I miss the trail.
There, I said it, something that for some reason I have been reluctant to admit since my return from the JMT. The hangover lingers long after the physical aches and pains recede, the dirt of the trail is washed away, the equipment cleaned and stored.
I have heard solo backpackers speak of "withdrawal" after returning from a trek, but I had never really experienced it until returning from this trip. Going alone made this experience profoundly different, of that I am increasingly sure. Taking a week before returning to work was probably a good idea, but it was not enough. I am only now, over two months later, finding myself returning to full power at work, at life and the day to day activities that take up our time. Perusing the classic withdrawal symptoms of drug addicts on the internet I find few things that sound familiar, with one notable exception that catches my eye.
Changed senses.
On a long trek alone in the wilderness your senses become heightened, you observe more closely, you become more in tune with your environment, conscious of every step, every sound, every change of light and temperature. And this does not go away quickly, in fact I think it becomes a rediscovered skill, something our ancestors needed to survive that we have lost as we "advanced." It adds a richness to life that is wonderful, for you come to more fully appreciate what are normally called the "little things."
But there is also a longing, an ache in your heart that tells you that something in your life is missing, a void. How can one miss something that is only experienced for ten short days? I am at a loss, and find myself struggling to express how this could be. Reflecting on this I try to imagine what my friends who have completed months long treks on the PCT or the AT must have gone through at reentry, was it more intense? Perhaps, though that is hard to imagine, for this feeling is so strong at times. I have backpacked hundreds, if not thousands of miles, but this is different. Is it similar to a brief love affair, that person you meet seemingly by chance, the fireworks explode, only to extinguish themselves into smoldering ash in too short a time? But the memories linger, rearing up to greet you unbidden at unexpected moments, causing a flood of emotions that can be difficult to bear. A particularly beautiful sunset, stars on a clear night, or perhaps that deer spotted by the side of the road - all can bring on the tide. Such is what some have called "trail withdrawal syndrome," although you will not find it described on the internet, for I have looked. But it is real, very real.
However, the trail as I experienced it this last summer was even more personal, if that is possible, and I now understand that is because I was a solo hiker for the first time. As I prepared for my trek I had several people who had gone alone tell me it was the only way to go, listing the common reasons. No partner to conflict with, set your own schedule, commonplace things. These are all true, but probably are the least important benefits of going alone.
First of all you meet people, and if you are solo you have more interaction with them when you meet than if you had a partner or were part of a group. You quickly learn there are wonderful, intensely interesting people on the trail, but usually the relationship is fleeting, for you realize later the atmosphere you are living in is artificial, colored and shaped by the brief shared experience of the trail. Can you imagine what people would think if you stopped and talked to them on the street in the way that is common on the trail? They would probably have you arrested, or at the very least you would probably frighten people. Today I find myself wondering who I am missing as I walk alone down a street or through a mall surrounded by strangers. Most, if not all of these trail people, folks you have brief interactions with in the wilderness, you will never see or speak to again, even if they take up space in your memory for years to come. But those memories, they are rich, and they remain forever part of the experience.
Your daily routine, quickly established, becomes intensely personal. How do you set up camp at the end of the day? When do you get up? What do you eat for breakfast? How you pack your pack, in what order, and the ritual of preparing to start your day becomes almost like breathing.
And important, very important, even though you do not fully realize it as you are going through your self designed routine. We humans are truly creatures of habit, something you quickly have confirmed on the trail. When traveling alone your routine almost becomes your "safe place" - the one thing you can count on to give you structure in an environment that is completely unstructured. It is strange how you go to the woods to experience freedom and immediately begin following what becomes a very predictable and organized lifestyle.
And the beauty you have laid in front of you hour by hour, minute by minute, is indescribable on the JMT. But when you are alone surrounded by His creation the relationship is somehow more powerful, more personal. I used to think that I needed someone to share this with, that somehow my experience would be lessened if I did not have a companion to embrace the beauty with me. I found that not to be true. In fact, I discovered that I was more open to facing my emotions and spirituality because I was alone. Could I have openly cried when looking at the view if I had someone standing next to me? I doubt it, for the constricts of civilization and propriety would have demanded that I hold in such raw emotion. And yet, looking back I had those moments of tears and joy, they were important, and the memories remain.
So I sit tonight, sipping a beer, savoring all the memories, dealing with that ache.
And yes, I want to go back, need to go back, return to the trail, experience what is indescribable to those who have never experienced the High Sierra, solo. It is a religious experience, intensely spiritual, as much like going to church as any formal Sunday service, but probably more honest, certainly more intimate. I have never felt closer to Him than I did on the JMT. We had numerous conversations which are still resonating in my mind, heart and soul. I went to church not for an hour, but for ten days, a true retreat. And the memories remain, and make me feel stronger.
One of my best friends says that when he is in the remote backcountry of the High Sierra he smiles when he realizes that Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and other notables will never have this experience. For all their material riches, they have not earned this, and they never will. And that makes him feel rich beyond compare, as it should.
I know tonight that I must return to the Sierra, complete the JMT, not out of some goal oriented need to complete the trail unfinished, but rather to savor fully the experience that eluded me this last summer, the riches untapped. To paraphrase John Muir, I need to go home, and I will, solo.
© 2015 James McGregor Gibson