Readjustment After a Thruhike
Three thruhikers sat in front of the ranger station at the base of Mt Katahdin in Baxter State Park, staring despondently at the dirt beneath their tattered, nearly soleless boots. They had just completed their long, arduous journey from Georgia to Maine along the Appalachian trail. It was not only a distant goal at one point, but it became their life; their home. And now, it was over for them. Both Brett and myself approached them after having 2,184 miles behind us, getting ready to prepare for the remaining 5 miles of the same journey they completed only moments before we got there. To make small talk while waiting for one of the rangers to help us with our permits, I asked them what it was like up there on top of Katahdin, the mountain that marks the northern terminus of the AT. It felt like the only right question to ask, being that the entire thruhiker community talked about it so often with an immense wonder behind our eyes. One of them quietly replied without making eye contact with me, “I don’t know what’s next.”
Some call it “post trail depression.” Others just simply call it a blissful victory, and nothing less. In my case, it was an equally balanced combination of both. Perhaps it hadn’t quite registered with me when I approached those other thruhikers that the last six and a half months I spent trekking from Georgia to Maine were about to end in just five miles up a steep, rocky mountain. In that moment, all I knew was that my excitement was unbearable. The last five miles and the ending itself didn’t have meaning yet. My stomach had too many knots to consider that it was really about to be over, and memories of everything that it took me to get to that moment were frantically scattered within my mind. I was too unorganized to have a rational thought process of exactly what my thruhike meant to me. There was no possible way I could process it then, let alone the moment I cried when my fingers first touched that weathered sign. I spent those six and a half months fantasizing about what it would be like on Katahdin. Would I be happy, sad, or relieved? Would I laugh or cry? Would my life really be changed? And for that matter, would I even be able to complete this beautiful, challenging trail from terminus to terminus? Luckily, I did complete this trail, and I did end up laughing and crying at the same time, but I still had no idea what to emotionally and mentally make of it.
To my knowledge, there isn’t a word in the dictionary to describe having all of those feelings at once. It didn’t occur to me that I’d spend the next several months after my thruhike analyzing so many moments of the journey itself, and that while Katahdin was nothing short of spectacular, it wasn’t the most important part of my journey. It also didn’t occur to me that the man I met and fell in love out there with would ask me to spend the rest of my life with him upon reaching the end of our thruhike, which would be followed by completely shifting my life again; I’d pack up my belongings back in Florida, and instead of walking across the country, I’d permanently drive across it this time.
I’m not going to lie: the readjustment was incredibly difficult, and it wasn’t until recently that I began to feel completely secure and like a real human being again. Before going back to being Pari again, I went by a trail nickname (as all thruhikers do) and was visibly a hiker. That was my identity: Brave Turtle the hiker, stripped away of her vanity and material possessions. I didn’t think it would initially be difficult to go back to being little ol’ me in “the real world” because I was basking in joy over successfully completing the journey of a lifetime, becoming newly engaged to my soulmate that I met during that journey, and moving to another state for the first time in my life. I remember thinking back to those three other thruhikers who looked so empty, thinking that I wouldn’t feel that way because I was overwhelmed with so much joy at once.
But a few weeks later after completing the trail, it hit me like a ton of bricks. As another hiker said, “On the trail, the living is hard but the life is easy. In civilization, the living is easy but the life is hard.” In fact, I freaked out to the point that I had to go to a therapy. I honestly had no idea how to handle going from living in comfortably in sundresses in Florida, to living in the woods while traveling many miles a day by foot, to living like a dressed marshmallow in Michigan. Luckily, I took the wisdom I gained from the AT and was able to tell myself it’s okay to admit to needing help with finding a solution to a problem. My freak-out episode was short lived, and my therapist reminded me at least three times that I’m not as crazy as I may feel and that it’s natural to feel anxious and stressed with that many life changes at once. I mean, how could it not? I was so naive to think it would be easy to handle such huge transitions in my life three times entirely within one year, let alone the most recent one. You know, the one where I have access to daily showers again, don’t have to wear the same socks every day, and can freely stuff my face with Chipotle burrito bowls within the matter of a short drive. There I was, shivering in Michigan, thinking about the trail, only having my fiancé to really talk to about it (in depth, anyway), trying to figure out what comes next, and trying to adapt. It took a lot of mental fortitude to finally tell myself that if I could pick up and leave before, I can certainly do it again with grace and success. And so, I did. Everything worked out better than both Brett and I expected for it to.
(FYI: If you plan on thruhiking the AT, I am sad to tell you that your only Chipotle opportunity is if you take the Metro Railroad into NYC. I promise you won’t be disappointed by NYC or that burrito bowl you effortlessly eat after months of Chipotle deprivation. There are also only two Starbucks opportunities near the trail: one in Georgia, and another in New Hampshire. But don’t worry; if you like pizza and ice cream, you’re super in luck because almost every hiker hostel provides both. Godspeed, my fellow hiker friends.)
As it stands, because of the AT, these are some of the most important things I took away from it, while leaving necessary parts of myself and who I used to be behind: I’ve become more patient. My desire to give to others without having to think twice about it is stronger now than it was before. I know how to pick and choose my battles. I truly believe that I can do anything I set my mind to (not in the cliche way our parents tell us that we are special, but in the literal, I-walked-2189-miles-so-I-know-I-can-handle-this kind of way). I let go of toxic friendships and bitterness towards my past, and no longer consume myself with the thoughts of those people or traumatic things I’ve experienced. I’m genuinely happy with who I’ve become. I don’t wear makeup that often anymore; I no longer seek validation of superficial qualities, let alone feel insecure about who I am or how I look. I’m not afraid to try new things. And I can safely say I would be able to survive the zombie apocalypse.
(Okay, that last part is a lie. I really meant to say I’d be set for a hurricane or snow storm with all of the equipment I have. I honestly wouldn’t survive a zombie apocalypse because I don’t know how to fight let alone fire a gun, but I’d at least be able to survive off of a headlamp, charge my devices on an external battery, and cook Ramen noodles on a camp stove until they come to eat my brain.)
When I planned this hike and set out for it, I gave up nearly everything. My nice desk job at a compounding pharmacy, many of my material belongings, the convenience of being able to buy food without walking 70-100 miles at a time to get to it, the convenience of running water without hoping there would be a flowing stream in 20 miles so that I could rehydrate myself, and most importantly, consistent communication with my loved ones. I wouldn’t change my journey for the world. Hell, if anything, I would eventually love to take on another long distance trail. While it was the hardest thing I had ever done, it was the most gratifying experience that I’ll be able to cherish for the rest of my life with Brett, and I’m thankful that we have each other to eternally remember it.