Getting— and Gotten — Back
This post is two in one, a draft from two weeks ago next to my present reality. Have I mentioned I’m not a fan of linear stories? Seems more natural to drop in and out of conversation, lose your train o - …
It’s July 9th or so, and I’m painfully trailsick. I’m in a coffee roastery in hip lil Asbury Park.
I often think that getting off trail was a mistake, not for miles (I never intended to thru-hike) but for my sanity and soul.
I’m at the Jersey shore in Asbury Park, and I slept on the porch the last two nights because inside, in a box, is claustrophobic. I’m retreating from the beach midday because the hordes of vacationers overwhelm me, overwhelm my animal self that craves space and solitude and wildness.
The pace of the wild is natural, and our nature (there is only one). I found myself set to that rhythm, and now out of it, feel the terrible strain. It’s not about scenery. It’s about the dirt, the sun, the sky, the no-time.
I dream of the trail. I look at the map every day and wonder to where I’ll return. I must and will live in the wilderness, again soon. End of July, I say. Gotta book that ticket.
I just deleted a bunch of back-and-forth about where to get back on trail. Who cares?!
The point is, to see Renee, Harvest, Rudolph or Roadshow again would be a real treat to me. That’s why I’m going to Truckee, for the chance to see friends.
I learned at Whitney Creek to listen to my heart. Here is where I must again find quiet and listen. And since I can’t find quiet in the city, I’ll find it in the Berkshire Mountains next week. My soul tends to speak loudest when I give him fresh air and wild solitude.
What’s different is that I actually did not go to the Berkshires. I scheduled my visit East based off what I watch my aunt Rae do every year — multi-state visits and whacky run-arounds. I found I wasn’t up for that race, and bailed on an opportunity to see Alex, whom I hadn’t seen in 13 months. I’d be lying if I said I was content with that.
Back at the shore… Here’s a poetic something as I nurture my relationship with the Atlantic Ocean… I kept asking, where is the wild Atlantic? In your heart, silly.
Ocean, you’ve perfected the curl, the curve the wave. The only shape which you make, and you the only one which makes that shape. Stillness first and stillness last, and which one is it now?
A touch, a roll. Suddenly, gradually, exponentially lifting, and a shimmer of green as your wet body is airborne and thin and before the sun. White tufts spread through air as this perfect shape begins to break down, as all things do. In on yourself, collapsing and cascading forward and under, back to shore and to unseen depth, unknown power so much in an instant. What was once the wave sweeping mussel clusters from the shallow tidal plain, drawing them back, under, forward, churning, direction nonessential to the wider plan.

Now myself diving, wave moves through whole body. I collapse, I give myself to the sea, to the coming rumble. Eyes shut, nose puffing, ears full of sound and salt. Wonderous pressure rushes over and through my brain, through my face, the wave comes unstopping like a pulsing quake… over and through chest, arms, stomach, pelvis, legs, feet. I ripple like a fish. I wriggle like the rain.
I love talking like this. I swear this is the product of my mind left to wander, wildly. Thank hiking for that.
And now I am in Nevada. Jeez, the jetlag and total geographic whiplash. Time to be a hiker again!

This one’s for fun. Here I am trying to catch some Zzzzz in the Reno airport, on my way to the PCT at Donner Pass.

And here’s Brodhead Creek in PA! I love this creek.
Obviously I am now over the hurdle of trailsickness, and actually feel a little homesickness, back out West. Ah, so it goes. Home and what that means bleeds in and out of a definition, is fluid as the Truckee River and supple sky.
I use the word home to mean almost any place I like. I’m sure you’ve noticed. Don’t be confused. When what you’ve got is a backpack, your home changes as often as you move. I mean this seriously. I think I carry a skill in me that allows for such movement without losing my mind. It’s in my blood.
Hopes and Dreams…
What do I hope for in the next two months (besides little rain in Oregon)? I hope for the same clarity, deliberateness, and friendship as before. I also intend to seek my truth, as deep as that rabbit hole goes. What I know for certain--call it a truth unearthed over the course of 600 miles: I am better an animal. It’s simple and true. I challenge you to tell me otherwise.
So, I am going to where the land feeds me. Spiritually. I’m eating a loaf of sourdough and a log of goat cheese at the moment.
