Mile 1150

How do I even begin to describe the strange and exquisite world of the trail? The absurdity and adventure of the past 1,150 miles? The rare challenges and self-discoveries that make up the PCT? Today, I’m at a complete and utter loss for words.

The Oregon/California border! Where Du Jour, Fluffy, and Footprint waited for me so that we could cross together.

I’ve walked over 1,000 miles and straight into Northern California. Those steps have included gnarly blisters the size of cherry tomatoes and hoards of black flies so thick you’re forced to hold your breath for fear of inhaling the little devils. The miles have included mountaintop dance parties and dramatic confessions of affection.

Photo by Tommy Corey, aka Twerk

One day, I walked a whopping 44 miles. Another day, I was so exhausted and mentally depleted that I lay uncomfortably on a giant rock and slept for hours at midday. Sometimes thru-hiking looks like hiking until 3am with a head torch and a pal to escape the oppressive NorCal heat. Other times, it looks like laying sprawled out in the rocky path, crying because you’re so damned demoralized.

Crossing the 1,000 mile mark with whiskey in hand.

It’s harrowing and wildly exciting to fill your days with covering exceptional distances, to walk the length of a marathon or more each day. Yet within each day exists a lifetime of personal challenges and complex social dynamics.

I struggle with being in physical pain more often than not. I struggle with finding time for solitude and reflection amid the crazed culture of the trail. I struggle with feeling lonely and claustrophobic all at once—not wanting to miss out but simultaneously craving space and silence. I struggle with making decisions and trusting my own judgement. I struggle with missing home and wondering where home is now that, for all intents and purposes, I don’t live anywhere.

Mount Shasta–one of my favorite sights.

Tonight, some friends and I are planning a trail detour to summit Mount Shasta—a mountain over 14,000ft tall! I will tell you now, I’m feeling nervous. Though I am also buzzing with anticipation and the promise of witnessing the sun rise over the land at such a great height. For now, I sit with Jan Richardson’s words A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark:

Go slow.

If you can.

Slower.

More slowly still.

Friendly dark,

or fearsome,

this is no place

to break your neck

by rushing,

by running,

by crashing into

what you cannot see.

Then again,

it is true:

different darks

have different tasks,

and if you

have arrived here unawares

if you have come

in peril

or in pain,

this might be no place

you should dawdle.

I do not know

what these shadows

ask of you,

what they might hold

that means you good

or ill.

It is not for me to reckon

whether you should linger

or you should leave.

But this is what

I can ask for you:

That in the darkness

there be a blessing.

That in the shadows,

there be a welcome.

That in the night

you be encompassed

by the Love that knows

your name.

Wish Me Luck,

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