This is a Vacation
My great grandmother Josephine came to America from Italy via Ellis Island. She was a tween when she settled in the little Italy neighborhood of Niagara falls. Her Italian last name was Americanized, then she was promptly greeted by the Great Depression. Talk about a bummer. That era of American life instructed the way she rationed food and home goods, and steeled her attitude towards wastefulness and finances. Grandma Jo only passed out half paper towels and squirreled away small parcels of cash in strange places around the house. My current lifestyle would be confusing for her without any context. Hell, with context, she might be more concerned. I think about her when I wash out a nice zip loc bag in a motel sink after its third or fourth tour of duty. I feel like she's looking down on me from heaven, clasping her hands together and tilting her head, cooing, "oh, he's being such a good boy." Except, probably something in Italian since she stopped speaking English in her 80s.
(this is the 4th generation of my Thauntlet, thumb gauntlet, used to protect a nasty scrape from a bear box)
(this is one of the best views in Shenandoah)
I finally went the wrong way out of camp and headed South. Took a right instead of a left and tacked an extra 2.6 miles on to my daily total. I knew this would happen eventually, which made it less frustrating. I'm proud to say I only swore once. Everyone likes to say "I told you so" and it was even satisfying saying it to myself, and hey, at least I wasn't too smarmy about it. I noticed after I hiked up a big hill instead of down to a stream, so my restitution was a breezy decline. Gratitude. Yes, it was a bonus couple miles that I didn't have to hike, but guess what? I don't have to hike any of this. I say this to everyone on trail, especially the young folks who haven't suffered through an office job. We don't have to hike any of this, we GET to bust up and down these hills. The difference is colossal and it's not lost on me.
Editors note: I did it again
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Pain is weakness. I've been saying it a lot out here. People often complete the saying with "leaving the body." I don't agree with that addition.
If pain is weakness leaving the body then where is all this weakness coming from? Are people in constant pain full of weakness? Do stores of weakness replenish in good times? Maybe pleasure is weakness entering the body. I think we're all just weak, and wanting to rid ourselves of weakness is a misguided interpretation of our ideal relationship with pain. If we think of weakness, the source of pain, as an essential part of our existence and not a vat of something to banish, then we can treat it differently and ultimately accept it.
If it's going to be with us this whole time, can we accept and appreciate weakness as an ingredient in the recipe for growth? There is no worthwhile growth or improvement without pain -the chief indicator of weakness. To suffer failure on the way to success requires real exposure of our weakness. To attempt without the potential for loss robs the attempt of validity. Without weakness we would be stale, unable to imagine better versions of ourselves, or perfect. What if we tapped into our pool of weakness, instead of strength? Shouldn't we treat weakness with the respect it deserves? It's square one for what and who we want to be. That's the most important square!
One of my all time favorite books is When Things Fall Apart, by Pema Chodron. She's my number one Buddhist. If you take anything away from this blog PLEASE read this book, even if things are going great.
Pema says:
"Thinking that we can find some lasting pleasure and avoid pain is what in Buddhism is called samsara, a hopeless cycle that goes round and round endlessly and causes us to suffer greatly. The very first noble truth of the Buddha points out that suffering is inevitable for human beings as long as we believe that things last--that they don't disintegrate, that they can be counted on to satisfy our hunger for security. From this point of view, the only time we ever know what's really going on is when the rug's been pulled out and we can't find anywhere to land."
Pema calls this rug pulling getting put on the spot. It happens to all of us. Work can put us on the spot. Illness can put us on the spot. Relationships can put us on the spot. Random universal happenstance can put us on the spot. Hell, I put myself on the spot. When I'm walking through the woods alone, sometimes my brain opens doors that I would prefer stay shut. One of the downsides of not having earbuds. I can't distract myself with music or podcasts. I can't shoo away the uncomfortable stuff. This was on purpose. Guess what, it's painful.
Pema continues
"When life puts you on the spot and you have nowhere to go nowhere to squirm and can't contort yourself out a painful situation, that moment is both exactly where you need to be and also the greatest teacher."
I've been trying to write this piece on weakness and pain and the relationship between ourselves and those two things for a couple weeks now. It just so happens that I've been put on the spot a few times lately. One of the books I read in preparation for this adventure told me that at some point shit will hit the fan. While my fan is still shit free, it's close.
An insufficient resupply haul and the bug armies of Virginia joined forces in the Gulf of Fritos before making landfall. I pushed extra miles on back to back days for the next resupply, subsiding on ramen dust, waking up multiple times a night, itching in new places. I got hangry on trail and I really thought I had bed bugs (I did not). I was smack dab on the spot. Clinically uncomfortable. The good times don't stop there. I've collected two open cuts on my ankle and thumb. Very awkward to dress. Both the wounds and myself.
The rolling rain and fog in Shenandoah National Park guarantees three things. Mushy scabs, bandaging that walks out on the job, and subdued bugs. Sure I still have over 50 bites, but the nonstop precipitation offers a break from the swarms. Nice. The Shennies are also home to frequent rest stops called Waysides with smash burgers and blackberry milkshakes. Now that's security. I'm mature enough to understand that milkshakes don't last forever.
I get put on the spot with effortless regularity. Things come together and they fall apart. The bad times, the good times, neither last. I can't believe I'm about to write this but it's been an unusually dry season. I'm certain there's more rain on the way. I can't to cling to lots of regular security, like dry feet, smelling nice, or smudge free glasses. The only sane option is to greet both waxing and waning fortunes with curiosity and openness. I'm pretty sure a section hiker's eyes rolled all the way back into his head when I told him that putting on wet socks in the morning was the greatest gift the trail had to give. Was I being a sarcastic prick? Only mostly!
More Pema Chodron to come for sure.
I didn't really care about the mile markers from 100-800. Passing 900 miles mattered to me. That's almost a thousand. 1k. A stack. Now that's evidence of true weakness.
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Progress: 970 miles.
Right now, I'm in a Super 8 motel getting acquainted with my first double zero day, on account of my new buddy - mild to moderate plantar fascitis. I have some new stretches and insoles and I'm going to turn the miles down a little. My plan is to rest then recover on trail. That reads pretty stupid, but it happens.
The food weight carry / increased miles / pack weight / joint pain equation has tilted. My legs have grown stronger and I learned what it was like to run real low on food. My new food strategy to ensure I don't run out, pre pack it by day. No hiding from a poor resupply run when it's all laid out in gallon bags. I've seen people do this and I didn't love it, but I hated being super hungry with 50 miles until the next store.
Started meditating, at first 5 minutes a day, now 10.
One fun side effect of not having earbuds is that hearing a favorite song in public is like a concert experience. Fleetwood Mac in a crowded burger joint sounds so sweet.
Updates on Gear: Got a new water filter and it's a revelation. I'm drinking more water. The old one taught me patience, and guess what, I'm patient now.
I swapped out my warm sea to summit liner for a lighter cotton linen one and it's heaven. The kindle and liner are my two luxury items.
Reader request: Luke from London says "I'd be interested in hearing more about some of the characters you are meeting along the way? There must be some stories!"
Definitely! One post will be dedicated to all the people I've met. One of my favorite interactions was when a cool guy and fellow former Californian explained how to cook crack.
Have you ever had a talented home chef explain how to cook the perfect steak? They describe it with the gusto, flair, and vagueness of someone who has done it to perfection hundreds of times. The instructions are devoid of measurement or timing, and demonstrate an intimate and practiced understanding of the process. "You season the meat, crank the heat on your cast iron, sear it, toss in some herbs and butter, and voila!" It was like that. There are so many incredible people out here from every imaginable walk of life.