Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes

Sing it, Bowie.

The “Virginia Blues” are a phenomenon that portray the end of the honeymoon phase of one’s thru hike, where the hardships and realities of living in the woods for 6 months have set in. This is rumored to be attributed to the length of time that a thru hiker spends in Virginia- upward of 6 weeks, as it houses 544 miles of trail, a quarter of the total mileage.

I haven’t grown tired of Virginia. It has brought one gem after the next- Grayson Highlands, Trail Days, Virginia’s Triple Crown, my 5, 6, 7, and 800 mile marks, and now Shenandoah National Park. I could’ve crossed the borders of 6 states over the past 6 weeks, and I would still be feeling a bit wrecked at the moment. It’s the amount of time, 92 days to be exact, that I’ve been married to discomfort that has left me angry, pained, and exhausted at times.

Have you seen me in Plow pose atop McAfee Knob?

Yes.

Watching the sunrise after summiting Cole Mountain, in my underwater, drinking java spiked with Fireball at 9 a.m.?

Yes.

But let me tell you- this is not a vacation.

Just as you all are grinding in your separate ways for bimonthly paychecks, I am working each and every day to touch a wooden sign that nearly borders Canada.

The difference?

No one is telling me what to do, how to do it, when to arrive, nor how to fill in the in-betweens. It’s my choice to be “here” every day, which makes it all of the more alluring. We oppose what we feel forced to do.

Not only has my immediate Tramily been temporarily shuffled as a result of illness, needs for cross-country trips home and back, and differences in pace, countless other fellow Northbounders that I have been intertwined with have waved their white flags. Be it the result of financial demise, family emergency, or mental apocalypse, hikers are beginning to drop like flies.

Nero has blown through $10,000, his budget for the entire trail, in 3 months. This remains perplexing to all, as I couldn’t accomplish that degree of expenditure if I tried. Cakes returned to New York for what was intended to be a long weekend off-trail to attend a family wedding and broke his shoulder after a fall in his garage. Needless to say, he won’t be back. Most impactful, is Pinch and Pistil’s forced exit. If you recall, they took me under their wings on my first night alone in the wild. Having attempted a thru hike in 2018 but withdrawing in New Jersey when their bank had become broken, they were back out here, all of the wiser. They were called home to Florida when Pinch’s mother suffered a heart attack as they met the 800 mile mark. They remain there, caring for her in her recovery, and do not have the means to return logistically or financially. Pain has won the thumb wrestling contest against pleasure for Paradox, Joe Dirt, Hippie Rock, Happy Feet, Hobbit, Brightside, and Hogman. To name a few. They’ve snapped.

I cannot get overconfident in my success thus far, assuming that I’ve proven to have what it takes to make it to Maine. Just as an addict in recovery must take it one day at a time, maintaining persistent humility, I must do precisely the same. I am one shattered ankle, ominous call from home, tick bite, or bout of depression away from un-packing my pack.

Last week, I was gasping for air as I fought my way up Apple Orchard Mountain, and I asked Traffic Light, “What’s your plan?”. With the understood meaning, would he be getting off-trail in Glasgow? Or Buena Vista? And where would he be staying? He replied, “To get to the top of this hill.”

Oh snap.

I liked that. A lot.

Up is forward. One step at a time.

Bluff Mountain. Bald Knob. Cole Mountain. The Priest. Three Ridges. Humpback Mountain. If you have any familiarity with the city of Pittsburgh, think South Negley Avenue’s stretch from Fifth Ave. as it soars up to Forbes Ave. in Squirrel Hill. Put that on steroids. Then just a tad steeper. Ridden with boulders. For 6…9…17…no, 19 miles without reprieve. With 35 pounds on your back. In 91 degree temperatures. Add a torrential downpour. Sprinkle that with lightning. Was the nausea from dehydration? Soiled water? Food poisoning? Norovirus? Overexertion? Or, perhaps, despair?

If I fail to roll out my calves, quads, and IT bands with my Nalgene bottle before breaking down my tent in the morning, the lactic acid that has built up from the day before remains dormant in my legs. Or, my machines, I should say. As I begin my first mile of the day, why am I so incredibly short of breath after 3 months of priming? My movement spurs the release of said acidic byproducts into my bloodstream, lowering my pH, causing my respiratory rate to instinctively increase in an attempt to more rapidly exhale carbon dioxide, bringing my acid/base balance back to homeostasis.

I love science.

After climbing The Priest, my exhaustion was handicapping. The evening’s celestial presence and the cool breeze felt like a reward for the day’s tribulations, and I slept without my rainfly attached to my tent for only the 2nd time since my journey began. This allowed for only a near transparent piece of mesh separating me from the stars, a maneuver only pulled when one is assured that there is a 0% chance of rain. ZE-RO.

Until… “Dips! Dips!! DIPPPS!! Wake UP !!”, Wallflower yelled from his vestibule. Was someone talking? No, couldn’t be. It was 1:30 in the morning. It had to be a dream. I flipped to my right, returning to my full flamingo sleeping stance, as my left ear canal began to fill with fresh rainfall. The sky lit up and quick to follow was the thunder, “BOOM!!”. As instinctive and expeditious as Rose and Jack fled for safety upon The Titanic striking the iceburg, I quite literally leaped from my tent, securing my fly and staking it to the ground while still sedated with REM sleep. Resembling a wet rat, I returned to my sanctuary, taking caution not to soil my dry gear any further. That cat saved my a$$…A-GAIN.

Between Glasgow and Waynesboro, VA things continued to…ummm…manifest (insert high-pitched inflection in tone). I mistakingly reached for my pot rag instead of my pee rag when relieving myself overnight. Hey- they are the same size and shape, it was pitch black, and I left my headlamp off as to avoid being attacked by (killer) moths (again). I sustained a chemical burn to the soles of both of my feet after mixing my antibiotic ointment with hemp-infused pain relief salve in an attempt to be efficient. I am still paying for that extremely poor life choice. The valve of my inflatable sleeping pillow failed, leaving me with neck of a 90 year-old each morning until my replacement arrives. Add holes in the footpads of my socks and a cracked CNOC (dirty water reservoir) to my list of inconveniences. Outdoor Vitals and Darn Tough Vermont were blindly supportive and seamless in their return policies, going out of their way to get my replacements to me while on trail. I cannot say the same for CNOC Outdoors. They’ve told me that their hanging apparatus which supports gravity-clad water filtration split in half because I’ve “misused” it. Don’t worry- Deborah has emailed them. Multiple times. A “widow maker” (a clandestine, not-so-securely-attached tree branch) fell on the guylines of Deja’s tent in the middle of the night at Punchbowl shelter, leaving her barely scathed from serious injury, potentially fatal injury. While visiting from Syracuse, NY, Old School’s partner Nichole was also assaulted by a seemingly healthy branch when she relied on it for support, falling 30 feet and sustaining fractures to her mastoid process (bony area behind your ear) and skull base and a perforated ear drum. For all intents and purposes, she should be dead.

I play the “it could always be worse” mental game of chess on the daily. “Find gratitude in all of the positives, Sarah. You don’t have AIDS. Your storage unit hasn’t caught fire. You haven’t been stabbed to death.”

It can be that bad, folks.

Shawn Marcellino would give anything for it to be “that bad”. I met Shawn through Jess and Mike Devine in the summer of 2015, we were all on the same softball team. Shawn was made of authenticity, kindness, respect, and charm. He would chauffeur me to each and every game, as they were all hosted in parts of town that I was unfamiliar with. Take me to Pirate games. Ran my first Tough Mudder with me. Pick up the tab. He put the comfort of others before his own. Shawn was love and light, a rare breed. I speak about Shawn in the past tense because Shawn very suddenly died on June 1st. An undiagnosed aortic aneurysm began to dissect during the second inning of his softball game. He complained of chest pain and moved to the bench to rest. Jess’s daughters, Lily (8) and Penny (6) orchestrated the 911 call for their “Uncle Shawn”. The aneurysm ruptured in the ambulance on the way to Forbes Regional Hospital, and Shawn was pronounced dead on arrival. He was 40 years young. 3 months older than me. His passing has given me extreme pause layered with grief, and when my physical and mental pain peaks, I take my next step for Shawn. I can say with certainty that Shawn would give anything to feel that very same pain. To be alive.

Don’t wait.

That thing that you only day dream of doing. That’s whispering in your ear. That thing that intimidates you. That you’re afraid of.

Do it now.

Don’t wait until you retire either. Dale MacMurdo. Mike Tannous. Thurman Wilson. Chuck McKinley. Uncle Walter. Uncle Eddie. To name a few. I assure you that they wish that they wouldn’t have.

Do. “It”. Now.

I will be entering Shenandoah National Park tomorrow, and I’ve made the choice to hike this 108 mile section of the trail alone. This trek aside, I have always had a visceral need to be surrounded by others. I will be vulnerable in sharing that the separation anxiety that I can experience when aloneness is out of my control has the potential to be debilitating for me. I wouldn’t so much as ride my bike up and down Joel Street as a kid unless one of my parents would sit on the stoop and watch me- left…right…left… In the past, to avoid this angst, I have stayed in the wrong relationships after they’ve reached their expiration dates. At times, I’ve admittedly flocked towards comfort to pacify my anxiety. I didn’t relocate to Manhattan post-college. I knowingly married a man who was the oil to my water. It’s time. It’s time to go there.

Despite my physical and tactical capabilities after 3 months of living in the woods, I am more petrified of climbing this proverbial mountain than any other thus far. The comfort and trust that my group has found within one another is unique and wholly authentic, but it’s become a crutch for me in ways. Pepper filters the water. Wallflower inflates the sleeping pads. Old School builds the fire. Deja pings the next day’s water sources. I throw the bear cables. I want to do it all. Alone. Please understand that this is a challenge of emotional fortitude, not one of physical strength.

I’ve talked with my Tramily about my pressing need for separateness. Without hesitation, they responded, “You’re going to kill it, Dips. Go get ‘em.” They understand. They believe in me. And we’ll meet again in Front Royal.

I am excited to learn coach myself through these inevitable upcoming moments of subscribed solitude and fear so that I can instinctively maintain peace when such “spaces” are out of my control.

The only way out, is through.

And into the Shenny’s I go.

“Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” -Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)