The One About the Foothills Trail

Let's just say that the Foothills Trail is an obstacle course. A 77-mile obstacle course...made of cobwebs. 

Cobwebs. Cobwebs as far as the eye can't see. And I don't think that it's an exaggeration to estimate that I ran my face into at least one thousand cobwebs, but I only (knowingly) swallowed one single spider. A considerable chunk of my time on the trail was spent attempting to release myself from cobwebs, the stickiest substance in the known universe; but hey, it's nothing that a dip in the Chattooga couldn't fix!

This is a story about 8 days and 7 nights and 77 miles. It's a story about my very first solo backpacking trip. It's a story about quads and calves, wildlife, water sources, thru-hiker magic, Facebook, slug hair, and emergency blankets. It's a story about a change of heart and an attitude adjustment. But most importantly, it's a story about cobwebs.

I couldn't really sleep the night before. I had spent the entire previous week in a stressful miasma of immigration paperwork in order to prepare for my big move at the end of the summer, and I was ready to get away. I had just driven 800 miles and landed at my best friend's house just south of Keowee-Toxaway State Park, snuggled up close with her and her three littles. Hungry, wired, and anxious, I wanted the ground below me and the stars above me and nothing else in the whole world. So when she dropped me off at the Oconee State Park trailhead, I took off like a bottle rocket, pressure finally being released. It was relatively easy, those first ten miles and some change. I wasn't alone; I came across some hikers and a little baby turtle (tortoise?) as well as hundreds of cobwebs. 



I did, however, run out of water that first day. This took me by surprise, because a month before in Alaska, my water bladder had lasted for a couple days worth of hiking; and these were Alaska, next-level types of hikes. For me, anyway. It became pretty obvious, though, that I was sweating a whole lot more in a Carolina June than I had in an Alaska May, and really needed to suck it down to prevent any inevitable spells of dehydration. I panicked a little bit and stopped just a fraction of a mile short of the day's goal in order to take some time to relax in the Chattooga and water up. 

That night, I fell asleep around hiker's midnight (7PM) and woke up several times to stars rising and falling around me. Being familiar with the night sky helped, as I kept time using the stars and rested easily underneath Mars and Saturn, who were resting easily in Scorpius. My easy resting, however, was cut short by the realization that bringing an emergency blanket instead of a sleeping bag was a terrible idea.

Just...a really terrible idea.

I thought I'd save space and weight, and I did, but...at what cost? Turns out, emergency blankets do exactly what they're supposed to do. But when it's humid, and you're sitting pretty on the beach border between South Carolina and Georgia in the soggy Southern summertime, your blanket becomes a mylar rainforest. Having captured my considerable body heat and condensed it into tiny raindrops on the surface of the blanket, I tossed and turned in a sticky, shivery hell until first light. 

It was the worst.

But, I moved on. And several miles later, giggling because I had just pulled a giant slug out of my hair, I was getting the hang of this whole backpacking thing. For reference, here's a list of the stuff that I brought with me. Being my first time, I didn't bother with cookware because I thought I'd try to ask around on the trail and get some good ideas (mission accomplished) so instead, I brought bars and bags of soup/lentils contained within my super heavy duty Bear Vault 500. It worked, but it was heavy.

The pack: Ascend MSX4400 Mountain Series

The contents: 

• Bear Vault 500
• ~18 Clif Bars
• ~9 Clif Builders
• 6 pre-packaged Campbell's Soups
• 3 pre-packaged Tasty Bite Madras Lentils
• Personal First Aid
• GoPro Hero
• Phone, Cords & Batteries
• Solar Charger (It sucks a little bit, but it worked for a couple days. I might just need to get the hang of it)
• US Army Camp Towel
• 7x7 Ozark Trail tent (Okay, I know. Way too big. But, it's the one I had!)
• 7x7 tarp
• Eagle Creek packing cube with 2 pants, 3 tanks, 1 sports bra, 5 panties, 9 socks, 1 Buff
• Super fun lady stuff
• Wipes and Hand Sani
• Trowel and TP to-go
• Sawyer Mini Water Filtration System
• Coleman water bladder
• FTC Guidebook and pen
• Toothpaste, toothbrush, essential oils
• Bug repellent
• Sunscreen
• Climbing shoes (didn't need 'em)
• Emergency blanket (aka Death)
• Light My Fire Titanium Spork
• Combination compass/thermometer keychain
• Survival Bracelet (combination paracord, flint, knife, compass, whistle)
• Bear bell
• and obviously, Hiking shoes, steel-toed

The weight: I didn't weight my pack because I didn't want to know. But for reference, my pack turned out to be just about the same weight as my best friend's solidly adorable and adorably solid seven-year old.

Within the next few days, I made some trail buddies and learned how to keep up to date with my hydration. I revised my sleeping situation and ended up using my tent's rain fly as a secondary blanket, which made my sleeping situation slightly less sticky. I learned that thru-hiker etiquette dictates that I ask about health status and destinations first, water sources second, names later, maybe never. I stumbled upon my first "thru-hiker magic," a cooler full of Cherry Cola and ice donated by "Taz." Rest assured, Taz, that this offering was deeply, widely appreciated! I was thoroughly unfazed by the two Black Bears that I saw, the first a little more "derp" than I had expected, though he caught me by surprise. He had been eating a snack right next to the trail, but didn't want to stick around to tell me about it. I found his scat about half a mile later, so he had been coming towards me the whole time! The second bear came as no surprise at all, as we heard each other coming. We kept our eyes on each other and kept going our separate ways, no drama, and thankfulness on my end that Black Bears are generally flight bears. 

In addition to the bears, I also saw loads of bees. Rather, the bees saw loads of me! Since the spring blooms had greened out, the bees turned to me as a possible source of nectar. Silly, really, but if they would take sweat instead, then they ended up with the better half of the deal! I was licked up and down by sweet little honey and bumble bees for nearly the entire hike. That, and pecked at by fish, who would eat the dead skin off of my feet as I stood in streams at the end of the day. I loved it; it was just like a spa day!

Throughout the trip, I camped on the bank of the Chattooga, then somewhere about 3 miles west of Sloane Bridge, then in the Nantahala National Forest, Bearcamp Creek Campsite, Toxaway Creek Campsite, the top of Laurel Fork Falls, and finally somewhere about 1.3 miles from Hwy 178. I didn't have trouble with any of these sites, and all came with a proper water source and, sometimes, friends! I met Bill and Gary while camping at Bearcamp Creek, and we ended up as neighbors at Toxaway Creek as well. I learned loads of valuable information from them, as they're a bit more experienced than I am. They helped me determine the sorts of cookware I might want to buy for next time, and we swapped stories from other trails we had conquered. 

The last night, with about 13 miles more to go the next day, I had dehydrated and heat-exhausted and it was my own dumb fault. I was stubborn and I just wanted to get to camp before what I thought might be a rainstorm, but it thankfully never came. I was down to reserves when I found a small spring as well as a water cistern, gratefully filled up, and pitched my tent expecting to cry myself to sleep, exhausted, scrolling through Facebook and missing my friends and family. But then, two hikers around my age came up to my tent, asking to share my space. Just seeing them lifted my spirits, and we spent the next several hours talking about the universe (as suggested by our bag of dehydrated Thai Curry) and sharing the first hot food I'd had in a week. With the sounds of cicadas and owls surrounding me most nights, I had very little reason to feel frightened of anything. However, having Charlie and Desiree sleeping soundly next to my tent, I felt an extra sense of security and camaraderie. The next morning, I set off at 8AM carrying leftover lasagna and a re-energized sense of determination, refreshed by my new friends.

I made excellent time to Sassafras Mountain, and continued on, pushing myself to beast those last four miles into Table Rock State Park where I met up with my best friend. Hot, tired, thirsty, and proud, I finally had the chance to take a proper shower. A storm came just one hour after I got off the trail, and if that isn't grace, then I don't know what is.

Returning to the "real world" is an odd concept, because I am always so much more in tune with the Earth on the trail than I am off. And if the worst part about the trail was the cobwebs, well then, that's a pretty good hike right there. I remember wondering what this week's Cincinnati Zoo Gorilla story would be, what would be the Facebook sensation of the day that I had happily missed, and I was deeply saddened to learn that it was a massacre in Orlando. So while I was running into literal cobwebs on the trail, blissfully unaware of the world's disintegration, loads of hostages were ensnared in a web of their own. And really, we all are. 

Maybe I needed a change of heart, certainly I needed an attitude adjustment. I needed to chill out and remember to give as much grace as I frequently receive. But I know that no matter how much I hike and how forward I keep moving, I've spun my own webs in this life. And one of the things that I wanted to do was to refocus, regroup, and maybe work backwards just a little bit. I've been in transition for the past couple of years, and it often makes me very ornery. Those that know me know that uncertainty can be like a drug for me; getting high off of the unknown keeps me going on some days. But, it also gets very old very fast. I become restless and pushy and irritable. And when I'm feeling these things, sometimes the only solution is to walk it out. Travel, but travel by foot. Walk until I can't walk anymore, or until I've seen the things I needed to see, or until my heart switches its perspective and its priorities. Walk until I've spun myself a web that I can work with, that I can work out of if I need to. Walk until I've spun a safety net. Walk until I figure it out.

Walk until the trail ends. Walk until I make it.

The World's Worst in America's Best

I'd like to preface this rant by noting that I'm a typical American millennial. In general, I prefer to eat avocado toast and meds for breakfast, and the term #expat2016 pretty much floats through my mind at least twenty times per day. In reality, though, I know that we've got loads of things to be proud of here in the USofA; plenty of opportunities for a gal like me, and plenty more privilege than many parts of the globe. I am thankful for that.

But with that privilege has evolved an unrealistic sense of entitlement. And I don't know if that entitlement is actually getting worse, or if we're just more aware of it due to the social media boom of the past decade. Probably a little bit of both.

One result of this ridiculously self-righteous entitlement really has my blood boiling (okay, more than one, but let's focus) and it's evident in the (mis)treatment of our public lands. It seems that over the past couple years alone, humankind has displayed its incompetency particularly well while visiting our national parks and federal lands, including but not limited to:

• approaching bison for a selfie, getting gored
• attempting to embark on hikes without proper hydration, dying
• leaving bear vaults unlocked, losing food and endangering everybody including the bear
• speeding, hitting and killing wildlife
• referring to our first nations peoples as "Indians," asking where they can "see the Indians"
• stopping in the middle of the road, the middle of an active roadway, to view wildlife
• watching Wild and thinking that they're all set for a trek down the PCT, they're not
• leaving trash everywhere (???) because, whatever
• thinking that Mt. Rushmore is awesome (okay, I'm a little biased. There's no inherent evil in appreciating Mt. Rushmore or its phenomenal interpretive ranger programs, but Gutzon Borglum was a real piece of work; we can probably all agree on that)
• assuming that there will be shade, wildlife in plain sight, clear skies, favorable temperatures, amenities that cater to their comfort; because the wilderness is basically the same thing as a five-star hotel
• begging for more signage, not reading signs that already exist
• displaying a surprisingly terrible sense of direction and no navigational competency whatsoever, depending on park rangers to help them figure out "where did we come from" as if they had blacked out at the wheel and somehow magically ended up at the park

And, most recently:

• attempting to "save" a "cold" baby bison by trapping it in their personal vehicle, effectively writing the calf's death certificate
• wandering off of the boardwalks onto sensitive geothermal habitats, damaging extremophile ecosystems and severely endangering themselves

This is why. This is why we cannot have nice things, America.

Now, I realize that the culprits of these misdemeanors and felonies are not always US citizens; the NPS entertains and appreciates millions of visitors from around the world. But no matter who you are or where you come from, there is such a thing as a basic threshold of common sense, and some of you don't have it. You're dumb. You're just so dumb and I can't put it any more eloquently than that. In fact, before my evening programs I'd be blunt enough to say so: "Wearing Teva sandals on Notch Trail? Guys. Don't do that. You'll break your ankle. That's dumb. That is so dumb." I'd always get a chuckle from the crowd, and I was pleased because generally if people think something is funny, they'll have a better chance of remembering it. So hopefully, the next day while they're getting ready to hit the trails, they'd lace up their hiking boots instead of slipping into their Tevas. They'd bring a 3-liter bladder full of water instead of a plastic bottle of Dasani that they end up throwing into the prairie somewhere. They'd wear hats and sunglasses and sunscreen to protect them from the Sun that creates an oven in those buttes. They'd promptly GTFO if they see lightning. They'd keep their pups on paved areas so that they aren't exposed to the plague-carrying fleas that have decimated the prairie dog populations. They'd use the proper pull-offs on the roadway that were strategically placed for their viewing enjoyment. They'd use their damn brains.

I don't understand the mindset that is so blasé about following simple protocol in federal lands, that attitude that screams, "this rule doesn't apply to me." The DOI is not the most heavily funded department of the US government and parks depend on visitation to ensure funding for the next fiscal year, so we need visitors; but if the visitors are actively unraveling the conservation work we are attempting to do, then what's the point of having protected lands in the first place? 

Having access to protected lands is a privilege, not a right. And some people are seriously taking that privilege for granted.

The NPS turns 100 this August, and I am thrilled. I've been so honored to be a small part of this saga; America's Best Idea, preserving our beautiful lands such that a balance of wilderness and development can be possible in our nation. Industry and conservation and science and education working hand in hand; it's a beautiful collaboration. 

So stop treating our public lands like a testing ground for your own personal idiocy. 

Assholes. 

Love Yourself Anyway

He's still in my head. In my head, in my head, zombie zombie zombie. I could pretend that he's a zombie, and that I'm Michonne from The Walking Dead. Or, I could take some sagely wisdom from my favorite human and pretend it was only an evil sea witch who stole my voice. 

Or, more likely, I'll just have to face this like a grown-ass adult.

I skimmed an article today about a Dutch girl with PTSD that was so bad that she chose, her doctors thought it best, to be euthanized. That's horrifying to me, but mostly because I can pinpoint moments in my life during which I was almost, almost in that same place. Thankfully I'm not there now, but good God. It's the worst. It's constant. It doesn't go away. He's in my head.

Listen, I know that you are all probably pretty sick of me eventually coming around to how much PTSD sucks in every single post for the past several years. But let this be a testament to its resilience and its choke hold on my fragile existence: this does not go away. Left untreated, or maybe even after years of trying everything, I could die with it.

But all things considered, I'm kind of okay. My psychiatrist kept asking me about revenge; like whether or not I wanted revenge or if revenge was on my mind...it isn't. To be honest, I'm not sure exactly what she was asking me; perhaps it was to establish that I am in fact not homicidal, or rather to help me make a list of things that, in a perfect world, would make me feel better. Either way, I'm not at all concerned with revenge. I think that at the end of the day, there is probably enough poetic justice in the universe for things to smooth themselves out naturally. And even so, because the phrase "statute of limitations" is so real, revenge is especially not on my mind. And furthermore, I'd like to momentarily get a little preachy and note that forgiveness is even more real and more freeing. But, even with all of that soul-searching and self-soothing and spiritual revelation, I'm still flighty. Might as well say it; after all, my doctor has been trying to figure out what I'm running from: I'm trying to get away from him. Permanently. For real, this time.

I'm a giant cliche and I know it. I thought I'd go off to Alaska and figure out my life (insert peace sign emoji here) and in some aspects, I have. I've learned a few things about myself, mostly an awareness that I have been holding this sickly feeling in my tummy that stems from feeling like I've betrayed myself in some awful manner. I am endlessly conflicted about my (in)ability to find a meaningful romantic relationship without feeling like I'm, well, somehow raping myself. I am scared. And my heart is torn in two.

Yours probably is, too, so don't pretend like I'm all alone in this.

I feel like I've missed so many opportunities, but I'm smack-dab in the middle of one. My head and heart are always two steps apart, and I wonder if I've become, actually become, as flighty as I seem. Things are actually coming together in my life, for the record, but I'm still afraid that I haven't grown enough; meanwhile, I've done more in the past year than most people squeeze into a lifetime. I've been killing it with the resources that I have, and I'm thankful for that. Proud, even.

But the fact remains: I can't have it all. I haven't figured out how to be un-damaged. I most likely won't; not today, anyway. And even if I find somebody who loves the survivor in me, loves the gypsy in me, loves all of me...will I be able to choose him over this fortress I've built for myself? Rather, will I be able to partner my queendom with his kingdom and do a full renovation, love it or list it, of our castle? 

Part of me is afraid that I'll be running for the rest of my life, for adventure or from trauma. But another very small, hopeful seedling inside of me expects to be reflecting in ten years time, thirty-five and a different person, gently laughing at this prose. Maybe totally in love with somebody, hopefully totally in love with myself.

Dots All Over, Pt. 2

I've been good, I've kept my head down, my eyes low. I've stuck around. I've only been way out of town for 29 days so far this year, and there have been more than 100 days. 

On the bright side, some wishes are coming true: I was 5, and I wanted to be a garbage man when I grew up.

This is pretty much the same deal.

I hardly recognize myself, going through the motions, spending my free time stalking error airfares and standing, open armed, in the crossfires of airline fare wars, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. I am closed for business and looking to downsize. Pieces of my brain fall apart. 

I'm 25, so biologically I'm dying now. My broken brain has done its developing, and it is now free to finish its disintegration. 

I've disbanded all attempts to calm myself down; I'm in my hometown, I know where my perpetrator is. He might know where I am, might remember who I am, I do not know, I will not attempt to find out. I saw him twice this week, twice, for the first time in years, years, years, years. Yesterday I learned that he works at the place where I get my medicine; medicine that is required, in part, because of him. And now I am backwards. All of my attempts to work, run, claw my way out of here have imploded and brought me back, straight to him. It is true that we are never safe, this is never over.

My visceral reactions are standard and they are not getting better, but at least I'm thankful that they are invisible. The invisibility is two-fold. On one hand, folks on the outside usually won't see me panicking on the inside, for which I'm thankful. On the other hand, my visibility is low, literally, because I dissolve into a dizzy cloud of black dots and things are swirly and hallways expand and contract and solid things start to wave at me like the ocean. I am all flight. I am the pilot of this flight, low visibility, I take off anyway.

I'll see my psychiatrist on Tuesday. I'll likely tell her that the medicine I've been taking is fine yet insufficient; okay for everyday bipolar, but not okay for this. The impulse is too much. My brain is broken; not fundamentally, but irreparably. And I am turning out less, disappointingly less, than the sum of my parts.

Average Speed = 15 mph
Change in Time = 11.5 yrs = 100740 hrs

Distance = Speed * Time = (15 mph)*(100740 hrs) = 1.5 million miles

But inside, I am back to square one. And I feel as sick as I am.

Displacement = 0.

Zero.