A case for walking the same trail twice

On fall and memory

The maple leaves are sifting across the deck in the wind or gathered in rusty heaps on the side of the road. But weeks ago, they were layers of purple and yellow, glistening from fresh rain. 

When we hiked along the North Country Trail in October, I remembered the flame of maple leaves tucked into evergreen branches. But I didn’t recognize the luminescent green maple saplings blanketing the forest floor. Were they there two years before? I couldn’t remember. Meandering down the trail, I thought about the times I’d been before: my first, and disastrous, backpacking trip; and the last solo hike before the Pacific Crest Trail.

I walked with memories underfoot and the stories I’d been telling for years felt malleable like sand. It felt like walking through time, to see the distances of what I’d forgotten. I felt the stories settling like leaves, building up the soil of memory. The laughter and warmth from the details I’d clung to–and that’s when I kicked a squirrel–became myths. 

When we came to an intersection or paused to assess a side trail, I strained to remember what I may have chosen, two or five, years ago. The mystery of the place disappeared with the wind grasping at my hair and the trees swaying overhead. But the unknowability of my own self–what was I thinking?--only loomed larger. And it tickled me. How the hell did I get so turned around? The self who’s comfortable in the backcountry is astonished at how simple it is now to follow a trail when it once felt so complicated.

I feel lucky to have a trail that holds such precious milestones for me: the novice, the determined, the accomplished. Each its own joyous experience, a precious seedling. Here’s where a stranger and I confided in each other that we had big hiking dreams. Here’s where I filtered water the first time, and where I got impatient about getting to camp last time too. My backpack the first time was full of cans. The next time, the same gear had been deemed too heavy and ready to be replaced, now I carried all the extras I could fit and and reveled in the little luxuries. We met a pair of ultralight hikers eager to talk gear, and I admired their woodstove but kept my experience to myself. I had nothing to prove. 

Well. 

I at least have plenty to learn. I surprised myself with my simple curiosity about tarp tents and harder hikes. I can always aim for a healthier hike, a calmer mindset, or a more ambitious pace. But in remembering the girl whose first hike was derailed because she forgot a can opener, questions about dialing in a shelter are more amusing than serious. She had no idea. And someday I’ll look back on myself now and think the same. On a fall day, when the growth of the summer returns to the soil to prepare for another year of glimmering green, I feel peace and contentment with the inevitable seasons of growth. I revel in the fog of memory and the familiar trail. A storm swept through between my visits, and between the deadwood, flowers have already taken over.

Happy trails,

Mumble

@mumbleoutdoors

Written from Potawatomi lands.