Another Long Walk

In 2017, after completing my thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail, I found myself back in Vermont, in October, to hike the Long Trail. When I say I “found myself” there, I mean that in the most palpably baffling sort of way. 

In August, shortly after climbing down from Katahdin, I made a commitment to get sober, and then I jetted off to Baja Sur in Mexico with someone who was, at the time, a mere acquaintance; together we soaked up the sun alongside the ultramarine waves of the Pacific, got a rental car stuck in a sand dune, which we promptly dubbed Death Trap Suzie—the car, not the sand dune—and I avoided margaritas and cocaine like the plague (and to be clear, both were offered to me on numerous occasions). After two weeks in Mexico, I returned to Maryland, donned my wench costume and served beer to everyone else’s face but my own at the Maryland Renaissance Festival. It was tough and I was cranky, but I got through it. 

And then, quite suddenly, I decided I would go back out into the woods again, up north, of all places, just as winter began its creeping descent on the very wet and green state of Vermont. 

It was October 31st, and I was shivering, alone, in Greenwall Shelter, south of where the Appalachian Trail split from the Long Trail. I had only been out for a few days and yet I knew I wanted to call it quits after I climbed up and over Mt. Killington and reached route 4. I had come out here to process my sobriety and all I could process was the cold, miserable aloneness I was currently enduring. 

I wound up abandoning the trail, and spending almost a week making soap and jewelry, soaking in a hot tub, and eating delicious food with good friends near the town of Ludlow, Vermont. It turned out to be exactly the sort of adventure I needed, but the Long Trail never left my mind. I had to know what lay directly north of route 4—not just north-east, by way of the AT—I would be back, I promised myself. 

Now, three years have passed since my attempt at hiking the LT, and with them, many milestones and other adventures in faraway places, like Yukon Territory Canada, British Columbia, Alberta, and Patagonia. I re-hiked the northern thousand most miles of the AT in 2018, and as I passed that faithful sign, marking the LT’s divergence from the AT, I blew it a kiss, I will be back, I remember thinking to myself, before turning northeast, towards New Hampshire for a second time.     

Tomorrow I am going back. I am going back to Massachusetts, to the border of Vermont, and I am going to attempt, once more, to walk to Canada. 

Since my return from Chile, I have become acutely aware of a sort of welling up of anxiety with in me. Sometimes it grips my heart like a vice, other times it presses against my chest making it difficult for me to breath. I’ve tried to observe these changes with a level of detachment, but now I am not so sure that simply taking note of them is enough. I’ve always been a bit high-strung, tightly wound, and dare I say, compulsive; simultaneously, I’ve always thought of these traits as being an intrinsic part of who I am, qualities that make me, me. Until, that is, they started getting in the way of me, being me. I am not ashamed of asking for help, to seek therapy and outside counsel, in fact, it is something I have begun to pursue with careful interest. But in the meantime, I know the woods and the mountains to be a safe place for me, a simpler world in which I can walk and think and let out that deep, tight breath I’ve been holding somewhere in my shoulders and neck.

I’ve planned my trip with Covid19 in mind; I will not be hitchhiking or staying over in towns, I will be wearing a mask when I enter the post offices to pick up my packages and in grocery stores as I shop for supplies. I will be respectful of others and exercise a good Leave No Trace wilderness ethic; I will avoid utilizing shelters and privies so as not to spread my personal variety of germs. 

I have NOLS to thank for so many of the backcountry skills I now have. If can find a place to pitch my tent in a jungle full of rotted logs, tangled vines and dense bamboo and foliage, I can make camp anywhere in the verdant state of Vermont, and afterwards, leave the space looking like no human was ever there. I know how and where to dig a proper cat hole, and I don’t need toilet paper or a privy to do it. Believe it or not, I prefer to travel in this minimally impactful way, and it is what is enabling me to undertake an adventure on the Long Trail at a time like this. 

My goal in heading back out onto the trail now is to enjoy nature, to spend time with my thoughts, and most importantly, to walk a really long way—something I have come to love enormously. My secondary goal is to make it to Canada, (and then back to my car, of course). I cannot pretend I am not attached carrying out my whole plan, I am. I really, really am. And I believe I will. But I’ve found that by simply focusing on the enjoyment of the journey, I tend to accomplish so much more than the thing I initially set out to do.     

Photos taken by So Hum, fellow thru-hiker.

My hope is to be able to share updates as my hike progresses, but I am as of yet unsure if I will have the opportunity to charge my phone along the way. I will be carrying a Garmin InReach to track my hike and as a backup communication device. I will share more details about the things I carry and the planning that has gone into this trip, in a later piece of writing! Happy Trails!