SHT writing

I wrote this on the SHT, and Mike encouraged me to "publish" it here for all of you.


With every step I questioned why I had ever agreed to this. My shoulders were aching, bruises were forming on my clavicles and hips, my knees cried out for mercy, and sharp pains shot through my heels and plantar fasciia. Only three days earlier I'd been eagerly awaiting our long-planned week on the SHT, one of the most underrated gems in northern MN. Of course I'd been a bit apprehensive - I remembered the agony of my pre-frosh trip to this same trail (just 13 years ago, when the "easy" group had me seriously considering jumping off a cliff so I could get airlifted out; if I wasn't so skilled at imagining all the ways I could fail at that - from accidentally breaking my neck to "only" breaking an arm and having to hike out anyway - I might have actually done it, I was so miserable).

But this time would be different, I was sure. First, it would involve some much-needed quality time with my husband, who truly thrives on these kinds of adventures. Second, I was in much better shape than last time (why, just last weekend I ran 13.1 miles!). Third, I had successfully convinced Mike to alter our itinerary from his planned 12-15 mi/d to our "easy" 8-10 mi/d.

So of course I was eagerly anticipating walking 60 miles in 6.5 days. I even packed my monster dSLR on my waistbelt, anticipating all the stunning vistas we would surely see, although perhaps without quite considering the steep ascents necessary to reach said vistas. All of these elements that I hadn't considered, however, combined in such a way that the whole was definitely more aversive than would be suggested by the sum of the parts. Namely: (a) I'm getting older and it's harder for me to get a good night's recovery sleep, (b) trail miles are WAY more exhausting than pavement miles, (c) a 30# pack grows exponentially heavier as fatigue increases, and (d) my feet are perhaps the most blister-prone on the planet (why this continue to surprise me again and again, I think can only be attributed to my flagrantly unhealthy optimism). So the stars were definitely aligning to make this trip a bit more challenging than my naive little mind was anticipating.

By day 2 I was popping Advil like an addict, wrapping my bloody blistered heels in duct tape, and seriously debating the risk of hitchhiking versus the question of whether taxicabs even exist in remote rural MN. (I've become so much more risk averse as I age that the "jumping-off-the-cliff option" was no longer even on the table.)

And yet, despite this ever-present agony, there have also been some of the richest payoffs imaginable. Sitting alone on the shore of Egge Lake, as I am now, watching the clouds float by, hearing the breeze whisper through the pines, feeling the sun warm my skin, hearing the water lap at the rocks at my feet - it's such a stunning multi-sensory experience that words can't possibly do it justice. How often does one get to experience such pristine beauty? Looking around, I can neither see nor hear any evidence of mankind. Being present with nature - and truly present with myself - is something that's simply unachievable by driving to your local "scenic overlook."

The endless surprises of nature are the biggest joy, and it's only by being out here that I can get far enough away from the noise, the speed and the urgency of mankind that I can allow myself the opportunity to see a dragonfly on a fallen log, to hear the loons calling their song, and to be visiting by a hummingbird as I pump water.

So that is the payoff. It's worth the arduous trekking and the countless mosquito bites.  It's worth the aching shoulders, bruised clavicles, and endless foot pain. In fact, the question becomes not "why did I agree to this?" but rather "how can I translate this presence with nature into my 'real' life?" So easily the days rush by and I lose touch with chirping birds, flowering plants, and sunrise and sunset. Surprisingly, my goal has then become not simply to survive this journey, but rather to fully incorporate its lesson - being fully present in my own life - once I am home.