Pride After the Fall

Pastoral bliss.

Last weekend I finally mustered the gumption to download most of the photos from my PCT bid onto my computer.  I'd been reunited with my laptop the week before with intentions of doing this, but continuously found excuses not to do so:  I've got to do my physical therapy exercises, I should make dinner, I am going to watch one more episode of The Office on Netflix, I'm going to take a nap.  All milquetoast excuses, I know, but I didn't want to admit that deep down I was reluctant to look at all those photos and relive the hike.  In my mind it seems a reminder of failure.

Wee Bee in a rock garden

  I've experienced a range of emotions in the last two months regarding my experiences on the PCT and the abrupt end of my quest to hike the entire 2,650-mile trail in one season.  I was initially bummed to fall behind my hiking buddies, but confident that I'd be back on the trail after some time off for recovery.  As the pain in my body intensified and lingered, I could not even think of getting back on the trail because all I wanted was to be able to take a step without shooting pain throughout my left hip.  I soon became acquiescent to the fact that returning to the trail was either a long shot or impossible.  I tried on patience, resignation, desperation, contentment, sadness, mourning, joy, denial, acceptance, drunkenness, frustration, and zen.  Overall I feel that I've been in a good head space, but I'd be crazy if I didn't feel the whole gamut of emotions after such an intense experience and aftermath.

Good morning new day!

 One emotion I never felt after leaving the trail was pride.  When I would talk to people about feeling sad about leaving the trail, I would inevitably get the response: "You walked 1,100 miles!! You should be so proud of yourself! That's awesome!" I understand why people would tell me this as I would do the same for a friend, in a totally earnest fashion.  I know that response comes from a genuine place, but when I heard it it felt slightly condescending and as if I was being treated like a child.  I know my reactive feelings are ungrounded, ungrateful, and super stubborn, but the last thing I wanted to hear was "Nice try!"  I even knew at the time that friends who would utter those words to me in no way were they trying to placate me but to encourage and support me because, indisputably, 1,100 miles is a long way.  There is a rational part of my brain, after all.  But hearing those words solidified the fact that I was not going to be able to continue hiking, that I hadn't met my goal, that the dream was over (for the time being).  That I had failed.

So many great campsites to be had.

  I've been off the trail for two months now and am just now starting to walk normally, no cane, with only a slight limp that only a physical therapist would notice.  I tire easily.  It's been a long process with highs and lows along the way.  It's depressing to feel my body go from lean, mean walking machine to couch potato, but encouraging and uplifting to know that no permanent damage was done and that I will get back into shape.  While riding this tide of emotions I have not thought too much about my failure on the PCT.  It felt like just too much to handle emotionally when I was already feeling so much.  Reading Facebook updates from friends that I'd been on the trail with, seeing their progress, was bittersweet:  I felt happy for them and sad for me.  (Pity party: table for one!) I was not in a hurry to look back at the photos from my journey.
  I finally got my mitts on my laptop and was confronted with the option to download, review, and edit the photos from my hike.  Normally I'm very excited to look at photos from my adventures, critique my own photography skills, and share them with friends.  In this case I was literally and figuratively dragging my feet.   Finally I hooked up my camera and began loading the thousands of pictures I'd clicked while walking.  Sort of reluctant to look, I sat down to face my trip, the sights I'd seen, the people I met, and the fact that I'm no longer taking pictures of beautiful places because I'm not walking through them.  What I saw was a pleasant surprise.

How could you not want to hike this trail?

  As I assessed the photos I felt a smile grow across my face and a flurry of excitement as I began reliving my trip from the very beginning.  The desert of southern California seems like a long, long time ago and as I looked at the pictures from the first couple of hundred of miles I remember the excitement and nervousness before setting out; aches, pains, sore muscles, blisters, and blistering hot weather; the desert and new friendships in bloom; funny incidents along the trail, and the hard work that was put in to building up the strength and stamina to walk mile after mile, day after day; awesome camp spots and afternoon siestas with a view.  It made me really happy to see the beautiful places I'd traveled to, step by step.  Memories and emotions were evoked by the colorful images popping up on my computer screen.  And I liked it.  I felt like I was getting reacquainted with an old friend; one who had been so close and so special to me at one time but whom I had been separated from. It felt good.

No, seriously...how could you not want to hike here?

I yearn for places like this.

Just another day hiking in paradise.

   I also, for the first time since leaving the trail, felt pride in what I had accomplished.  I looked at the changing landscapes, the mountain peaks, and the mile markers and finally realized that even though I wasn't able to finish what I set out to do, what I had achieved was indeed remarkable!  I walked 1,127 miles in a row! And while it is not the 2,650 I set out to do, it is a freaking long way.  I saw amazing scenery, I carried my world on my back, I fell asleep under the stars for over two months, I walked in complete solitude through some of the most jaw-dropping country that is accessible to (wo)man, I contemplated my own luck while sitting by myself on top of Mt. Whitney and several other mountain passes in the Sierras.... I don't know how else to express myself...I just feel proud.  Sure, my companions are only 200 miles from the Canadian border right now and I am so happy for them.  If I could go back and change something, anything, so that I could have continued hiking I would do it in a minute.  I know I can do it.  But I also look back at what I did accomplish and I have finally given myself permission to feel proud about how far I hiked along the Pacific Crest Trail and the experiences I enjoyed on it.  Not too shabby,WeeBee, not too shabby.....

Another magical moment in time.

See, look how proud I can be! 900 mile marker!