Thruhiker Imposter Syndrome

I’ve successfully thruhiked over 4,000 miles, yet as I sit here a couple of weeks before the trail the doubts still roll in. How will my body handle the elevation this time? Will I be able to learn how to properly read the lightning storms in Colorado? Will I be able to find a hiking partner for peak grizzly country? How long will it take me to get into hiking shape? Did I choose the right gear this time? What if my back doesn’t cooperate?

The “What ifs” and “Will I’s”

The “what ifs” and “will I’s” could fill a page, as in the final stretch before my next thru-hike I begin to question my entire identity.

And I have to accept that it’s okay. It happens to the best of us no matter where we are in our achievements. Whether we’re at the point of doing our first overnight backpacking trip or about to finish the triple crown of thruhiking, our minds often drift towards the unknowns.

There can always be a bigger, harder, longer goal or an off season that will make us question ourselves and our limits. I wanted to share my feelings about this and some perspective as an acknowledgment of how common it is.

Reflecting on our Past, Present, and Future

Reflecting on our past, present, and future selves we can accept that our identities are constantly in flux. Any insecurity we have can be accepted and then let go of with the understanding that we are indeed capable of achieving the goals that we make for ourselves. Take my humble backpacking beginnings as an example.

My very first backpacking trip ever was in 2010. I was 18 years old, and I carried things like a full-size Coleman tent and a gallon of water. It was my foremost gateway into seeking out gear reviews and becoming a gear nerd, but it was most definitely not my initial gear that made my trip successful. It was both my sheer stubbornness and my newfound awe of the wilderness concept that I’d never experienced that got me through.

Fast forward to 2016, I’d never spent a night out in the wilderness by myself. And so, with plans for a PCT journey swirling and my summer working in Yosemite coming to a close, I set off for one single test night. I’d procrastinated on it all summer and so it was quite literally my last night to go, before I hopped on a bus the next morning to return to Humboldt State for the semester.

I chose El Capitan because of my familiarity with the hike, and its wide open granite surface. In my mind, wide-open granite spaces are safe from anything that might take interest in you, such as bears or people.

The full moon radiated across El Cap’s gray expanse, as I curled up within a windbreak likely created by climbers who’d summited in the past. As far as I knew, I had the whole thing to myself. Though I didn’t sleep particularly well, it was a blissful experience with an illuminated landscape I’ll never forget.

Sometime before four in the morning, in the fading moonlight, I got up and packed up. Not due to any noises or wildlife, but because I was setting out on another mission: to get back to the Valley early and surprise my then-boyfriend before my bus ride. The first half of the hike down from El Cap’s sanctuary was through a dark, overgrown forest where wildlife was frequently spotted. Mind over matter, headlamp on bright, I played some music out into the air from my phone and hummed along.

A classic issue for me at the time was not taking the time to charge my devices properly. In the dim light of the morning my headlamp faded and then died, leaving me squinting and traipsing through the shadows. Luckily I knew this trail well, and the music calmed my soul.

And then my phone died. So there I was on the cusp of dawn, with no phone and no headlamp in what I perceived to be a relatively dark and scary forest, barely able to make out the trail that blended in with the forest colorscape. Ultimately I got down fine and in time to say my proper goodbye, but the trip had its hiccups.

That was the one night I’d spent in the backcountry alone before starting my PCT journey in 2017. My first week on the PCT I didn’t sleep much at all. But I learned and adjusted and grew to become a confident solo thruhiker.

I’ve since had what you could describe as far less successful nights in the backcountry, even after thousands of miles. Gear failures, illness, smoke, etc. etc. Though experience brings wisdom and the ability to better prevent and mitigate difficult experiences, they never go away.

Don’t ever expect to be a “perfect” thruhiker, someone whose miles unfurl smoothly like a daydream. All we can do is continue to be a bunch of imposters of that and keep going.

If you’d like to contribute to my CDT thruhike fundraiser please visit this link.