Abandoned Roads, Part III

I am climbing Blood Mountain when I see three older men taking a breather on a rock.  I am wearing a thin polyester hoody with the hood up to protect my neck against the rays of the sun.

“Your lady friend is almost to the top,” one of the men says.

“I’m not hiking with anyone,” I say. “I am chasing a woman, however, but she’s a lot farther away than Blood Mountain.”

The three men laugh at this, but I am not joking.  Erin is frequently on my mind.  I mentally create a scene I am likely to inhabit in my future.  She meets me in Baxter State Park in Maine.  When I first see her, I sprint toward her, undeterred by the weight on my back.  I wrap my arms around her and smother her in kisses even though I am covered in sweat and have not showered in two weeks.  I am fizzing with joy, and my energy is boundless.  There is so much pleasure released in my brain I want to howl like an animal.  For so long I have deprived myself of her touch, her warmth, her company, and now she is here, but we are new people.  She is clean and professional and goal-oriented.  And I am dirty and broke and directionless. 

Then that anxiety creeps up on me, and I snap out of this reverie.  I am a man in the woods surrounded by trees.  Erin is searching for jobs in cities like Boston and Chicago, and I am sleeping with mice, staring at dirt, tripping over rocks, and hauling my only possessions up a mountain.  I am overwhelmed with an urge to call her and ask her something really important.  What do you hope will happen with us when you move?  I turn on my phone and discover I have no service.  I am cut off from the world.  I can’t get the answers I want.  My future is a frustrating mystery.

I take another step forward and console myself:  You’re one step closer.  I flood my mind with memories and forward projections.  I am either living in the past or dreaming of the future.  I am thinking of the day when I am reunited with Erin and I tell her about today.  I will say something like:  “I’m glad that’s over with, and I’m here now.”  But first I have to get through today.

On the trail, I catch up to the woman the old men were talking about.  She’s wearing a baseball cap, and she’s nearly out of breath.

“We’re almost to the top,” she says.  “I’d say we got about ten percent left.”

“This will all be over soon,” I say.

I pass her and ascend the final peak.  I lower my bag onto a flat rock and free myself from its gravitational pull.  

On the top of Blood Mountain lies a cabin made of stone.  Two women greet me from the front porch steps.  We start talking about the trail, and an extremely relevant question arises:  why are we doing this?

“I like to think of this as retrospective fun,” I say.  “This hike is a lot more fun when you can look back on it from a more comfortable place in the future.”

The women laugh at this and validate the truth to my statement.  I hoist myself on top of a rocky slab and stare at the world below me.  I am four thousand feet above sea level, and I can see the sky.  This means I have service, so I call Erin and tell her I’m considering a change of plans.

“If I only make it to Pennsylvania, I’ll be okay with that,” I say.

 

“You’re saying this already?” she asks.  “Don’t you think you should give this more time?”

I want to say, “You don’t understand.” It is easy to have confidence when you are inside your house.  Your perspective changes when you are drinking, eating, sleeping, living in the woods, and you still have two thousand miles to go.  But I don’t want to alienate her; I want her to understand my mindset. 

“I have to be willing to accept whatever progress I make,” I say.

“I’ll support you no matter what,” she says.  “But I don’t want you to regret your choice later in life.”

I promise her that I will be free of guilt and that I will not succumb to fantasizing about the life I never had.  Her phone call invigorates me, and I am flooded with euphoria as I start walking with a sense of urgency.  I conjure up anything positive to maintain this energy boost.  I think of all the support my family has given me.  My mother bought me my shoes, my fleece, my gloves.  Because of her I am comfortable.  My aunt graciously allowed me to live in her home for free.  Because of her I can afford to hike the trail.  I think of the next time we will all sit down and have a meal together.  My separation from them makes me want to appreciate them even more when we are reunited. 

These thoughts fuel me, but eventually I run out of gas and my motivation wanes.  The pain in my knees flares up and boredom sets in.  I’m back in the trees again.  Aside from the occasional cardinal or monarch butterfly, there is little to see.  I wish I had my iPod, but before I left my house I vowed not to rely on technology to distract my wandering mind.  I wanted to attain peace of mind, but now I want to listen to familiar songs or listen to my Portuguese lessons.

 

A few years ago, I wanted to teach English in Brazil, but I went to Europe instead and never used a lick of that language.  Now it would be useful to occupy my mind and connect me to the outside world. As a last resort, I sing choruses of songs that I know and make movie references out loud to entertain myself.  I am hungry and lonely and tired of these endless hills. The hike begins to feel like punishment.   

   

Then I start thinking:  What if I chose to end the hike in Pennsylvania instead of Maine?  The end would be more fitting since Pennsylvania is my home state, and the trail intersects a town right by my aunt and uncle’s house.  I could be there by the Fourth of July.  My family will be there, and we can celebrate my return to civilization.  Fireworks will explode in the sky and signal the end of an era.  I can make it there in forty-five days.  There will be thirst, hunger, frustration, impatience, sadness, and pain.  All of that will end, and undoubtedly there will also be beauty, serenity, freedom, and growth. I can endure for forty-five more days.

 

I will not walk to Maine, and I am incredibly relieved by this thought.  Pennsylvania is my new goal.  Right then my life splits in two.  I can create a world of what-could-have-been.  If I chose to finish the trail, my story might have a different ending, but that is no longer my story.  There are places I will never see and paths that I will never take. 

My mind craves completeness.  I become attached to the results that I have perceived in my mind.  The judge in my subconscious holds me to high standards; anything less than perfection is unacceptable.  But I am here to alter those beliefs.  All those thoughts of summiting on Mount Katahdin are just bubbles that pop inside my brain.  The past is full of abandoned possibilities, and the future is malleable.  I must adjust accordingly.