Déjà Vu
I wanted it to be over just as much as I didn’t want it to end.
Maine.
The miles.
The boulders. The bogs. The brutal.
I swore that I would never again shoulder a backpack once I got to the finish line. Once I got to Mt. Katahdin. And a few times, my exhaustion contemplated waving its white flag before I even got there.
Surrendering to the labor of the whole thing and leaving the trail with only a stone’s throw to go. I grew to understand how a hiker could quit the trail in Maine with 1,911 miles and 13 states under their belt with only 282 more to go.
“Only” 282.
The irony of using the word “only” to describe a grueling 282 mile death trap is apparent when put on the page.
My knees were crumbling. My thighs were on fire. And my psyche was in collapse.
My body was keeping the score.
“Let everything happen to you, beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”
“Just keep going, Sarah. Just keep going.”
My editor, Amanda Filippelli, coaches me on the daily. As if she is Rocky’s Mickey, she wipes the brow of my mental muscle.
I want it to be over just as much as I don’t want it to end.
Just like my thru hike.
Exactly like my thru hike.
It’s Déjà Vu.
My mind is tired. My creativity is weary. And my fingers want to divorce the keys that they have been wedded to for over a year now.
“Push it out like a damn baby!”
My last four chapters. My last 15,000 words. And the epilogue.
My offspring.
Amanda is my literary doula.
I’ve wanted to quit.
I still want to quit somedays.
Quit writing this fucking book.
And leave the prison of my thoughts. Of my office. Of my walk down memory lane’s pain. Break free from the chain that is binding me to isolation. Keeping me from a sense of community. Keeping me from fresh air. Keeping me from feeling free again.
Feeling as free as I did while on the very hike that I am writing about.
The irony strikes again.
I have grown to understand how an author could take a match to their manuscript with 80,000 words and 27 chapters under their belt and “only” 15,000 more to go.
“To have to explain my failure seemed far more difficult than walking.”
And it seems far more difficult than continuing to write.
We used to say, “Smiles before miles.”, after having hiked thousands of them while still staring down the barrel of many more.
Meaning, happiness should supersede obligation.
But nothing that is worthwhile is ever easy.
And the smiles stick around to stay after the miles have been traversed.
The end always justifies the means.
So I kept walking.
And I will keep writing.
It is a race to the end.
Hike & Write event, Frick Park, November 2023.
We hiked. We wrote. But most importantly, we shared our secrets in a safe setting. We connected off of the page and onto the trail. We unbound ourselves. We grew as individuals that afternoon, together.
A reader turned friend, Bill King, drove from Ohio to take part in my event.
On the 272 mile Vermont Long Trail, from Massachusetts to Rutland, I traveled in a crowd (dotted line). But in the 172 miles from Rutland to Canada, I walked alone (solid line), and that is where the magic happened.
So I inked my solid ground.
My Mom used to be 19 years old. And she worked at Union National Bank in downtown Pittsburgh. And she went to G.C. Murphy in Market Square on her lunch hour to meet Santa. Forever young. Tis’ the season.
My Dad was very sick in December and spent nearly 2 weeks hospitalized. He recovered, and he was well enough to relace my boots before I left for Europe. And now I stare at him when he speaks, and even when he is just sitting still. Not at my phone. Because tomorrow is promised to no-one.
Serendipitous First Class upgrade. Happy birthday, to me!
This was my first time in the “very exclusive” little area filled with the fancy flyers. The one that lives behind the curtain that is drawn before takeoff, as to keep them safe from the blue collars of the rest of us.
I didn’t like it.
And I don’t like that there is a caste system on an airplane.
Estonia is magical country, as is its capital and largest city, Tallinn.
Cheers to my 43 years around the sun at Rataskaevu 16.
Raekoja Plats, the Town Hall Square, is in the center of Tallinn’s Old Town. There has been a town hall in Tallinn since 1322 and a town square next to it ever since then.
Mikk Mägi, the owner of Vegan Restoran.
Quintessential storybook Christmas market.
Glögi, a mulled wine made with cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, citrus peel and raisins, was served on every street corner.
Kiek In De Kök Fortifications Museum takes you through the mysterious underground Bastion passages that date back to the 1700’s.
The local fare, Blood Sausage, potatoes and kraut.
Christmas Eve on a ferry to Finland, across the Baltic Sea.
The Baltics are bliss.
Ferris wheel ride over the Baltic in Helsinki, Finland.
Telliskivi, Creative City, the artist’s pulse of Estonia.
Christmas morning in our Estonian studio within the city walls.
Sausages, broth and stouts at III Draakon, a medieval tavern for the tired and hungry.
Heathrow Airport is the spawn of the devil, and it left me stranded in London for two days on my return.
But got me some bangers and mash!
I am very not good at skiing.
Okay, I am a hideous skier.
And so I took a ski lesson because I wanted to become even slightly decent at skiing. Like, just be able to get down a very small hill without injuring myself. Because I really like to be outside in the snow.
But after having to publicly remove my skis and walk down a very modest Green, while being mocked by the bums on the lift, I accept that this is one trade that I will never be the jack of.
You can find me at the lodge.
But Nicky does Black Diamonds. No seriously, he does Black Diamonds. Of course he does, he’s a Webber-Plank.
Katie, Maggie and I out for a snowshoe.
It takes a lot of snow melt to yield a cup of water.
My dear friend and inspiration, Dr. Patricia George, reminds me that being alive is far different than actually “living”.
She and her Team PHenomenal Hope have been improving the lives of pulmonary hypertension patients since 2012, and you can become a part of #letmebeyourlungs here.
My nowadays are spent trying to get out of my own way so that I can write want wants to be written.
And Joyce, Joyce tried SPAM!
Jen and her daughter Amelia.
Meet Boris the gnome. I love Boris.
Coffee beans hand picked and home roasted by the one and only Graydog.
On March 18th, 2021 my life was ruined in the most beautiful way.
And 3 years later, to the date, I went back to the stone arch to retrace the first steps that changed my life forever. And I took my friend from middle school, Jen, who had never shouldered a backpack but was so hungry for it.
Ranger Bob took me through my very first pack shakedown 3 years ago, wide-eyed and green.
And I went back to shake his hand.
“Well, did you make it?”
“Fuck yes, I made it, Ranger Bob.”
And our shake turned to embrace.
The Approach Trail that leads to the start of the Appalachian Trail is 8.8 miles long and takes you on a climb of 600 stairs that hug Amicalola Falls.
This staircase was closed for renovation in the Spring of 2021, and I was forced to miss this right of passage.
But I got to climb them with Jen, 3 years later, which was all the sweeter.
Yes. This.
The first white blaze of approximately 165,000, spanning from Georgia to Maine, lives on Springer Mountain.
It was Déjà Vu.
And I took Jen to meet my sage, Graydog. Graydog thru hiked the Appalachian Trail in 1971 and is on his way to Maine once again. And together, separate in our pasts, but in unison of our “why’s”, we hiked.
See one. Do one. Teach one.
You can follow Graydog’s journey @graydog.treks.
Jen handmade Graydog a hemp bracelet, and he named her “Pitch”.
Because her tent pitches were pristine, as was her taking to the trail.
Pour over coffee over icy leaves in 8 degrees.
Felt good to be back home.
The “Gatekeeper”, tortilla, mayo, pepperoni, Doritos and greens, missed you fiercely, Fuel!
Pitch’s first Trail Magic! A Yuengling and a hot dog with mustard in Gooch Gap!
Pitch and Dips on Blood Mountain.
Pitch, Brightside, myself, and Graydog before our descent into Neels Gap.
Pitch guided morning Sun Salutation sequences.
And my section ended with Mountain Crossing’s iconic Red Baron pizza, thawed to order.
If you are anxious, you are going the wrong way.
On the trail, and on your life’s journey.
Your body keeps the score.
“Welcome home Mom and Sarah!”
It sure was nice to come home to your hugs, Wyatt and Amelia!
A pretty dinner.
My first attempt at homemade applesauce with Fujis, Ambrosias, and Golden Delicious…
…was a success!
Happy Spring, all!
“Honor the space between no longer and not yet.”
