The long road back to an unfinished dream

Have you ever woken up in the middle of a dream and felt frustrated because the dream stopped right before the end? Like someone pauses a movie you can never watch again. How was it going to end?

In 2008, the Appalachian Trail didn’t beat me. The dream simply came to an unresolved pause.

I don’t say that to sound harsh or poetic. That attempted SOBO hike ended in the least romantic way possible. After days of constant rain at the Maine 100, I came away soaked, exhausted, and proud of having made it through something difficult. I left my gear to dry, walked into town to resupply, and when I came back, everything was gone. Backpack, shelter, sleeping system. All of this. In a brief absence, the trail ended.

At that moment, it felt like bad luck. A strange moment. I told the story as a punchline, hoping the humor would help bury the disappointment. But if I’m honest, it left me feeling empty, ashamed and a failure. The walk did not end. It just stopped. And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, it stayed with me; some days it felt more like a nagging nightmare than a hopeful fantasy.

find my way

When I attempted that SOBO expedition, I was young and confident in the way only inexperience allows. I believed that only courage would help me get ahead. The 100 Mile Desert taught me otherwise. It rained every day. They weren’t dramatic storms, just a constant, annoying drizzle that soaked everything I had, kept my glasses fogging up, and slowly made its way to my head. My boots were constantly wet. My clothes never dried. But I kept moving forward because moving forward seemed like success.

When my equipment was stolen, the decision was made for me. There was no debate or dramatic moment to quit. The trail simply closed the door and left this boy from Louisiana stranded in Maine.

For a long time I accepted that ending. I decided to just tell people that I “tried” the Appalachian Trail. Life moved on, as it usually does. But the underlying question never completely disappeared. Not «Could I have finished?» but «Who would I have become if I had?»

Pending matters

Since then, I’ve spent years putting myself in uncomfortable places on purpose. I have climbed over twenty-fourteen of Colorado. I was at Mount Rainier with my wife and my best friend. I have run the Ouachita Trail with my brother. I have run ultramarathons that required problem solving under fatigue and stress. But even long before the trail, I was once a national weightlifting champion, a chapter of my life defined by strength, discipline and control.

Each of those experiences taught me something. They showed me what my body can handle and how my mind behaves when things stop being fun. And while all of those accomplishments have merit, none of them scratch the itch that the Appalachian Trail causes at my core. Deep down, my adventurous soul has an unfinished and unfulfilled desire to give the hike another chance.

So, eighteen years later, I’m going back.

Not because I need to prove anything. Not because I’m chasing some tired bucket list fantasy. I return because unfinished things have weight. They settle somewhere in your heart and silently remind you that they exist. And if you’re paying attention, they’ll eventually ask you to come back.

The search for redemption

I’m proud of all my accomplishments, but the TA isn’t impressed with resumes. It doesn’t matter how strong you were in another stage of life. He only cares if you can handle what the day throws at you and then wake up tomorrow and do it again.

Now I’m 42.

I recover slower. I warm up longer. I listen to my body more carefully, although I still don’t stretch as much as I should. But I also understand myself better. I know the difference between discomfort and damage. I know when to push and when to pause. And I know that most limits are not physical. They are silently negotiated in your head when no one else is around.

This time I’m not walking alone. I’m hiking with my wife, my adventure partner, Sweets.

That changes the whole equation. Not because it makes the path easier, but because it makes it more honest. We’re not chasing miles for ego or content. We choose shared effort. Resolution of shared problems. Shared moments when the trail humbles you and reminds you that control is mostly an illusion.

do difficult things

We have discovered that there is something powerful about committing to something difficult together. About choosing to move forward even when comfort would be easier. This walk is not an escape from our life. It is an extension of how we live it.

People ask me why I would put my life on hold and come back now. Why put my body through that kind of stress at this stage of life? The answer is simple. Because curiosity doesn’t get old. Because unfinished questions do not expire. Because I want to see what this stripped down version of me can do. And because this doesn’t mean my life is on hold, this is who we are!

I hope rain. I expect sore feet and tired legs. I look forward to days when quitting smoking sounds reasonable and logical. But I also look forward to fun, beauty, joy, new friendships, and the adventure of a lifetime. When progress is not measured only by our mileage, but by our unforgettable moments.

It’s not about redemption like I would have imagined. It’s about continuation.

Eighteen years ago, the trail took my equipment. This time, I don’t know how this hike will play out. I don’t know what will give us or take away our trail. But I do know this. Some dreams don’t let go just because you walk away. They wait.

And this time I’m ready to finish the hike. So, ready or not, here we go!

– Thumbs up (Andy Coats)

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