The stories we tell ourselves The stories we tell ourselves | Preparing to Hike the Appalachian Trail

The main photo of this post tells a story. My departure from home, heading to my last tour of the Triple Crown. Following the plan, fulfilling the dream. The PCT, CDT and AT in sequential years. It’s not a boast; simply documenting the narrative.

Two weeks later he was back home. That story was not written well. I had left out the part about my father’s death and what it did to me. That’s in a previous post. Now is the time to try again.

Every morning I get up and take inventory. Back, hips, knees. Stretch your legs, bend your knees, and check if they hurt or are flexible. I do some stretches: with my legs tented, face up, I tilt them to the left and right. Then he lifts his butt. According to the New York Times, strong glutes are the «secret to staying independent and injury-free in middle age and beyond.» Well, I’m beyond that, and if a strong butt can help me climb the AT, I’m all for it.

My previous post was about books I read to help me get my mind in the right place. Yes, hiking is mainly mental, but the body must also be prepared. Functional. Able. But there are mornings (many) when my body feels quite insecure.

I get out of bed. My left knee (the new one) jumps a little, but it will stop once it warms up. This morning is good. Not everyone is like that. Some people’s knees hurt and my body carries each of its 67 years. I think, «What the hell do I think I’m doing?», imagining the tough rock-hopping in the Whites and bending that mechanical knee to descend the face of a truck-sized rock in Katahdin. And the slip. I see myself lying in a crevice, with my leg bent too far back. White leaf ray.

I invoke this photo. It tells a different story.

I have passed Forester Pass. The sky is crystal clear. I inhale air, cold and clean. My sweat cools me down. My face is red from the sun and the wind; a smile wrinkles my eyes. I’m standing next to the sign that names the pass. Behind me is the wide basin that reduced me to a speck and left me stunned with gratitude. Another hiker took it: a guy with a woman sitting on his lap, her arms on the other’s shoulders. They thought they were alone. Stunned, he was very understanding. I’m glad they were there; a selfie wouldn’t have shown him as he was.

So the stories I tell myself matter.

Do you have a photo? When the sirens sound? Because I know you’ve heard them too. «Your best days are behind you,» they say, «you’re not accepting reality.» They have other tricks if you are a beginner: you are not a «real» hiker, you will hate it and abandon it. Imagine facing your friends and family when you return. Tail between your legs.

Find yours.

Mine is from four years ago. When I went up to the PCT. I have others from the following year, when I raised the CDT. Am I so different now? Two joint replacements later and a body four years older?

Different in a way that will make me get off the AT a second time. Or different in a way that allows me to finish. because I am different now.

I’ve been struggling with that and the answer is: I don’t know.

I don’t know.

It doesn’t matter; I’m going anyway.

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