HexaTrek Tales Part 10: The End

I sit on a rock, on the last night of trail, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The sun starts to set and the sky is beautiful and the ocean is beautiful and what I have done is beautiful. Then it becomes night and the lights come out and it hits me that I am leaving that beauty.

There’s something profound about finishing a thru-hike at the ocean. Your final steps lead you straight into this seemingly infinite expanse of unknowns. 

I sit on that rock, on the last night of trail, and appreciate the symbolism. It’s beautifully poetic. It’s absolutely terrifying.

Well, well, well. The walk I never intended to complete (that I actively avoided intending to complete) has been completed.

France’s longest thru-hike, comprising 3034 kilometers, 136,000 meters of elevation change, 14 natural parks, and four and something months of walking. 

I walked from the border of Germany to that of Spain. I walked from the Vosges to the Alps to the Pyrenees. I walked through the forests and I walked through the mountains. I walked through the valleys and the villages and the meadows. I walked on dirt, on rocks, on snow. I walked through mud, through shit, through streams. I walked through the growth of spring, the heat of summer, the leaves of autumn. I walked past the chamois, the cows, the sheep, the marmots. I walked when sick, when laughing, when lonely, when tired, when crying, when deeply content. I walked and I walked and I walked until I couldn’t walk anymore. And then, I went for a swim.

It was a good swim.

Finishing this walk has been a strange experience. 

I never imagined myself stepping onto the sand at Hendaye. 

For the first third of the hike, I actively avoided daydreaming about the end. I didn’t want to attach to the idea of completing it. I thought it was more likely than not that I wouldn’t — that I’d walk a thousand kilometers or so then call it a day. And, I wanted to be okay with that. 

By the second third of the hike, I’d gotten pretty good at avoiding that daydream. Occasionally a voice would tempt me; “I’ve gotten this far, maybe I should just finish it”. I resisted the voice, instead making deals with myself about exactly when I could start considering whether to do the following stage. I was strict with my thoughts, and the ocean was out of bounds.

And by the last thousand kilometers, the trail had me wrapped around its little finger. I didn’t think about the end — not because I didn’t want to aim for it or because I’d trained myself not to. I didn’t think about the end because I didn’t want it to end.

So, when I actually arrived at the Atlantic Ocean, I was very, very confused.

I struggled to believe that I’d finished. I couldn’t comprehend that it was over. I wondered why I didn’t feel the big emotions normally associated with succeeding in a huge goal or project. Pride, relief, a sense of accomplishment — these feelings evaded me. After some days, I realized why.

I’d been thinking about the HexaTrek on, at most, a stage-by-stage basis. At the end of every stage, I would reassess whether I wanted to continue. For me, the HexaTrek wasn’t four months of walking; it was just a few weeks, then another few weeks, then another few, and so on.

Le cirque de Gavarnie.

At Hendaye, I didn’t feel like I’d done a big thing because in my mind, I hadn’t. I’d just done a bunch of smaller things that had been labeled as one big thing. I hadn’t anticipated how my mindset throughout the hike would impact how I felt at the end. When I pushed the end out of my mind, I also pushed out any preparation for it. 

Despite this, and the confusion that still lingers, I wouldn’t change anything about how I approached this hike. It’s quite possible that if I was attached to the idea of finishing the hike, I may not have actually done it. 

Three lessons from the HexaTrek. 

I could write a lot about this hike. What I saw, who I spoke to, what I experienced, what I felt; it’s endless. What I’ll share here though, are three lessons I drew from that trail. 

Acknowledge the wave but stay with the ocean.

Stage One was the most difficult stage for me. It rained a lot, my knees hurt, my gear was breaking, I was in a new culture, I was speaking a different language, I was rarely with the same people (or any at all), and I discovered my extreme dislike of ticks. I can handle some difficult things, but it gets a little trying when there are ten difficult things slamming into you at once.

On top of this, I was intentionally depriving myself of distraction. I’d committed to not listening to anything on trail at the time, and to spending a certain portion of the day trying to be mindful. It was a rough time, and I didn’t make it any easier. I often questioned what I was doing on trail. I often thought about quitting. 

Stage One was beautiful, and it was hard.

At the time, I was reading a book by Buddhist monk Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche. The title of the second chapter was, ‘Acknowledge the wave but stay with the ocean’. 

When I felt lonely, when I saw a tick, when I realized my tent was still leaking, when I doubted what I was doing, I repeated that phrase to myself. Those struggles were waves that came and went. They were impermanent; with nothing to do but walk and witness, I became hyperaware of that. Don’t get me wrong; the hard things were still hard. I just reminded myself, over and over, that they were also temporary.

If you’re going to walk through shit, you might as well walk through it with someone and laugh about how much shit there is. 

I spent the majority of the trail alone. That made me very aware of how impactful company and connection can be. 

Several months into the HexaTrek, I saw this quote from the poet, Rainer Marie Rilke:

“What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours — that is what you must be able to attain.”

Those words struck me deeply. I’d been walking inside myself not for hours, but for months. I’d seen what a powerful teacher solitude could be. 

You amuse yourself because there’s no one else to do it. You tell yourself it will be okay when you’re doubting that it will. You pull your shit together because you need to make safe decisions. You exist without thinking about what others think of your existence. 

Just the trail and me.

So, to some extent, Rilke’s words did ring true. And, they also felt very wrong. I’d spent hundreds of hours alone with my thoughts and emotions. What is necessary, I’d found, was not only that.

Company and connection can change everything. People can make the hard times easier, the easy times more fun, and experiences more meaningful. My time alone, and then with others, taught me that. 

Shout-out to Jo, Julien, and our Pyrenees Party.

Let yourself be impressed by life.

I ranted about this lesson in my last blog post, so won’t do it again. The gist is simple: life is impressive in a billion different ways. Don’t trap yourself into thinking that only certain kinds of objects or experiences are beautiful. Say “Wow” often.

The verdict on the HexaTrek.

I fell in love with the HexaTrek, slowly but surely.

If I had to describe my experience in one word, it would be “complete”. The trail is varied, and every one of the six stages feels unique. I finished feeling like I’d both been on a wild adventure, and I’d really seen France. There was the history and culture, the villages and natural wonders, the solitude and connection.

The HexaTrek left me enamored; it’s going to do the same for many thousands of people to come.

And now — into the unknown. 

The seemingly infinite expanse of unknowns is rather scary. And, it’s what makes life interesting.

I’m reminded of something I wrote a few months into my hike:

“I wondered what lay ahead of me now. What was it that I didn’t know that future me did; the places I’d go, the people I’d meet, the things I’d laugh about, the struggles I’d endure. These questions, of course, are not unique to a thru-hike. We know nothing about what will happen next, and then we spend all of our minutes finding out.”

I suppose it’s time to find out what happens next.