What is there to do but keep hiking?

On trail closures and reroutes

I got used to crying in front of strangers while thru-hiking. Somehow, in the vast mountain spaces, there’s always someone bounding along the trail when you’ve hit rock bottom, or are just absolutely exhausted. And when you’re dehydrated, there’s only ugly, puffy-for-hours-if-not-days crying. At least, that’s what it felt like for me, and it happened a lot more than expected. 

Whenever someone learns I’ve hiked the PCT and asks how was it? I immediately think of the loneliness, the crushing disappointment of skipping around wildfires, and the pain in my feet. I long for the self who kept on hiking through the tears, and gasped at the views. And I want to try again, with a little more perspective and better shoes. To the question, I sigh and offer it’s hard to explain, so much happened. 

It feels especially hard to explain why skipping miles was so crushing. My emotions ran highest when I thought the hike would stop for reasons beyond my control, because it forced me to ask whether I should be out there at all, and if so, why. Each time I chose hiking through an injury, smoke, or homesickness, I had to explain to myself why the hell I was continuing. In doing so, I built up a great well of resolve, which could be swept away at any moment by news about the trail ahead.

In addition to why, a central piece of thru-hiking is answering the question of how. More specifically, what makes a thru-hike? And how do you continue when that definition is challenged? Every hiker has a different answer: whatever my body allows, skip the hot/snowy/boring sections, a continuous footpath, under 100 days. And, because we’re human, there are plenty of other reasons informing our paths: to impress someone, to test myself, to feel worthy, to find peace. 

Somehow, all these convoluted and contradictory motivations must translate to real-time decisions: How, when faced with injury or fire or snow, do you want to proceed? 

Always, with tears first. Plenty of time for hysteria, when you’re hiking. 

At least, that was my approach. It kept me clear on what was stressing me out.

Breakdowns aside, you keep hiking, because you need water, to find camp, and to get to town. You figure out an answer you can live with (if you’re lucky enough to have choices) and go. And the motivations get revisited, revised, and re-explained. The more deeply you consider why the hell you wanted to do this to begin with (was it really just for fun?) the more exhausting it can be.

I have a photo of myself from April 30, 2022 in Idyllwild. My eyes are nearly swollen shut. I remember trudging up the Devil’s Slide trail, past dozens of day hikers who could see I’d cried myself to sleep, and feeling so vulnerable to their curiosity. I’d been laid off the night before (I was on leave.) I’d had a good breakdown, called Jeremy, and concluded thank god I decided to go hike this year. And I pressed onwards, despite the uncertainty of what job I’d return to. 

Almost exactly a year later, my new employer has announced a reorganization and layoffs. It feels both absurd and painfully commonplace. 

It’ll be June before we understand the full extent of the layoffs. And in the uncertainty ahead, I have to ask myself how do I want to proceed? What is this work to me, how must I take care of myself? 

When a new fire breaks out or difficult terrain looms ahead, thru-hikers will talk endlessly about their strategies. With the seriousness of friends debating whether to leave a job, strangers will debate the merits of road walks and flip-flops, and shit-talk other options. 

As I approached the California/Oregon border, three fires broke out in Oregon, and a large section of trail remained closed from an earlier burn scar. It was unbelievably hot and windy, with frequent lightning. Some people walked the highways for hundreds of miles to get around fires–maintaining a continuous footpath. Others hiked up the Oregon coast to cover the state. Some tried to continue with what was open and arrange complicated hitches in between. I chose to go around it all, and hike north from Mt. Hood. There was no right choice, yet we debated endlessly.  

Facing a potential layoff, there are lots of reasonable paths to take: start looking for something else, organize with the union, put my head down and keep going. I work at a nonprofit, and dedication to the mission complicates my needs as an employee with bills to pay. Questions about severance are paired with: how do I proceed now, with integrity? How do we work with our coalition partners and volunteers, when we don’t know how our relationships may change or end? How do we give our all to exhausting campaigns we want to win, but might have to give up entirely?  

Obviously, I don’t know how it will play out. There might not be a single campaign that folds. When I skipped ahead to Washington, I didn’t know if fires would break out there (they did.) But I had my permit, and I kept hiking. It didn’t feel easy, but it felt right.

The brutal benefit of hard choices is that they force you to get clear on what matters. On the PCT, I wanted to find strength within myself, and ultimately continuous footpaths mean, well, anything. I still often mourn the fact that I didn’t finish the trail in the way I’d originally envisioned. But I know I faced the conditions of the year with integrity to my own goals and values. Facing a very different kind of uncertainty, I’ll have countless decisions to make. But they’re mine to navigate, and I can take comfort in knowing I’m doing what’s right for me.

Mumble 

P.S. In a variation from my noticing practice, I’ve been writing down the beautiful things that have happened the past couple of weeks. This essay was about stress, but there’s plenty of good happening too. I am ok, I will be ok. I just might be a little more exhausted the next few weeks.

An impromptu side quest to Half Dome