Walking Home-A Lesson In Patience — sarah robison · on the appalachian trail & a life unconventional

Where is home?

For me, literally speaking, 40 years ago- it was the duplex in a small suburb 10 minutes west of Pittsburgh city-proper where I spent my childhood. The apartment in which my parents still reside.

20 years ago- the slew of slumlord-run off campus apartments while attending the University of Pittsburgh. My favorite being the gem on Oakland Ave. between Bates and Dawson (Diesel, Ranna…). $5 a pop for admittance to our keggers wasn’t irresponsible, it was straight entrepreneurial. Pure genius.

10 years ago- my marital home. A beautifully self-refurbished shaker in the heart of Mt. Lebanon, a suburb 20 minutes south of the city. A “home” that didn’t feel like home, so I had to…walk. Walk away from insecurity and lack of boundaries. From being stifled. From the show. It would have been acutely easier to stay, to walk the walk of the expected and the avoidant. I chose me.

1 year ago- the 1920’s brick row home in the heart of Bloomfield, Pittsburgh’s “Little Italy”. This Gross St. gem is the keeper of my secrets. My shenanigans. My self-discovery. You haven’t been baptized unless you’ve had a bourbon with me at 3am over Paulo Nutini in my kitchen.

6 months ago- the 600 sq. foot Air B&B that I was renting as I bided time until I found the perfect bungalow in Regent Square. This space. It unearthed me. The windows upon windows. The exposed beams. Its white noise. The Marantz. The passion. I sobbed when I left.

Yet, unbeknownst to me, it had bred me for simplicity.

Today- it’s me.

My body. My mind. My heart. My intuition. “Home” is not a literal, tangible commodity. It’s figurative. I initially felt nearly too vulnerable leaving for this journey without a brick and mortar to return to should I fail. However, now I feel hugely grateful for this degree of freedom. The ultimate freedom, actually, and a call for self-reliance without the dependence on things or people to caulk my gaps. A vulnerability that I was insanely petrified of a mere 2 months ago. I cannot stress this dichotomy enough.

I’ve been gifted the chance to house myself.

I am home.

“Everyday is a journey, and the journey itself is home. ”

— Matsuo Basho

As I walked out of Erwin, Tennessee, my shoulders were cussing at my 42.1 pound pack, weighing 8.1 pounds more than it did when I set out on the approach trail, 50 days ago. “Why”, you ask?

It was filled with LOVE.

Love from home. Electrolyte face masks, jerky and Benjamins from Mimi Lyons. Kerastase hair care from my stylist, Lisa, at Posh Salon in Pittsburgh. Their instructions written in French left me puzzled as to what went where- I must’ve lost my fancy. Bourbon, gobs of peanut butter, ziplocks, and words of encouragement from J.J., more deservingly known as Lieutenant Colonel, John Jones. A colleague, mentor, and dear friend of mine who made it a point to send along my favorites before he, himself, was deployed to Germany to serve our country. Holy humbled. Baked goods from Dr. Hilmi and a comped bunk at the hostel, courtesy of one of my best friends (and postmaster!), Monica.

It was worth the weight.

Not accompanying me on my departure from Erwin were my two main squeezes. Deja Vu, off of the trail for a collective 12 days with a nasty ankle sprain, and 4th quarter, taking a long weekend off to reconnect with his wife who drove in from Michigan. These 2 behind me and the 4 boys pacing faster than me at times, I found myself a bit lost. Realizing that these comrades had been serving as my safety nets, when I reached the base of Unaka Mountain and the only way was UP at a juncture when I had nothing left to give, I lost it. I couldn’t catch my breath while in a mild fit of panic. Panic channeled by a sense of aloneness and physical depletion, I could only focus on the months of challenge that lay ahead of me. A negative mental vortex that had become a stranger to me. I called Angel, and she met me with understanding. With patience. With the reminder that I will have strong days and weak days and all of that glory is to be wallowed in.

The “honeymoon” phase of my hike had ended, and I was entering the beef of my new marriage.

It was then that Brooke Annibale’s “Patience” serendipitously rang through my shuffled playlist. The lyrics speak for themselves…

I was back on my “feet”.

Speaking of feet…

Let’s discuss “hiker hobble”. OK… Picture an elderly individual, also in dire need of bilateral hip AND knee replacements, attempting to make their way across a riverbed, only having hot coals as lily pads to serve as stepping stones to cross to the other side. Got it? You following?

That’s me each and EVERY morning as I emerge from my tent, standing erect for the first time, as I take my first steps. The fluid shifts and yesterday’s miles screaming at me until I swallow my first handful of Ibuprofen.

I’ve begun to temper this with doing the ABCs aggressively with each foot as soon as I rise, waking up my tendons and ligaments that I rely upon to support me throughout the day that lies ahead.

All 44,000-ish steps each day hurt in some way. Be it a bony pain over the roof of my right foot to the heel of my left, there isn’t a stride that goes by that is comfortable. I just keep focusing on the prize.

Lady Katahdin.

While we’re on the topic of discomfort, I will share something with you in embarrassment but in honor of my promise to bring only truth to you.

I S#!$ myself.

“Things” went from 0-10 in a matter of feet, and I’ve lived through the reality that one should ALWAYS keep their toilet paper in the SAME spot, as having to scavenge for it during such an abrupt change of colon could lead to a dirty diaper.

In the words of Suellen’s father, “You haven’t lived until you’ve S#!$ yourself.”

I bumped elbows to score a seat on the shuttle that took us from Boots Off Hostel into the “town” of Hampton, TN. I put ‘town’ in quotes, as it encompassed 3 places of business- a Redi Mart, a Subway, and a McDonald’s.

I’m hungry. Like, hungry hungry.

For dinner, I housed a banana, tortilla chips and salsa, 4 PBRs, a medium Mickey D’s fry, a 6 piece chicken nugget, a spicy Italian wrap with extra mayo, a bag of cracked pepper & lime kettle chips, 3 coconut dreams, and a strawberry milk.

My rainpants still won’t stay up without being cinched.

My next stop is Damascus, Virginia. A hallmarked milestone for a Northbound thru-hiker, symbolizing almost a quarter of the trail complete and the gateway to the North.

I can do hard things.

You can do hard things.

WE can do hard things.

Let’s keep walking, friends.