Back to reality: the journey

What is comfort?

Here I am, sitting at my desk on a padded seat in my cozy room. Three candles lit, wafting the aroma of vanilla and pine. My salt lamp casts a warm glow, my kitten fast asleep on my lap. Soft, fuzzy pants and cotton sweatshirt. Perfectly conditioned interior temperature.

The definition of comfort for many people. And then No the OT.

Maybe there’s something wrong with me, but I’d rather be in the woods. Soaked in rain, sore feet, unpredictable weather, and a heavy backpack. That’s my happy place. It comes with freedom, peace, beauty and adventure. Life off the trail, even with all its warmth and comfort, is harder for me than the daily struggles of hiking.

It’s been less than a month since I finished my AT hike and I’m already looking forward to getting out again. In fact, I was ready to get back on the trail by the time I came down from the top of Springer Mountain on my last day. Sure, I was tired, but I was flowing, on a roll, feeling strong. Hiking in nature is where I feel calmest, most grounded, most me.

Society? Stressful. Physical comfort? Well.

Coming home

Although I’ve done this hiking routine three other times, leaving the trail at the end doesn’t get any easier. Like the other times, getting home this time was bittersweet. I felt comforted seeing the trees and familiar houses out the car window. The October foliage was at its best and the cute scenes of pumpkins for sale at small roadside farms made me feel warm. I couldn’t wait to get home and see Raisin, my kitty that I found near the trail in Virginia.

The first night home was a blur of luxury. I ate my favorite foods, watched some TV that I hadn’t had the energy for in the last three months, and snuggled with Raisin. I slept like a rock in my cozy flannel-sheeted bed, with Raisin snuggled against my neck all night.

telephone addiction

I gave myself a few weeks to get back to so-called «normal» life. I rested a lot, lying in bed and looking at my phone too much. It may have sounded good to do that while I was still walking every day, but now it was actually depressing. I had no motivation. The small tasks seemed enormous. My list of to-dos, errands, and chores grew by the second. I was overwhelmed by the thought of doing anything other than sitting. The sound of cars was too much, the thought of socializing was exhausting, and my eyes were sore and bloodshot from staring at the screen.

Post-hike depression.

The increase in time I spent on the phone was poisoning me. I could feel the addiction to all my apps creeping in. It was becoming instinctive for my thumb to hit the Instagram icon at any free moment. My brain needed constant occupation and that bothered me. For three months on the road, my mind felt clear, I didn’t need daily doses of dopamine via phone notifications. Instead of videos, I looked for views of mountain tops. Now all I wanted to do was lie in bed, scroll and watch TV. Where did I go? I wanted my disk back; I wanted to feel refreshed every day, like I was used to. I felt numb, comfortably numb. All I wanted was to get back to my hike. Come back to me.

Ultra Backyard

I saw this coming. The night before I finished the AT, I already knew how much I would miss it once it was finished. He wanted to use all the strength he had developed there. So I set a post-hike goal to focus on. As I lay in my sleeping bag at the last shelter, I signed up on my phone for an ultramarathon in less than a month. The thought of that made me dizzy. I could feel the excitement running through my veins. I thought having an event on the calendar might help with the post-trail blues and give me another good excuse to challenge myself outdoors in a big way.

That’s what he did. About 3.5 weeks after finishing my hike, I participated in a backyard-style ultramarathon. It was my first race beyond the official marathon distance (26.2 miles). A backyard ultra is a specific «last person standing»-style race where participants run a 4,167-mile loop every hour on the hour until they can’t go any further. I’ve wanted to make one of these for a long time, ever since I heard about the concept. I’m always intrigued by different ways to push myself, and this format seemed to be more of a mental battle than other types, which intrigued me even more.

I had no idea what the race would feel like, having suffered a mix of sore tendons along the way, but I had the strongest legs of my life. I ended up running a whopping 20 laps (in 20 hours) for a total of 83.5 miles. I was the last woman standing and placed sixth overall. I was incredibly proud of myself…and completely devastated. The race started at 8am on a Saturday. After finishing at 4am on Sunday, I started shaking uncontrollably. I could barely move or walk because every inch of my body hurt. I vomited several times, almost passed out, and peed my pants more times than I care to admit. It was the hardest I have ever pushed myself. I left it all there and couldn’t have run another mile.

Install

Now, in my ultra recovery, I am so enlightened by the idea of ​​another. I knew this would open up a whole new world of ultramarathon adventures. I felt like the race rewired my brain after the ride and reset my life. Just what I needed to get out of the post-trail blues.

After sleeping for several days and healing my body, I am now more motivated than I have been in a long time. I moved to Portland, Maine, to an apartment with friends and found a job that I’m very excited about. I’ve been cuddling and playing with Raisin as much as I can.

I’m starting to feel more settled in this urban comfort. But I can’t help it: my mind still wanders, every day, every hour, to memories of the trail… and to plans for hikes, ultramarathons, and other adventures in my near future.

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