HexaTrek Tales Part 4: Solitude, Stage Four, and Becoming Uncivilized

It’s midnight in Italy, 36 hours before heading back to trail, and my mind is swimming. I’d decided to continue into the Alps — Stage Two of the HexaTrek — but waves of doubt have started rolling in. I’ve heard one too many stories of temperamental weather, had one too many daydreams of things going awry, and have reminded myself one too many times that I’d be going in solo. I wonder briefly whether the feeling is intuition or just reasoning. I don’t think it matters — these waves are too strong to ignore. The next morning I book another bus ticket; the Alps no longer — I’m heading to further down the track. 

I’ve flipped to the end of Stage Four and am now walking in the opposite direction — northbound. In fact, after two weeks in this stage, I’ve nearly finished it. 

My attempt to capture the past couple weeks on trail? Baking sun, bigger days, never-ending gorges, breathtaking rocks, refreshing swims, quiet contentment, and solitude, solitude, solitude. 

I didn’t expect to love Stage Four.  

I’d been thinking of Stage Four as the intermission between the Alps and the Pyrenees — the section of trail associated with heat waves and knocking out miles. I hadn’t realized that almost everyday there’s an opportunity to dip in a river, walk through medieval cobblestone villages, or be awestruck by the rocks that perch on cliffs like sculptures. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed blue skies and sunny days and brightness. I hadn’t realized how much of a difference a break from ticks and failing gear and surprise rainstorms would make. 

It’s been 450 kilometers since I’ve seen a single Hexatrekker walking my direction. 

Apart from crossing paths with the occasional hiker going the opposite way, I haven’t met anyone else in this stage. The last I heard, the person closest to me on trail was four days ahead.  

The effect of this time alone has been varied and fascinating. The first couple of days were a struggle, with nighttimes especially bringing pangs of loneliness and doubt. Over time, though, I’ve settled into the solitude. Everyday I experience moments of happiness, discovery, or wonder that I wish I could share with someone. Now, however, I don’t take those moments as a sign that I shouldn’t be here — I just let them be a reminder of how much I cherish connection in my life. 

Being alone has also sped up my transition out of society. 

After a thousand kilometers, I think one could politely describe me as a touch uncivilized. I feel like a half-town half-nature thing — obviously not living in the wild but also not quite belonging to the built environment either. 

When you’re on a thru-hike, you get to this point when your sense of where you belong, and how to behave, shifts. When your recollection of what is civilized, and your respect for it, starts to dissolve. When the world you feel at home in is not the same one you started with.

You feel it when you arrive in town and are immediately overwhelmed by the signs and colours and options and people. When every place indoors always feels too hot and stagnant. When you have no idea whether it’s Monday or Thursday and it doesn’t matter unless it’s a Sunday and the shops are closed. When it’s been days since you’ve showered and weeks since you’ve done laundry and you only realize that when you smell the sweet, sweet smell of day hikers. When it feels weird to walk anywhere without trekking poles and a twelve-kilogram backpack. When you wonder why people are staring at you and then remember that you’re a patchwork of colors and patterns, bronzed by the sun and forever spreading out your gear on the ground. When you transform from a person existing in civil society, to one who just walks through occasionally.

And it probably happens gradually, over many steps and miles and layers of dirt. But there’s a moment when you’re walking through town or sitting on a mountainside or swimming in a river and you realize that you’ve lost your place amongst the clean and orderly and found a different one, somewhere a little more wild. 

After a thousand kilometers, I feel like I’ve reached that point. It’s a feeling that I’m absolutely in love with. The possibility of saying goodbye to that feeling (because, when I stop walking, I will) makes my heart hurt. But of course, starting and ending a thru-hike are similar in that sense. When you start, you give up the world you belong to and hope that there’s another there to catch your landing. When you end a thru-hike, you do the same. Sometimes you’re just in free fall for a while.  

Earlier on in this stage, I found myself wondering what the purpose of this part of the hike was. 

I wondered what I was going to get out of being hot and alone and walking, walking, walking. With many hours on my hands, my mind developed a little scenario to explore this. I imagined my life was a novel being studied by a high school English class (egotistical, I know), and this section of the HexaTrek was its own chapter. I imagined the teacher asking the students how this chapter influenced the character (me) and formed part of their journey. And, of course, I imagined what the students might say…

“It taught her that she can get through the difficult times by herself”, one might say. 

“It was so she could learn how much she needs connection”, another might posit. 

“It let her reach new depths of experience”, another could suggest. 

While I enjoyed mulling this over, none of the answers fully resonated with me. I didn’t know exactly what the purpose of this experience was or what I was going to get out of it. For a while this made me uneasy, until I spoke to my sister, Lily. She remarked that the students can’t properly answer that question until they’ve read the whole book. Likewise, you often only realize what role something plays in your story later on — when you see it in context and everything that resulted from it. 

I think a lot of thru-hiking is about trust. Trusting strangers, trusting that you’ll find somewhere to sleep, trusting nature, trusting your body. I’m learning that it’s also about trusting that the experience will serve whatever role it should in your story. 

Will I continue beyond this stage?

Surprise surprise, I still have no idea. I’ve never intended to finish this trail, just to stay on it until that doesn’t feel like the best thing to do anymore. A vague goal to have, a difficult one to reflect upon.

At this stage, about four days out from finishing Stage Four, I’d say I’m 50-50 about whether I stop or continue on. I’m feeling more settled into the thru-hiking rhythm, and becoming more at home on this trail. At the same time, my excitement for what I could do post trail is growing, and my feet are getting restless (despite these 40-kilometer days). 

Regardless of whether I continue walking or not, I’ve grown fond of the idea of spending a week off in Marseille, not far from where I’ll finish Stage Four. Maybe that will help me decide, or maybe it’ll just be a fun time.  

For now, though, I’m going to enjoy my day off and go swim in yet another river.