New Reflections

Tonight I stood in front of a mirror. The first time really seeing myself in a month. Everything I see now is different.

I have checked into a hotel in Palmdale for a couple nights, after mile 410, to recover, heal, and process my trek in the comfort of a real bed.

The last 300 miles have tested me inside and out. I used to think the first 100 miles would be the hardest: I'd be adjusting to the exposure, terrain, the 180 in daily activity, and learning from my mistakes as a rookie backpacker. I was wrong.

The mountains I hike now are steeper, the desert hotter, and the air thinner.

The first couple hundred miles of the desert is how I imagine Mars would look like if it had shrubs and life. The rocks and sand are burnt red and the trail is lined by manzanita trees, cactus, poison oak, and poodle-dog bush (also poisonous). Rabbits, lizards, various snakes, and the most aggressive squirrels accompany me on the trail - sometimes more than people. The sun roasts us early, and it becomes increasingly difficult to hike midday due to the high temps. I can feel the heat of the day by 8 AM, which is why I begin hiking between 5 and 6 AM and seek shade for midday siestas. Sometimes I'll have to push myself to hike from one small spot of shade to the next to catch my breath. As I move closer to the Mojave, shade becomes more and more rare - soon I will have to hike at night because of the sparse shade.

The last two hundred miles have provided brief relief from the heat, but presented new conditions that prove just as difficult. I've entered alpine zones - climbing two mountains that gave me a very small peek into what to expect when I enter the Sierras in a few weeks. I recently climbed Mt. San Jacinto (after mile 177). It was the tallest mountain I've ever been on at over 9000 feet. At high elevation, the trail floor is dirt, covered by leaves, roots, and occasional patches of snow that caused me to lose the trail and backtrack. I often needed to play limbo with fallen trees, or climb over them with the weight of my pack threatening to topple me over too soon. I was surrounded by large pine trees that smell of butterscotch, and pine cones the size of footballs. The trail up there smells of pine, sage, and mint. The more noticeable wildlife is now up in the sky with me - steller's jays, ravens, crows, and hummingbirds. It's absolutely beautiful, and the landscapes are breathtaking. Literally. The air, which has 65% of the oxygen we do at sea level, was cold, and left me even more out of breath on the uphill miles. I struggled to breathe and was often light-headed.

The steep ascent at high elevation took me double the time to complete, and I required double the water to remain hydrated. I just didn't know it yet. During a 19+ mile descent off the mountain, in which there are zero water sources, I nearly ran out of water. I should mention I descended during a heat wave, thinking it was okay since I move faster downhill anyway. Feeling very uneasy on a very narrow ridge, I sought shade under a rock for several hours until I was steady enough, and the sun low enough, to continue on. I may have been dehydrated and stuck under a rock, but I had a great view for hours to enjoy, and friends waiting for me at the bottom to offer a shared hotel room for the night since they knew I had a hard day.

Then there was Mt. Baden-Powell (mile 377). I cried that day - twice. I thought the 200 miles since San Jacinto would have prepared me, and I'm sure it did physically, but hiking that mountain was harder than my first week on trail.

First I cried at the end of a 4 mile trek that led up to the base of the mountain. As expected, I am in pain all the time. My feet are numb but simultaneously send shooting pain up through my hip. My knees are stiff and scream with every extension. Sometimes my hips make clicking noises when I walk. I immediately turn into Tin-Man once I take a break, and groan with each micro-adjustment at the end of the day when

I try to get comfortable in my tent.

I didn't cry because of the pain. I was upset that I may have to stop and go back to Wrightwood to rest, and miss out on hiking (I know some who'd cry if they were forced to go hiking, not me!). Honestly, my desire to summit Baden-Powell was equivalent to the amount of pain I was in. I was craving a challenge, and to have my first experience of summiting a mountain. I reminded myself at that moment, at the base of the mountain, that I'm "in a land that time don't command". I don't have to run up the mountain. I can take my time, go step-by-step, switchback-by-switchback, and get there when I get there. Worse case scenario I can camp halfway up the ascent, and summit the following day.

In true Amanda fashion, I was more determined to summit and complete my 15 mile goal that day than any other day on trail so far. I'm pretty strong-willed, (fine - stubborn), and had every intention of having a successful day despite the pain. I knew I'd ultimately stop if I felt I was at risk of injury, but I was mentally prepared to haul myself up that mountain no matter how long it took me.

It was a difficult climb to say the least. Imagine this: you are on a treadmill, but the treadmill is outside in 85 degree heat. The incline is set to 7. Don't turn on that fancy fan on the treadmill, there will be no breeze today. Put on a 35 lb. backpack and walk for 6 hours. That was the climb, but with much less oxygen. To make it more difficult, snow covered portions of the trail towards the top. I was without my microspikes, so I had to very slowly, very carefully, posthole to make it across the snow. Then, two tenths of a mile from the summit, I had to traverse the ridgeline which of course was now very windy.

Summiting Baden-Powell gave me the same feeling of rejuvenation and serenity as the Appalachian Trail gave me six years ago. It's what I've been seeking ever since. I couldn't breathe, I was in pain and much discomfort - but it was all overpowered by an overwhelming feeling of internal peace and tranquility. I had challenged my limits, and prevailed. I reminded myself that I can do hard things. I used to go to the mountains to feel small, to remind myself that my anxiety is small. On Baden-Powell, I felt as tall, strong, empowered by it – that I can diminish anxiety with a flick of the finger. Change and transformation happen when we embrace challenges, whether we succeed or not. It was just one mountain, one day of hiking, but it brought me assurance and comfort. It had also brought me to a stunning, 360 degree view of mountains contoured by the onset of sunset. So I cried again - this time to my parents on FaceTime when I managed to find two bars of service.

Despite the pain, heat, drastic elevation gain/loss, and overwhelming ascents, I am enjoying the trek. The terrain may get harder and steeper, but I am getting stronger. I am able to hike more consistently and take fewer breaks. After a month on trail, I have started to feel a part of nature, instead of the over-civilized intruder. I am surrounded by so much beauty, the circle of life, and so much kindness. I am with like-minded hikers who agree that despite the difficulty and discomforts, we don't want to be anywhere else or doing anything different. There are people from all over the world, all ages, all shapes and sizes; out here we are all the same, but at the same time interested in learning about each other’s different cultures and backgrounds. Many have taken interest and asked about Jewish culture and how I manage with a Kosher diet. Everyone is positive, and lifts each other up - whether someone hikes 10 miles a day or 30, hikers commend and encourage each other. There is no judgment - if someone needs to skip miles, they are still applauded just for being out here. We celebrate ourselves and each other when completing every mile, reaching every major mile marker, making it to the water source, making it to camp, and getting into town.

(The people help you get through the hard moments, which there are plenty of. It’s hard to be away from family for so long, especially when service is so limited. It’s hard to hike 15+ miles a day and then shiver yourself to sleep. It’s hard to have limited water and forgo cooking dinner because you don’t have enough water for the next day. I am forever grateful to be out here, but it is not always fun, and it is always hard.)

Town days are spent resupplying on food, taking advantage of coin showers and laundry, and seeing what the town has to offer. In Idyllwild (mile 177), it was meeting Mayor Max - a 7 year-old Golden Retriever, who is the actual mayor of the town. Some stores have prices marked down for hikers, cafes offer free coffee, and hardware stores have a deck with a scale for hikers to weigh themselves, place down their pack, and sit (since we are homeless). Us Thru-Hikers stick out like a sore thumb in towns. Locals make a slow approach - probably to sniff us out (literally), but then dive right in. They ask where we are from, how far we are going, and marvel at our adventure and accomplishments so far. Drivers will pull over and offer rides before we can stick out our thumbs. Speaking with them is actually a great reminder to myself that what we are doing, and the miles we have gone, is indeed remarkable. When surrounded by hikers, who have mostly been faster, more skilled, and more experienced - you tend to forget that what you're doing is unusual or significant.

After a day or two, it's back to trail where life is much simpler. A day in the life of a thru-hiker is monotonous (but the favored kind). I wake at 5:30, deflate my mattress, get dressed, pack everything up, and hike by 6:30. Hike. Hike more. A little more but it's okay because the scenery is awesome and the endorphins are out of wack. I attempt to shove half a granola bar down with water around 9. Hike. Filter water from the sporadic (but cold!) stream. Siesta time and lunch is usually around 1 to 2. Here we hang with other hikers and question our sanity. Much to my surprise I'm not yet tired of my tuna packet and granola bar. Then! We hike more! But we feel better after resting. Push a couple more miles until around 6:30 PM when my feet feel numb. I set up my tent first, which takes and then my sleep system which only takes a few minutes. Then I watch the sunset as I eat ramen, and scroll through photos on my phone, reminiscing on the journey so far. Hiker midnight is at 9.

When you hike for twelve hours a day, for days on end, you have a lot of time to think. The wilderness has a way of allowing my mind to open up. Since I have mostly hiked alone, there has been a lot of time for self-examination and contemplation. I've been reflecting on the last several years, who I am, and why I'm here. Now a month in, I have also been reflecting on how the trail has changed me so far.

I had a hard time – for a long time. That changed me. I did hope that going through something like this, another mental and emotional challenge, would change me again. It is working.

I’ve been as guarded as Fort Knox for the last few years and unfortunately struggled with trust. Out here, in the wild, I am at the mercy of the PCT, and its leaving me more vulnerable than ever. To survive the day, you have to trust yourself and those around you. You can’t be Fort Knox. I am both exposed to the elements, and out of my element. Being so vulnerable has allowed the opportunity for my faith in humanity to heal, for me to reestablish trust. Every single person - hiker, trail angel, stranger in town, hitch, old friend from years ago who reached out, messages on here and Instagram - every interaction, has meant a lot to me and has had an everlasting effect.

I’ve also been vulnerable with myself and shed off a lot of pressure. I’ve been apologizing to myself for things and forgiving myself for others. I’m sure it’s mostly exhaustion, but I believe that combined with my reflections have given me a bigger gift: I have not had a single nightmare since being out here. Did hiking heal my PTSD? The wounds were healed, but now scars have faded. I am simply not the same.

So I looked in the mirror. And I saw someone much happier. Someone stress-free. Some badass who summited Mt. Baden-Powell. Someone who can do hard things.

There are also new reflections in the literal sense. When I now look in the mirror, I see my hair is in a braid for the first time ever, my skin has tanned (also, for the first time ever), and my legs are stronger. My hiking shirt is now big, and my shoes have worn out. There have been 18 pounds lost, but a whole new appreciation for my body has been gained. Our bodies are keeping up with us despite the pain. It has surpassed my expectations and has been more capable than what I've given it credit for. It got me to mile 400.

I also see a lot of dirt. Time for three showers and an Epsom salt bath.