Thursday, August 3, 2017

Life is a Thru Hike


I don't want to share this with you. 
I don't want to let you in, to be vulnerable, to try and explain how I am feeling. I don't want to, but I've put myself in a position to be obligated to you. So please, forgive me, as I write this from a place of sadness. 

On July 23rd, I left the PCT and boarded a plane in Seattle. The day was cloudy, but as we gained altitude and soared into the sunshine I saw her- Rainier. I've seen the mountain many times, but never like this. It felt like I could reach out and touch the summit if I really wanted to. Suddenly, three more peaks appeared. Hood, Shasta, and Whitney I thought, although maybe I was reaching. All I knew is I was looking south along the pacific crest, upon which my feet should be walking. Instead, I was leaving my friends and my footsteps behind in a cloud of jet fuel. 


I've always taken injuries seriously, even as a young child. Every cut, scrape, or bruise required thorough analysis and proper treatment; I guess that's what I get for being the youngest woman in a family full of nurses. After my shoulder surgery last year, I've become even more sensitive to my body's cues. But my knee injury didn't require sensitivity to notice; it was crying out for help with every step. By the time I knew I had to seek serious medical care, it was devastating. I had been on and off trail 3 times, each time soliciting more advice from physical therapists, friends, hikers, family. No one gave me what I was looking for: an answer. Was I being weak? Should I continue to hike through the pain and uncertainty? Was it something more serious? How many times do I try before I stop trying? I can't even count the sleepless nights I spent battling myself to make the right decision. Finally, it was unavoidable. My insurance wouldn't cover me out of state, and I needed to see a doctor. So for the second time in just over a year, I flew home and began the grieving process.



It's been about a week since I landed in Michigan. I haven't been sleeping well, my appetite is minimal, my muscles are tied in knots, my friends want to see me but I've refused them every time. Some mornings I feel pretty good- but several hours into a day devoid of activity, I find myself crying or raging or desperately seeking attention. I am frustrated, angry, sad, relieved, confused, annoyed, discouraged, bored, ashamed, envious, and heartbroken. I have been planning this hike for so long that it has become the only part of me I believe in. But here I sit, out of time, out of money, and out of patience.

The upside is that I'm already established with a doctor I know and trust. Radiographs and an MRI show a deformity in my kneecap, likely from an injury last summer. Next week, I'll have an exploratory arthroscopic scope. The recovery period from this surgery is relatively short (about 4 weeks), but having spent all of my time and money seeking treatment, my thru-hike is over for this year.

It is impossible to hide from your weaknesses on the PCT; what else is the trail for but to show them to you? If I learned anything, it is that those 2,650 miles are not going anywhere. I will try again next year, and the year after that; as long as it takes until I feel I've succeeded. I will listen to my body above all else, I will embrace all hikers as friends, and I will NOT bring a stove because Lord knows I can't cook so why try. 


It is all part of the journey; life is a thru-hike, and I am still walking.






R&R

The weeks since my knee surgery have passed both surprisingly quickly and painfully slow. Sparing details, the procedure corrected a misal...