When Life Gives You Lemons-Lunch in Vermont | And then I walked — sarah robison · on the appalachian trail & a life unconventional

“I don’t know how else to say this, Sarah. I just…I just…damn. I just don’t…like you.”, he said over the phone.

It was the summer of 2019, and he and I had met while I was visiting my sister in Charlotte, North Carolina. Think Robert Palmer’s, “Addicted to Love”. We immediately began to plan weekends together, hosting one another in our respective cities, as well as very prematurely (narrated in my best foreshadowing voice) booking flights to meet in Boston. He was a tried and true Red Sox fan, and Fenway Park had forever been on my bucket list. Sounded like magic.

The miles that separated us seemed negligible.

Until I got “the” call a mere 48 hours before I was about to depart for the city of the infamous Tea Party.

My respect for his being man enough to use his voice as opposed to words over a screen, or even worse- becoming a ghost. But enough of the regard, I was PI$$ED!!! And hurt. And disappointed. And embarrassed. And I felt insecure. And rejected. I shouldn’t have said “this” or done “that”, I thought. I blamed myself for his choice. It was painful. And I slid down the 3rd story wall of my row home in disbelief, knees to my chest and eyes welled with tears.

No. Huh uh.

I should’ve said exactly all of the things that I said and done just as I did. For I was being me. Sarah. And Sarah is unequivocally who he got to know, not an actress.

And he didn’t like what he saw.

He was being true to him. It was honest. And it is called dating.

We meet. We mingle. And the shoe may not fit.

We mustn’t squeeze our size 8 foot into the 6 1/2s merely for the sake of wearing that particular shoe.

Don’t be a chameleon to be accepted. Be weird. Be you.

“This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.”

— William Shakespeare, Hamlet

It was a 1920’s Tudor.

Tree-lined and saturated with natural light, the home had been separated into 5 eclectic spaces. Windows to my left. To my right. Windows all around. In my desired East End and also my newfound “part-time” budget, it was only a brisk walk from both the hospital and Frick Park. Yes. Loot and boots in my backyard. It would be the launching pad for my next chapter. The keeper of my ferns and the impetus for my creative juices. It fit like a glove. On the 15th of January, the keys to 2A were to be mine.

Were to be.

Life had other plans.

The universe spoke. My intuition barked. And I protected my sacred space, my new nesting place.

Hello, Zillow. Hello, Craig’s List. It’s me again.

The slumlord on South Braddock forgot to show, leaving me standing in Snowmageddon 2022, only to meet the neighboring tenant in self-proclaimed “heart and kidney failure” who advised, “If I wur you, I’d git the hell outta hir and run whileya can!”. One doesn’t need to rely on their spidey senses when an aircraft essentially flies overhead, dropping a note that reads “Dear Sarah, GET OUT. Love, God.”

Then came the “loft” apartment which can be more appropriately classified as an attic, separated from the source that heats the rest of the house. But he had a space heater, he said. But Madeleine Bakery and Bistro was just around the corner, he said. Thank you, next.

16 spaces in 11 days. Over budget. Or under zealous. No, a laundry washtub does not qualify for a kitchen sink. I thought that I had hit the jackpot with #2 of 16. After advancing through both the credit and criminal background checks that were required of me merely to tour the space, its skylights and beadboard immediately grabbed my attention. No dice. Ultimately, he was “uncomfortable” with my sabbatical. Turns out that living in the woods for the past 7 months with only pending employment doesn’t bode very well on paper. Little did he know that his property would’ve been graced with blue hydrangea by a gold-medalist in tenantship.

It was expected to be without a roof to call your own while on trail. Liberating, in fact. But the dent that I have now carved into the couches of others has grown tiring. Empty. Miles from myself. From home. I have grown into serving as my own home. I was called to do so in order to emotionally survive my thru hike. I was led by Matsuo Basho’s words, “Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”

I am already home, but where will I live? It is security, space and routine that I now need for my mental health.

I lay awake with only the “Skylight Rain” Soundscape capable of putting me back to sleep. Having always struggled with insomnia, it takes me back to the rain marching across my tent as I slept more soundly than ever before. I have a restlessness that I cannot satiate. A withdrawal from exertion. 12 hours of exertion a day. For 207 days. My brain was releasing exercise induced beta-endorphins, our body’s homemade opioids, in superfluous amounts. I was high. All of the time. What goes up must come down. A rebound from tapped emotional pleasure to feelings of dispiritedness. It’s chemical. (Dr. Anna K. Baker artfully explains the etiology of this post-trail grief in her 2019 article titled, “Post-Trail Depression: It’s Not What You Think.) And have I spent this gifted, sacred time that is sandwiched in between the mountains and the operating room wisely? Should I have rested more? No, I should have traveled more. I haven’t even finished one book, one single book, since my return. What’s wrong with me? What do I have to show for my time?

Time. We all feel that we are failing in the use of our time. You slept in. The Christmas decorations are still hanging. You went to the coast, but you didn’t snorkel. The dishes are still in the sink. Your “skinny” jeans are still snug.

You are doing enough.

Wallflower shook me from his Florida home, “You’re rebuilding Dips. You’re doing the best that you can. You just spent 7 months in the woods. ”

Show sobered me up through his own experience, “There’s a lot of people that would be jealous of your lifestyle right now. You’ll get your own space. And then you won’t have this anymore. The last bit of your AT adventure is still going.”

Then Lemon called.

It sure as hell is.

“I know that you live in Pennsylvania, Dips, but a group of thru-hikers are getting together for lunch at Two Brothers Tavern in Middlebury, Vermont on Sunday, January 23rd. We’re all missing the trail…and each other…and I’d love to see you, Dips…”. Lemon and I met and camped together on the very first night of our thru hikes, atop Springer Mountain, without protection from the whipping wind nor our insecurities.

But lunch? In Vermont?

2019. Boston. The Fenway fail. The heartache.

The M@!#$&? F#@%!/? Jet Blue Travel Bank credit.

Sweet, sweet Serendipity.

“As fate would have it, yes Lemon. Yes, I’ll be there.”

The trail is still providing.

It was after 9pm on August 21st when I was approaching the summit of Glastenbury Mountain, thick into the Green Mountains of Vermont, mile 1620-ish. Alone once again after nightfall, I felt weak. Frustrated. Angry as I pictured Wallflower tucked into his UGQ quilt, likely for hours with a full belly, having already set up camp. I called him and yelled at him for my being alone. After I had pleaded with him to go ahead. The epitome of unreason. I was circling a drain. Spinning. I quite literally yelled to the forest that surrounded me, “What the F#@$?!?!?!? God dammit!! I’m F#@$!%? done. DONEEEEEE!!”.

Now I was taking the name of the good Lord in vain while deep into the bounty of his very own creation.

“The perception of disadvantage is more debilitating than actual disadvantage”

— David Miller, AWOL on the Appalachian Trail

I stopped. I prayed. I didn’t pray for the elevation gain to ease. I didn’t pray for daylight. I didn’t pray for the pain to subside.

I started talking with Uncle Walter, my heavenly coach. I asked him for the ability to find gratitude in this moment. I asked him for grace.

I began to smell the pines so fiercely it was as if the skies had poured a sea of Christmas to surround me. Frasier Firs. Ponderosa Pines. Blue Spruce.

I sobbed.

“Thank you. THANK you. Thank you.”, I repeated. I was now out of my head and into the moment. I had walked from Georgia to Northern Vermont without injury! Over 1600 miles! I was still on trail. My dream was within reach. It wasn’t raining. I wasn’t cold. I had water. I was in the middle of an alpine oasis. Alone. In the dark. In supernatural silence. It smelled like magic. And I wasn’t afraid.

When we ask for the focus and ability to study, rather than for the “A” on the exam, we are given exactly what we need.

When I feel just as confused and frustrated as I build my new normal as I did climbing Glastenbury Mountain, I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. I queue a gratitude inventory. Fresh fruit. The sobriety of those that were unable to be present in the past. Patience. The ability to see things as they are, not as we are. My Grandmother’s pacemaker, heroically functioning without battery. Friends with bloodlines. The wrong people who have taught me who the right ones are. Hugs. Humans. Honesty.

The wherewithal to smell the pines.

And for the lemons.

Lemon and Mamma Lemon, who was tap dancing in the kitchen upon my arrival 🎶 How rad?! Twinning ☝🏼.

Robert Frost Mountain Cabins, Ripton, VT.

Maranda, Professor, Wow, Ballsack, Lemon, Rocks, Chewy, Dog Bowl, Crick, Dips, and Backtrack for the win!

When I met Lemon on trail, I took notice of her pristine tattooing and swore to only get inked at her spot should I ever take the plunge. Now there I serendipitously stood, on the stoop of New Inkland New Hampshire.

For when I lose sight of what I’m capable of. Of the respect that I deserve. That the average life expectancy is 78 years, while the retirement age is 67. We work for 50 years to potentially enjoy 11. Start *living* your life now. Tomorrow is guaranteed to no one.

Inspiration can come when you least expect it 🚿.

Tour de Bloomfield, my stomping grounds from 2011-2020. JF? Me, you, Silk’s?

French fries and coleslaw on a sammich courtesy of Mitchy O!

Cathedral of Learning, University of Pittsburgh, my alma mater.

Life lessons and Sauvignon Blanc with Dr. Rick Henker, my mentor and friend for 23 years.

Meet my Uhaul family- Carissa, Sheri and Bri. I have spent so much time there purging much of and reorganizing my storage unit, that we’ve shared everything from chili to stories.

New 23.5 ounce non-free standing Gossamer Gear “The Two” tent, who ‘dis?

Joyce and Wally fed me with enough queso and electric bicycle knowledge to land me on their sofa for the night 🛋 .

Sarah, Aaren, and “Double A-dam” of Trace Brewing, Bloomfield.

Vintage Pittsburgh Paints’ sign at Biddle’s escape ☕️.

Rosemary potato, but “I don’t like soup!” 🤥

When Life Gives You Lemons, Go To Vermont For Lunch

Tethered

New Year, True You