highs and lows of the past few months for you now.

I had a friend save me and offer me a pair of gently used ultra-light ti goat poles. It's been wonderful using them and I feel so lucky to have repeatedly encountered the generosity of the hiking community.

I managed to convince Tom at Kennedy Meadows to slackpack the last 24 or 26 miles into there (or did he convince me?). Upon starting at almost noon, on an incredibly hot day, I then promptly sat down on a cactus and got tiny little spines embedded in my thigh, hand, and ass. Not very fun. Karma for ditching the pack for 6 hours? Perhaps.

I fell in platonic love with Not A Chance as we hung out at Kennedy Meadows and bonded over an 80's and 90's music dance party. We were later informed that we were obnoxious. I will concede, just this one time. I have a terrible habit of losing Not A Chance and her boyfriend Croation; the last time I saw them was as they were leaving Vermilion Valley Ranch. I had decided that I deserved pie and was determined to do a work-for-stay and gorge. They were leaving just as I came in. I regret not sticking with them, as they are now over a week ahead of me!

I received the best care package ever from the lovely Persistent. And also from Rocket, who sent me a poem more timely than you can possibly imagine!

The Sierras were magical, beautiful, challenging, epic, and rewarding. Every day there were multiple pay-offs... which certainly led to disappointment when we headed back into more mundane wooded areas past the Sierras. The northern descent off of Forrester and Muir pass were my two favorite areas. Truly magical landscapes. The most beautiful hiking I have ever seen. (And yes, there was hardly any snow to traverse. We had it easy!)

Andrew and I encountered a man dealing with anaphylactic shock (passed out, due to a bee sting). Andrew helped find the epi-pen, we monitered vital signs, and a helicopter was called.

Sonora Pass was beautiful and also marked the beginning of the end in terms of my positive attitude towards long distance hiking. I struggled for weeks, hiked some shorter days (15 miles), felt exhausted constantly and on the verge of tears, was bored, and in general went through a very blue phase that lasted weeks/hundreds of miles. Certain things brightened my day at these moments: receiving a postcard from Hungary (thank you!) from a stranger who read my blog was wonderful! (I'm so sorry I stopped posting!). The trail angels at Bucks Lake were lovely and made me feel like family.

Mt. Lassen's national park was scenic, short, and contained a resort with a hot spring pool and lots of left-over food for hikers. Yes, please. I encountered a baby chipmunk shivering and abandoned in the road and warmed it in my pocket before placing it in a sunny bale of hay. 

I stared at Mt. Shasta looming in the distance for days and days as we traversed in a loop around it. Mt. Shasta is a great town, very hiker friendly although you are likely to be mistaken for a homeless bum, since there are a lot f those too! I had great luck asking for rides in front of the health food store. I also forgot my piece of carrot cake and felt disproportionately sad. The hike into the town of Mt. Shasta was not that appealing to me. Dry dirt and prickly needles and hot weather and excessive uphills. I was in a funk. I have seen a total of 7 bears now, though! 

I had a friend visit me in Etna, where we frequented the brewery, I binged on farmer's market produce, and we slept in the park like sneaky hobos. My mood slowly began to lift and the Marble Mountains were beautiful.

I have been hiking with Grit, Last Minute, Rem, and Rubylocks - I am very averse to groups but somehow keep winding up in theirs! They seem fond of me. They have also helped enable this ridiculously long stay in Ashland. I may push a bit harder now - I feel better mentally (although physically I am oh so tired) and I am getting ready to be done. I look forward to exploring Washington and Oregon, and I also look forward to perhaps taking some fall classes and pushing myself academically. And also being healthy again. That would be nice.

So big miles lay ahead of me. I'll try and update again by the end of Oregon. Thanks for your patience, support, and love!

Another reason to walk.

These are flowers from my great Aunt's garden. She loved her yard, and she loved her home.  I lived in her house for a year after she decided to go into assisted living. Not long after she moved she decided that it was a mistake, that she missed her home and she wanted to go back. As a family we had all come to the conclusion that assisted living was better for her; at home she'd be completely alone, unable to drive, with the possibility of hurting herself on steep narrow staircases. And so we gently avoided mentioning home to her. We dodged her suggestions of visiting it and we attempted to sidestep her complaints about her new life.

When I came back from the Appalachian Trail she had just suffered a fall and was sick. Her face was bruised and her nose swollen, but she was in good spirits. We had not seen each other in 6 months. I was shaken enough by her appearance that I cried. At this time it slowly it became very evident that she was never going to live on her own again. Her mind was changing and both mentally and physically she was becoming weaker.

She was so incredibly proud of the things I did. She told everyone she knew in that housing complex about my adventures. Every time I visited, she wanted to show me off. Once she cornered the director in his office and had him sit and chat with us about what I had accomplished. I am ashamed to admit that there were many times I thought about visiting her but postponed it with excuses. I liked seeing her, but it was tedious and mildly embarrassing being shown off to everyone.

 I didn't see her all that often this summer, fall, and winter; when my mother and aunt began emailing me health updates I knew that she was sick and that her mind was failing in more obvious ways, but it never occurred to me that when I next saw her, she'd be gone. My aunt who had always been so proud of me looked me in the eyes and failed to even recognize me, as we stood in a hallway gazing at women who drifted like unmoored ships in wheelchairs. I struggled to hide my tears and eventually gave up, standing behind her wiping at my eyes. I felt guilt at not spending more time with her sooner and an overwhelming sadness at the people around her who were shells of their former selves, some of them complete vegetables, unable to move, unable to feed themselves, staring blankly at nothing. These are people who unknowingly embody the antithesis of how I feel when I hike. I'm crying again as I type all this. It's trite but true: life is short and precious... so do what you love while you can.

I went back and visited my aunt again before I left and she was much better than the last time I saw her, even responding with her usual dry sense of humor at my prompting when I told her I was about to hike again. 'That's nuts!" she said. I'm so glad she was just having an off day on my previous visit, but it hurts to know that she will be irreversibly different in six months when I come home. I wish I didn't have to anticipate that. But I know that I do.

2 years ago on this day:

I started an incredible journey. I'm now 3 days away from beginning another one. HOW LUCKY AM I?!

Reasons why.

Although generally they are very supportive, one of my good friends was incredulous when she heard that I had decided to hike the PCT. "Why?" She asked. "You were miserable on the last hike. You hated it!" This was a logical conclusion for her to make since I tended to make phone calls to her when I was extraordinarily bored and/or miserable. There was a monumental struggle with ennui on the Appalachian Trail and I'm curious to see how I cope with it on my second attempt at a long distance hike.

I should call friends and family more often when the amazing aspects of hiking occur so that I can convey the reasons why I feel this love and longing towards hiking... but when you're in the woods you don't usually want to whip out your phone at these moments.

So for those of you to whom I perpetually complained about boredom and filth here is an apology and just a few of many moments that I should really should have shared, instead of complaining for the umpteenth time that I smelled bad. I can't wait to discover the many reasons why the Pacific Crest Trail will be far more wonderful than it is terrible. These pictures only convey the smallest fraction of the joy and freedom you get to experience while living life on a long distance trail.

Days well spent.

 I was too lazy to document it all but here are some excerpts from my last two sets of days off.

 

 

 

Long distance hike in approximately one month. Until then, maple sugaring party, sunshine, smoothies, coffee, goat cheese brie, pizza making and other wonderful things.

Snow melt somberness.

Phases of long distance hiking prep.

I tend to go through several stages when planning a large adventure. The first step is announcing my plans to my friends and family. This is done well in advance, less out of excitement and more out of a desire to appall them. However at this point they tend to handle my pronouncements disappointingly well. Once my loved ones have been made aware of my plans and have hardly blinked a collective eye I move on to preparation.

Embarrassingly enough, the bulk of my time and effort is spent on idle uselessness rather than actual preparation; apparently my brain enjoys fixating on the perfect hiking outfit and weighing gear but excitement and tangible preparation fails to really make an appearance. I can agonize for hours over the theoretical inclusion of a dress to wear on days off from hiking. I've weighed my gear three times now. I'm not proud of this, but it's true.

And so between obsessive list making and agonizing over what to wear several months sneak by unnoticed and we then enter what I like to call the "Oh shit." phase. This is when I realize that I have less than two months left to get physically and mentally in shape for this hike. I become aware of all the mundane tasks I have been postponing: planning where to mail myself food, obtaining supplies, selling gear in order to afford a new backpack, figuring out the logistics of getting myself to a trailhead located on the opposite side of the country and most importantly, I start to panic about not being in shape, about my various joints and tendons crapping out on me; before I have even completed my preparation for the hike I begin visualizing its imminent failure.

I am panicking quietly at least; I just ignore the overwhelming stack of 400+ double-sided map pages sitting on my floor and I guzzle herbal teas like it's my job. I'm nursing a recurring knee injury brought on by winter hiking abuse. It's mildly stressful, to say the least. But at least the herbs with anti-inflammatory properties don't taste that bad.

I'm not going to lie: occasionally the pile of maps can longer be ignored and the words "Oh shit." really do reverberate through my mind. And when that happens rather than do something productive like finalize my mail drops instead I break out the scale again and make another list. Nothing like a little procrastination to soothe the nerves!

Meet Moss.

Moss is... me.

I have an entire set of friends who know me solely as Moss. A soft plant classified as Bryophyta. A single name, occasionally altered to Mossy Pants or Moss the Boss. This is not a delusion of grandeur or me trying to be a more earthy crunchy version of Prince. When you hike the Appalachian Trail you earn a trail name (usually inadvertently). Mine was given to me by two friends who were unusually kind in bestowing a moniker. There are far worse things I could be called (trust me)!

I'm telling you this because I am about to revert back to being Moss again. It's good being called it. It envelopes me back in that strange/comforting/stifling/freeing/simple world of long distance hiking. In approximately two months I'll be walking from the border of Mexico to Canada. I'll be surrounded by people who don't need a last name and all have (mostly) equally foolish nicknames and who will be able to identify me as a long distance hiker instantly by three things: my pack, my filth... and of course, by my name.

I let go of my thru-hike identity when I stopped long distance hiking. When I became a caretaker, I didn't see the need to resurrect it. I was no longer one of them. I wasn't in the thru-hiker club anymore. And in fact, I actually enjoyed being outside it. But it feels like it's time again.

There's a lot of different ways to look at my decision to return to this sub-culture. Right now though, all I'm going to do is introduce myself and tell you that in two months you can call me Moss, because in two months I'll begin hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.

With every day that goes by I feel more ready for it

Summit graffitti.

Peeping out from underneath layers of ice are signatures, some scrawled over a hundred years ago.

Sore shoulders and solo walking.

My pack bounced uncomfortably as I huffed and puffed my way towards the trail head on a snowed-in road that meandered for three miles at a gradual incline. I ran because my competitive side refused to allow friends on skis to overtake me and my hour long head-start. I ran to escape the cold even as I began sweating and stripped down to a tank top on a cold New Hampshire winter's night in February. I ran because it hurt. And I ran because I love the feeling that comes with being alone in the woods headed towards a destination on a trail, moving fast. It's a feeling of purpose. A feeling that I am using my body the way it is meant to be used.

The other day I looked over my photos and felt overwhelming longing; nostalgia for even the mundane and dreary aspects of hiking and backcountry caretaking. It's almost beginning to feel as if the only thing I can excel at is living in the woods. This is both a good feeling and an unnerving one.

I had almost seven miles by myself to think about this, walking through the night to reach a hut filled with warmth and friends. In the eyes of a long distance hiker it was a small amount of mileage but it was just enough time and distance to think about why this lifestyle is so important to me. My departure from comfort and financial stability happened for a reason. It's changing me. I need this.

So now I sit gently probing my bruised shoulders where the pack's weight bore down. It's a nice reminder of what really matters in my life.

What holiday?

Do you like my rock? I found it in Maine on the shore of a pond that the Appalachian trail meandered past. I squirreled it away in my pack thinking maybe some day I'd find the other half. And no, that isn't a metaphor for a secret yearning for a love life. I just think it'd be pretty neat to have two halves of a rock that form a heart.

I don't have too much to say about Valentine's day. I could rant about commercialized consumerism, but that's not very fun. My plan for Valentine's day is to do a solo winter hike somewhere... however, if I show up at a site and there's an intrepid couple with the same plan as me that will just be terrible for both of us. I mean really... just flat-out TERRIBLE.

As much as I enjoy solo hiking I have done an awful lot of it... enough to be appreciative of company when I have it. However, while other people are watching movies together or enjoying a nice dinner or doing whatever the heck it is that couples do I will be spooning in my zero degree sleeping bag with my cuddly, loving ice axe. It should be pretty darn romantic... the forecast isn't exactly balmy, as you can see.

ps: update - after spending the night in my car at the trailhead (it was cold enough to need both my zero degree bag and another as a supplement even at that elevation) and waking up to predictions of 70-80 mph wind and windchill of minus fifty below I've decided to downgrade my plans a bit!

Nesting.

I have a confession to make: although I pride myself on being able to live out of a backpack and it has been almost two full years since I have had a permanent address, there is a folder on my computer desktop with over one hundred images (yes, you heard right) of home inspiration.

Secretly, deep down, hidden by a veneer of free spirit and simplicity, I yearn for bookshelves and coffee tables and potted plants and pillows and spice racks. In fact this summer I could take it no longer and went to the thrift store, bought a cozy reading chair for $7 at the local thrift store and crammed it in the tiny plywood room assigned to me for days off. That cozy chair made me so happy I contemplated hiking it the 2.6 miles up to my tent site. Thankfully rationality won out... armchairs are not light!

Even while paring my belongings down in anticipation of another long distance hike, I pick imaginary paint colors for pretend walls, admire shelving and think about how I would kill for an herb garden. Some things just can't be helped... and I suppose there are worse vices to have.