Therese Marie

At first, I thought I’d love answering questions about Trail Life.

This is going to be so cool, I thought, I’m going to have the coolest stories, everyone is going to want to talk about it, man, I’m going to look pretty bad ass. I could handle it. I could talk about this stuff for days. I was actually excited! There’s so much people don’t know about long distance hiking, about the Appalachian Trail itself, and I could finally share that knowledge with people!

My first encounter was much like other post-hikers said it would be.

Veterans explained that people are going to ask you the same 5 questions over and over again. Where did you sleep, what did you eat, how did you get food, what did you do with your cell phone, what was your favorite part? 

And that turned out to be true. While those questions were a little boring, I still relished in getting to talk about the trail.I happily went on tangents explaining the intricacies of scheduling your trip week by week, day by day, consulting the guidebook, because it was really difficult to understand if you weren’t currently hiking at that moment.

What I didn’t expect was the rapid fire questions.

Within seconds of beginning a conversation about the trail, I am left in the dust. I literally cannot answer fast enough. Once one question pops into the person’s mind, three more blossom from it, and so on. Then he or she just keeps on asking questions until we get to a point where I’m stuttering and he/she says, “I’m sure it’s just really hard to explain, huh?”

Yeah.

And then the conversation dies. Not what I was expecting.

A lot of people get it, and a lot of people just don’t.

It’s become pretty easy for me to tell if someone is going to level with me on talking about living out in the woods. There are people who are actually interested and love hearing the tales of hardship or insanity that I encountered on this long journey. I can see them taking mental notes on what one would do to prepare and survive a long distance hike.

Then there are the people who just simply don’t understand why I would go live in the woods for four months. I share tid-bits like, “Man, it’s so nice to have a home to go inside when it’s raining! You know, my shoes were wet for 6 days in a row one time!” and they rear back in disgust. “I would never do that,” they say. Well then, NONE of my stories are going to sound cool to you.

Now I can’t tell which I prefer, talking about it or keeping it private.

Turns out I’m a little bashful and I absolutely hate dominating a conversation. Whenever the trail comes up with someone who’s interested, I end up being the only person talking for a long time. It doesn’t help that I SUCK at asking questions in return.

This self-conscious girl needs to find a way to even out the conversation.

The thing about the Appalachian Trail is it’s two thousand goddamn miles long, and I hiked one thousand two hundred of those. That’s a LOT OF GROUND TO COVER. How do you begin? And how do you continue? No matter where the conversation starts, it becomes a spider web of confusing stories that sound like a different language to people who aren’t in the know. 

It’s difficult to sell why this experience was so important to me.

There aren’t a few words to explain the epic struggle that was my long-ass-section-hike of the Appalachian Trail. It’s difficult, because most of the trail isn’t covering the most amazing, beauty-filled views of America. It’s deep, rocky, rooty woods. There are so many trails in America.

But this? This was something really unique. This was my first hike. Ever. This was my first camping experience. This was the reason I survived the spring and summer. And for all the ways that I’m saddened by not being able to hike, I know I’m so much better off for it.

The transformation I underwent from the first state border crossing to the last was so much more than a loss of 15lbs, different tramilies, or improved gear.

Today, I’d rather be worrying about how to pay for my next adventure than wondering how I’m going to survive another mundane day. 

But I think that’s a thought process for next time.

Fly on,

LiL Wayne