Decisions, Decisions - Part 1

I haven't posted in a while. I've been MIA from my blog, and more recently, from the trail.

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My last post detailed the pain in my legs and feet that left me crying at the trailhead of Mt. Baden-Powell. Like a mountain, there are peaks and valleys, highs and lows to thru-hiking. I was on an emotional high at the summit that day, but in grueling pain at the base the following day. I took a hitch out to Palmdale to rest, hoping that a few days off my feet would give me enough time to recover. Although my feet were not fully healed, I was anxious to get back to the trail, the views, and my friends who were now a few days ahead of me. I planned a short 8 mile day for my first day back, knowing that I had to ease back into it. I managed to book a Lyft to the remote trailhead and started hiking by 8 AM. It was already brutally hot, and the trail immediately took me up a 700 foot ascent. By mile 2, I broke down. My feet were in excruciating pain. Every time I lifted my foot, and put it down, it would burn and send pain right up each leg. My body needed to stop. I tried to take breaks, but the exposure wouldn’t allow it. I would feel my skin burn if I stopped for more than two minutes. So I pressed on. I waddled down the trail in tears for the next six miles to a highway underpass - the first shaded spot of the day. I collapsed once inside, elevated my feet on my pack, and took a deep breath. I wanted so badly to continue and to stay on trail, and catch up to "the bubble" of hikers, but I knew that if I had any chance of completing this trek, I'd need to get off to get new shoes, a diagnosis and treatment before it took me off for good. Enter Eric - a local day hiker who sought shade in the tunnel after his hike. He asked to sit with me while we ate lunch. I told him about my hike and my feet, he told me about his move to California and his newfound passion for Buddhist meditation. He taught me the chant: Nam-myoho-renge-kyo, which brings positive energy and happiness. It’s taking responsibility for your own good karma, and overcoming difficulties by finding the joy within each situation. I'm no Buddhist, but I appreciated the perspective. A mile later I came across Vazquez Rocks - a site famous for its appearance in Star Trek and other movies. The visitors center offered water, air conditioning, Wi-Fi, and snakes behind glass (unlike the two gophers I almost stepped on earlier in the day). But the best of all was the park ranger who wrote down the name and number of a local podiatrist, and Garrett - another day hiker who offered to take me to REI, an hour away, to get new shoes. Walking into REI was a surreal experience. I was not the typical Sunday afternoon customer. The moment I entered, I felt all eyes on me. Not great when you don’t love attention. People turned to see me with a bag packed taller than my head strapped on my back, trekking poles in tow, and dirt and dust flying off my leathered, awkwardly tanned skin. I looked more like the lizard in the desert than the clean customers who’s jaws were now on the floor. I was clearly not a day hiker. But the employees - they had a field day. Like walking into Barney’s decked out in designer, I was decked out in dirt at the local REI. They all wanted to help me. Several employees left their patrons to watch me walk, asked me more about my feet than my podiatrist, and brought me multiple pairs of shoes from different brands. I felt bad, but the neglected customers didn’t seem to mind as they grilled me with questions. It was weird for me to be the “pro”, when only six weeks prior I was the rookie shyly asking questions to my local REI staff. It was the first time I felt like a real “Thru-hiker” instead of the attempting hopeful. I did hike 450 miles to get there. Although the new shoes provided support, I knew I needed clinical attention. After an appointment with a DPT and podiatrist, I received the diagnosis. In addition to pronation issues and tendonitis, I have tarsal tunnel syndrome and a tiny fracture on my right heel. I was relieved to have an explanation for the pain, and justification for crying about it. (Turns out hiking miles on destroyed feet is legitimate pain! Sometimes you really don’t know when everyone out here complains of aches and pains.) The DPT gave me exercises and stretches to help and said to take 3-5 days off, and the podiatrist prescribed an anti-inflammatory after patronizingly telling me that I’m overworking my body (no shit). The next several days were spent in a hotel room, with my feet elevated and numb from icing. Those few days were the toughest physically and emotionally. The trauma I put my body through was catching up now that it had more than a day to rest. My feet were already hurting, but now my legs and back were sore. I could barely move. Emotionally, I struggled being so far from trail. I wasn’t in a trail town. I was no where close to other hikers. It had been a week since I had a full day of hiking. My mind needed the people and my body needed the movement. I found myself feeling upset when scrolling through Instagram, looking at trail families smiling and experiencing the trail together. For the first time, in 30 years, I felt “lonely”. Could it be? It was hard and uncomfortable to sit with that feeling, but I knew it was a healthy breakthrough. The fact that I missed the company of others, and wanted to experience the hike with others - was brand new to me. My, what a long dirt path and some sunshine can do! Shavuot brought the company of new people, and a whole new experience in its own right. I reached out to several Chabads and shuls a week prior, and finally received confirmation of arrangements at the Young Israel of North Ridge a few days before the holiday. This trek has challenged me emotionally, mentally, physically. It has brought comfort spiritually. There has been no challenge there. To be frank, I’m not the most spiritual person, but I find myself thanking God for legs that work, for the beauty around me and being able to witness it, for my safety, for the strength and bravery to even get here in the first place. Having a proper Shavuot made it that much more meaningful. I returned to the trail right after the holiday. My friend met me at Hikertown, one of the oddest places along the PCT. The hostel is set up like a miniature old western town in the middle of no where and run by a man with a questionable reputation. Although odd, it’s a popular stop since its the last outpost to receive clean water, mail, and a bed before entering the Mojave Desert. It’s known that the Mojave will test you. Its the section of the desert that will make or break you. The first seventeen miles in the Mojave is along the LA Aqueduct and the Mojave Wind Farm. It's typically hiked overnight because of the threatening heat and exposure. (I knew shade was sparse; I didn’t know it was limited to the rotating blades of a wind turbine or your own shadow) It was my first time night hiking, but I was relieved that it was on flat terrain and my headlamp was bright. We decided to break for three hours in the middle of the night, and I decided to forgo setting up my tent and cowboy camped for the first time. At first it was hard to sleep - the stars were numerous and bright, and the coyotes loud in the distance - but I didn’t mind. I was again in pain, and thinking it might be my last night on trail, I wanted to enjoy every minute of it. I managed to hike the next 200 miles and complete the Desert Section of the Pacific Crest Trail. It was full of challenging ascents, but I always managed to get to the top of a climb right at sunset, which always made it worth it. I met new people each day, felt more confident as a hiker, and experienced even more kindness from trail angels. I also gained an overwhelming feeling of gratification and appreciation for completing the desert. As confident as one can feel mentally about taking on this challenge, it is very much up to the circumstances of the trail and our body that will determine our success. I hiked 702 miles. 500 of them hiked in pain. Six weeks of backpacking. I made it! The success felt akin to arriving at the terminus - it was a huge win, and further proof to myself of my own capabilities and grit. As hard as it was to hike through a desert, it will be missed. I learned how to survive out there. I knew when to hike to avoid the heat, how to ration water, and where to place my tent to protect it from wind. I enjoyed the vastness and openness from the lack of trees. The views were endless. The sand was golden. The desert was dry, but alive. It became home. I spent the next five days waiting for new gear at the Kennedy Meadows General Store - a landmark for PCT hikers. It marks the end of the desert, and the start of the Sierra Nevada range. Each hiker receives a round of applause and hugs upon arrival. Getting to Kennedy Meadows means you’ve made it - you’ve gotten through the worst, successfully traversed the Southern California desert without throwing in the towel, getting injured badly enough, or dying. The more time I spent in Kennedy Meadows, the more anxious I became about the section ahead of me. The High Sierra is the next section of the PCT. It spans 390 miles in Central California, where the granite mountains are tall, sharp, and snow capped. The trail rises to over 10,000 feet in elevation, crosses rivers, and offers numerous alpine lakes to swim in, and provides much relief to parched, dried-out hikers. The change in terrain calls for a change in gear: hikers swap out desert water bladders with an ice-axe and microspikes, and we use satellite phones over a cell. It's known as the highlight of the PCT, as it offers the most beautiful landscapes and the most gratifying climbs over a dozen high-altitude passes. The High Sierra is what I had been looking forward to the most during my planning of the PCT, and all the while during the desert. But now I had a setback. I had been hiking on a minor fracture and multiple feet issues. The remoteness of the Sierra doesn't allow for easy bailouts - I'd need to hike 6 days to the next town. The extra food carry, and the weight of my new bear can and winter gear raised concern that too much on my feet would cause further damage. But - it was the Sierra, and there was no way I was going to skip it. I found Chris after his arrival at Kennedy Meadows, a friend I met during my first week on trail. We shared stories and compared our hikes so far. I told him about my struggles but also of my will to push on. He looked up at me and said (as if I should have heard of it more than once before), “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo” - the same Buddhist chant I learned from Eric a few weeks earlier. I took that as a sign to "embrace the suck" and to slowly and carefully enter the Sierra. Positivity and perspective is always provided on trail - and it always seems to come exactly when I need it. I have seen a shift of my own mindset throughout this trek as well. I’ve seen another version of grit and fortitude in myself as I dug deep to overcome the obstacles that the trail threw my way. As my cousin Scott phrased: “the challenges you’ll face are more stepping stones than blockades”. This challenge may break me down at times, but each time has been an opportunity for me to rebuild - to see the silver linings, to find the joy, to adapt. Sometimes a good cry over FaceTime with mom and dad is in order, but every morning starts with an overwhelming impulse to hike and keep going. The trail has taught me a lot, and reinforced the skill of rolling with the punches, of embracing the unknown and the unexpected. It's amazing how every moment, every day is filled with uncertainty. I never know what the day holds. How far will I go? Where will I camp tonight? What will I see on my way? Who will I meet? Who might I reunite with? Going to town? How will I get there? How will the hitch go? Where will I stay and how will I get back to trail? I’ve blindly trusted the dirt path ahead of me, with few concerns, and embraced the simple life of having zero control. So with excitement and a positive attitude, I entered the Sierra. Four miles in, the positivity faded. It became the most emotionally difficult day on trail yet. I was in pain. I managed to push on and up another 9 miles, and immediately broke down to a day hiker named Jedd who sat for lunch at a perfectly placed log under a shady tree. He commended me for hiking this far, and insisted that if I could manage the desert, I could fly through the Sierra. The issue became clear to me though, the pain was worse than the joy of the experience. It came about that Jedd was from LA. In a moment where my brain went into overdrive, I asked him for a ride to LAX for the following day when he completed his weekend hike. My mind knew it was time to leave. He kindly agreed to take me and gave me directions to his car as I planned to turn back while he pushed on. Just as quickly as my mind sought a escape, my heart caught up and overwhelmed me with the disappointment of possibly quitting. I sat under the tree for hours, frozen in limbo. I couldn’t bear the thought of turning back, but couldn’t bear the thought of pushing on either. I decided to camp at that spot to allow myself to sleep on it. It would be a shame to go in either direction only to change my mind and retrace my painful footsteps. But, as the trail has proved, everything can change in an instant. I was soon greeted by familiar faces. CleanFoot, Bubs, Cesar, Beeline and Piper came around the cliff and stopped when they saw me. “Velcro! Surprised to see you!” Makes sense, since I left Kennedy Meadows four hours earlier than they did. I had first met them on day three. We leapfrogged each other on the first week of trail, but I haven’t seen them until a very brief reunion at Kennedy Meadows the day before. Although our time together was short, they were the closest thing I had to a “tramily” so far. I hiked majority of the trail alone, but keeping up with them on social media gave me hope that we would one day reunite and hike together. Reuniting at my lowest point on trail was further proof that the “trail provides”. CleanFoot, Beeline and Piper saw that I was struggling and now on the verge of tears, they sat down with me to talk it through. The support of hikers is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. While discussing my options, we discussed the takeaways of the journey thus far. We spoke about my newfound faith in humanity. CleanFoots experience is that kindness exists outside trail, but here we have more time to give and care. I believe it exists outside trail too, but I needed to work through my trust issues and vulnerability to allow myself to receive such kindness. My faith in humanity was unfortunately reliant on adjusting my faith in myself. CleanFoot and Piper reassured me and supported me, regardless of my decision. They gave me reason to push on, but also made me feel so fulfilled for what I have accomplished so far. They reminded me of my win: to get the terminus. I always said that the terminus was my goal, not Canada. The miles after are bonus. Only now I had Canada as a new/second goal. CleanFoot saw how torn I was. So he offered a story. Turns out he too has been very interested in Buddhism as of late, and heard a story in his study that has stuck with him. It ended with a mantra that has helped him, and he offered it to me as a way of pushing through the tougher moments on trail: This too shall pass. The mantra struck a chord within me. It lit the fire. It got my head and heart in sync, my eyes dry, and my body energized for more hiking. I was in “go mode”. I sprung up and agreed to hike another five miles and camp with them. The emotional low and pain was masked over the the next five miles by the first sight of the Sierra landscape. A mile in, I entered a meadow where I can see the high alpine mountains ahead of me. I felt like I was on the hill that Maria von Trapp twirled on. I even felt like twirling. The sun setting over them drew me forward and I wanted to get closer (I also realized I needed to rush to get to camp before dark). Once at the tentsite, I was greeted by Jedd who figured that my pushing forward meant I didn’t need a ride. I thanked him for his offer, and he guided me toward my friends and offered his suggestions on where to set up camp. I ate dinner with the group, and had one more conversation with CleanFoot about the PCT, the meaning of our attempted Thru-hike, and our intentions moving forward. Although our first conversation and mantra got me to hike a total of 16 miles that day, this second conversation gave me a very different perspective. This too shall pass. A mantra for many. A mantra that gets people through the tough times and tough climbs. A mantra that, little did CleanFoot know, I used on the daily for the past decade. It’s something that has helped ease my bouts of anxiety, PTSD, and depression. It was the thing that helped me from a phone call with my boss, to multi-night nightmares, to many moments of mental struggle. I woke the next morning at five am and reviewed my thoughts. Lying under my quilt, watching frost take over my tent, I had a thought that changed the course of my trek: I had worked hard over the several years to beat PTSD and depression and have never been in a better place in my life since. I had silenced it. I had won. Taking this trip was not to find peace and happiness. It was because I had finally found it. It was to finally do something for myself. To finally live. It was to celebrate. It was my “party”, as my mom would say. “This too shall pass”, as helpful as it was to get through those tough times, has absolutely no place at my party. It’s not invited to get me past the pain in my feet and up the mountain. This hike is extremely difficult, but it’s voluntary, and shouldn’t be more painful than enjoyable. It defeats the purpose of my hike. It’s not something that should have the same mantra as my deepest moments of difficulty. It’s not something I should say to convince myself to stay at my own “party”. As much as I wanted to continue, and as mentally invested as I was to press on, I knew I had to listen to my body and the epiphany that just settled in my thoughts. I knew this wasn’t the kind of pain that could heal with a few days rest in town. So skipping a section or going slowly wasn’t an option. It was too painful to hike; and I knew risking permanent damage wasn’t worth it. I needed to go home. I packed up quickly and waited for Jedd to emerge from his tent. As soon as he did, I asked if his offer still stood. We agreed to meet at his car by 3 PM. I hiked the 14 miles back over the next six hours. With each climb, I felt relieved knowing there was one less climb I’d have to do, but with each trail marker, I felt devastated for leaving the trail. It was heartbreaking to pass the hikers going northbound, and answering when they asked why I was going backward. With my hope of returning before I was even off, I told many that I was taking time off temporarily, or flip-flopping my hike. Id say anything but quitting. Heading to LAX, I still refused to call it quitting. It’s hard for someone as stubborn as me to have my brain push me towards rest and healthy feet and my heart resisting my steps, screaming to turn around, push past the pain, and hike one more mountain (again). It was a fight: physical v mental. I knew I was doing the right thing, but it felt like I was betraying my dream that I was literally standing on. Jedd drove me three hours to Downtown LA, stopping at Target on the way so I can purchase a suitcase for my gear. Thank you Jedd! I stayed the night to shower and rest before my flight. It was a difficult night to say the least. For someone celebrating happiness, I’ve cried more over the last two months than in the past decade. Vulnerability = unlocked. Refusing to say the words I then despised, I tried to find solace in something else. I found it odd but comforting that three “Buddhists” helped me over the last month find silver linings and positivity in the low moments with “ Nam-myoho-renge-kyo”. As hard as it was to be returning home, I was relieved to know I was a flight away from seeing my family, and getting the help I needed for my feet. I was proud of getting as far as I did, and tried to console myself with my accomplishment in case it was over for good. Regardless of my trip home, whether it be temporary or for good, I said something that gave me a little more peace: “this too shall heal”. Part 2 Spoiler Alert: I am back on the PCT.