August 28
Miles: 17.5
Mile Markers: 2437.8 – 2455.3
Miles to Canada: 200.5
Listening to: Fryer – Wilderness
I woke up this morning around 5:30 and just laid there. I didn’t even attempt to get up. I looked at the maps again. Can I really hike this 22 miles, or should I just stop at 17.5 which is still 5,000 ft of climbing? Even that 17.5 miles is going to be a beast.
I heard someone getting water at the river, and I poked my head out of my tent. It was Rocky. She was still there but by then it was 6:30, and she said she was the last one to leave camp. They had camped just 0.1 miles ahead of me but I couldn’t find them in the dark the night before. She asked how I was, and I told her I just felt destroyed, and I didn’t know if I was going to go to Leavenworth, or if I could hike the full miles today, or if I could even finish with the group. I felt beside myself about it. She said the same thing. She said she wasn’t feeling like she could do both the miles and the climbing. She also has some injuries that she’s dealing with as well, and she said she just wasn’t enjoying pushing this much and rushing and not really being able to take her time to finish the trail. I feel the same way.
We talked about how we’re both planners and still not having an idea of when the group intends to finish the trail has been stressful. If I skip these towns and kept hiking at my own pace and met back up with them, that would be an option. But without knowing the dates that they intend to be back on the trail or where they want to get off, it’s really hard to plan.
In the morning I sent a Garmin message to Warpaint and Bap asking them the date of when they wanted to finish the trail so that I could plan my stops in town and try to finish with them.
I’m so torn because I really love these people, and I have so much fun with them, but physically, I just can’t keep doing this. It’s a heartbreaking decision to decide not to hike with people that you really like. I keep thinking about Paul and the way that he finally told me that he didn’t want to hike with me. It wasn’t ever about the fact that he said he didn’t want to hike with me. It was how he said it.
I can’t imagine ever saying to Roses, Bap, Warpaint, Fonda, Rocky or Crib that I’d be miserable hiking with you. Even if there’s some truth to it. Even if some tiny element of it is true, I would never say that.
My right hip has been hurting since last night, and this morning while walking just after the first peak that I came to, I stepped down onto some rocks and felt my hip move in a really bad way, something popped. It felt so bad. I kept walking, but it hurt so much. Every single step felt excruciating. I wasn’t sure if I would even make it to the 17 mile campsite.
Maybe a quarter mile later, it hurt so badly that I just sat down in the middle of the trail and tried to pull my leg and create more space in the hip joint. This has happened before – it’s called a subluxation, and it’s a hypermobility thing where the joints come out of place. A man I had seen a few times over the last week, and at the river this morning, named Joel (AKA Darth Vader) stopped to ask if I was okay and if I needed anything. I said this is probably a really weird request, but can you pull my leg so I instructed him how to hold above my knee and pull the leg out of the socket. It felt a little bit better, and he said he wanted to walk with me for a little bit just to make sure I was okay, because at this point we’re pretty far out there and it’s days in either direction to get off the trail.
I felt bad walking so slow, and at one point I said I needed to sit down and I told him to please go ahead because I didn’t want to hold him up. He was meeting a friend at Steven’s Pass. He gave me his Garmin address and told me to send him a message if I needed anything.
Warpaint replied to my Garmin message and said that they were thinking of finishing the trail on the 8th or 9th which is in line with my plan but only if I skipped both Leavenworth and Stehekin, but now with my leg, I think I need a rest day. So now I’m not sure when I’ll finish the trail, or if I’ll be able to finish with the group. But I think I will have to go to Leavenworth and take a day off, and maybe even see a doctor.
There’s so much uncertainty on the trail, and that’s always felt very uncomfortable for me because I’m such a planner, and the way I manage my anxiety is by controlling my environment. Whether it’s my house, my exercise schedule, the food that I eat. I like a level of certainty in my life that the trail certainly does not provide. I’ve had to sit with that discomfort for 5 months to get used to it to some degree, and maybe it’s made me better in some way. But I am very much looking forward to my new life with a little bit more certainty than I have now.
Part of me wants to finish the rest of the trail, and part of me doesn’t really care anymore. Part of me wants to finish the trail with my group, and part of me wants to hike at my own pace. Part of me wants to just quit, and part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me wants to take days off to rest my leg, and part of me wants to keep pushing through it.
I really didn’t know how unhealthy thru hiking was until I started thru hiking this trail, but of all the sports you could possibly do, this is probably the most grueling and horrible to your body than any other sport I can really think of. You don’t rest. You don’t eat good food. You barely sleep well. You aren’t surrounded by loved ones from home. You’re not clean. You’re not hygienic. You don’t try to heal your body in various ways with the tools that you probably need to recover – things like foam rollers, yoga mats, massages, warm baths, cold plunging ice packs, compression socks, swapping out your shoes frequently, being able to carefully treat blisters and wounds, being able to go for a recovery run, or have a light day. You don’t eat nutritious food that restores your body and repairs your tissues. You’re a very often not consuming enough protein or calcium to replenish what’s lost during these really strenuous days. You never give your shoes a rest. You never really are able to do self- care type things. You sleep on the ground outside in whatever weather it is. Whatever temperature it is, you can’t control your environment. You wear the same clothes everyday, that may or may not be warm enough, that may or may not be soaking wet from the night before. You’re in a bed that’s certainly not as comfortable as your bed at home. And you do all of this for months and months and months. I genuinely can’t think of a single other sport like this.
I’ve had such a battle with my body for a long time. When I was first diagnosed with hypermobility, I felt massively betrayed by my body. I hated my body. I hated the things that it couldn’t do anymore, the things that it took from me, the life I wouldn’t get to have. I grieved, and grieved, and grieved. And then slowly something started changing for me. I started listening to my body more, and trying to take care of it, and tried to guard my nervous system and heal it, and protect it, and to love it in a way. I’ve tried to do that out here, but it’s been challenging with what the trail demands. The lack of proper food, the lack of proper sleep, the lack of proper recovery, the exertion, the heat. I wouldn’t do this to myself normally, but it always just felt like this challenge that I needed to know that I could do for some reason. I think maybe I didn’t know exactly what the trail entailed until I was on it. And then I got to a point where I didn’t want to give up. But my body deserves rest. It deserves nutrition. It deserves sleep, it deserves recovery. It deserves to be loved for everything it’s done. I’m ready to be done.
When I think of all of this, everything I’ve been through physically with my health and on the trail, I have to feel some sense of gratitude for this body that got me here. Maybe it wasn’t perfect. And maybe I didn’t hike the whole trail, and I’ll probably never be able to overcome my heat intolerance. But I’m really proud of myself and this body and everything that it’s done. So even this hip injury, even my ankle issues, I’m not angry, even if I have to get off the trail and rest for a few days or skip another section. I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter. I got this far, and I never gave up. I always got back on the trail every single time, every single setback, every single obstacle, and there’s been so many. I am proud of myself, proud of my body.
Even if I skip this next section, I will have hiked over half the PCT, over 1500 miles, and I think that’s pretty amazing.
I sent a few messages to Roses and Rocky and told them I had hurt my hip and was likely not going to make it to camp. They kept asking what mile I was at and if I wanted to slackpack and have them carry my stuff for me, but I kept saying no, I didn’t want to be a burden. I felt like such a massive burden for most of the trail.
I stopped for lunch to rest my leg and filled my CNOC with cold water and iced my hip, which helped a little. I kept walking. Going uphill wasn’t as bad as going downhill, surprisingly. I kept going, not sure if I’d even make it the 17 miles. I didn’t see any roads off the trail when I looked at the maps. I have to just keep hiking to Stevens Pass. I have some extra food. Or I can ration what I have. I’ll just keep going really slowly. I can do this, even if I have to do it alone. I hiked through the Sierra alone, 3 days after having a steroid injection into my ankle. I can do this. Again. I can do this.
I saw two trail runners running toward me on the trail. No backpacks. I then realized it was Fonda and Warpaint. They saw me and told me to give them my backpack. They would carry it for me. They said that everyone was waiting for me just one mile ahead. I was so shocked, I wanted to cry, but I just said I can’t believe you came back for me.
Warpaint just said Ohana. You’re family. We never leave anyone behind.
We kept walking about 1 more mile to a lake where Roses, Rocky and Bap were waiting. There had been a flurry of Garmin messages among them about what to do, and they all decided to wait for me. They had been there for several hours. I had no words.
They then demanded that I give them the heavy items from my backpack and they would all carry them. Warpaint took my food, Bap took my clothes, Fonda took my electronics, Rocky took my tent, and Roses took my sleeping bag. I carried my empty backpack. They told me to walk in front. We would all walk together, as far as I could go.
I didn’t want to let them down, so I kept walking. Walking with them made it easier to not focus on the pain I felt with every step. I realized I had never hiked with them like that before, I was always behind them. We made it to a water source and then it was only 2 more miles to the 17.5 mile tent site I had wanted to camp at that morning. I could make it there. I can do this. For them.
There were already some people camped there, so there wasn’t enough space for the whole group, but I could meet up with them in the morning. I took back my gear, just the essentials of what I’d need for that night – my tent, sleeping bag, and some of my food. They took everything else, and hiked to the next campsite 1 mile away. Fonda stayed until I had set up my tent and made sure I was ok. I promised that I was, and he continued on.
Meeting this group of people has been the absolute highlight of my entire hike. This morning, I started the day beside myself trying to figure out how to keep hiking and stay with them and also honor myself and my desire to hike as much of the Washington section as I could. But after all of this, I can’t fathom finishing the trail without these people, these friends, this family of mine. There is no question in my mind – skipping another section to stay with my family and rest my injury is the only way forward.
The trail will always be here, but my tramily won’t. Maybe this was always the kind of love I wanted to find here – this kind of friendship, where I belong, where I am wanted, where I can be myself, where I am loved, where I’m safe and taken care of, and where I love myself and my body. Maybe this was the lesson I came here to learn. Maybe this was always what the trail was meant to provide. It just took me on a very, very, very long walk to find it.
Ohana.
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