Listing All the Unhinged Ways My Anxiety Comes Out on Trail

Look, I’m anxious. (Who isn’t these days?  It’s an election year.) I’m also a thru-hiker. Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, and I’m here to prove it to you, in excruciating detail, with this list of unhinged things I do on trail for no reason other than because my anxiety brain told me to.

If you find this list relatable, I hope it makes you chuckle (rather than panic, scream internally — or externally, into the void — and/or cry).

1. Waking Up at 3:30 To Get on Trail by 5

YES, I’m incredibly slow at getting out of camp. My morning routine involves at least 15 minutes of lying awake in bed, unwilling to get up; 10 minutes of reluctantly warming up my hiking clothes inside my sleeping bag; 10 minutes of getting dressed inside my sleeping bag without exposing any skin to the outside; stretching; drinking a liter of water; cooking breakfast; eating breakfast; digesting breakfast; packing; and finally, finally, finally getting started hiking.

I’m so passionate about my early mornings on trail that I once wrote a whole-ass article about them, in which you all thought I was a complete psycho for getting up that early. Look, I hate being awake as much as anyone else, but have you considered the alternative?

No, I don’t mean death. Although that would also be unfortunate. I mean, if I don’t start at 5, will I have enough time to reach my next campsite before the sun sets? What if my headlamp breaks? What if I can’t see in the dark and accidentally pitch my tent atop an ant mound or on the edge of a cliff, and then I get up to pee in the dark and fall off the cliff?

In fairness, I get a lot of joy out of my early mornings on trail. But even so, there’s no question about what really motivates me to set that 3:30 alarm every day: anxiety. Starting early means I don’t have to worry about running out of daylight. I don’t have to worry about arriving in camp only to find all the choice spots taken.

Plenty of people start their day at 8 or even 9 a.m. and still don’t worry about any of that stuff, and their lives turn out absolutely fine. But, you know. What if it doesn’t?

2. My Insanely Heavy Food Bag

Am I the only person who starts every thru-hike with an absolutely egregious food bag? I started the Colorado Trail with probably eight days’ worth of food for what I knew would only be a five-day hike to Breckenridge.

Sure, I could eat as much as I wanted, never got bored with the variety, and never had to worry about running out. But I also suffered through the insane heat and exposure of Segment 2 and gasped my way up and over Georgia Pass with way more weight on my back than was even remotely necessary.

The worst part is that I was, nominally, an experienced hiker by this point! I had a lot of miles under my belt, and most damning of all, I had actually already hiked every mile from Waterton Canyon to Breckenridge the year before!

I knew exactly what to expect from that stretch of trail. Yet somehow, anxiety brain convinced me that I really might need 60 percent more food than normal this time around. Was it worth it, carrying all these extra provisions? Absolutely not.

These days I try to be more mindful about packing only the food I actually need, maybe with one dinner and a few snacks extra depending on the season. But I still have to rein myself in when every instinct is begging me to throw a handful of extra bars in, “just in case.” What if they don’t have my flavor of Kind bar in the next town?!

Bro. Mind. Mind-bro. CHILL.

3. Getting Up Multiple Times Per Night To See if a Bear Stole My Food Bag

Photo: Peg Leg

What is it with me and food? This is something I’ve gotten much better about over time, but even now, I still get the unbearable itch sometimes to get out of bed just in case the little rustle I heard five minutes ago was a 500-pound bear scaling a tree and snatching my food bag. Because if the local wildlife has absconded with all my provisions, waking myself up to learn that information in the middle of the night will definitely help. Somehow.

Anyway, my fears haven’t panned out so far: the mysterious sound in the night always turns out to be a chipmunk, a branch rubbing against another branch, or, possibly, a product of my own imagination.

Related: getting up multiple times per night to stand outside my tent and squint directly into the darkened sky, trying to assess if one of the trees overhead is actually a widowmaker that’s about to fall and kill me where I lay/stand.

4. Gigantic Mileage Days*

*Gigantic for me, I mean. I’m not Tara Dower; the occasional 30-mile day is plenty for me.

Thru-hiking isn’t a race, and I do like to take my time and savor the journey. In principle. In practice, I feel that I’ll be more likely to enjoy the roses in peace tomorrow if I can just rush through everything today and get in a solid 25-30 miles, which will put me well ahead of my projected pace, which is important because what if something happens and I fall behind my projected pace tomorrow? Best to build up a bit of a buffer while I still can — and tomorrow I’ll do the same thing, and the day after that, etc.

Abundance mindset, people. Abundance! In my head I always feel like I’m running out of time, like if I don’t hurry up and make miles right now, I’ll get hopelessly behind schedule and be stressed out the rest of the hike and/or fail. In reality, I get hopelessly ahead of schedule, and I’m still stressed.

5. Putting On Rain Gear Way Too Early

Such is my loathing for clammy rain jackets that this is the one area where I rage hardest against my anxiety brain. The thing about rain gear is it’s really to keep you warm, not so much to keep you dry, at least not when you’re hiking. Because as you probably know, hiking in a waterproof jacket, even a so-called “breathable” version, is a very sweaty affair.

I feel strongly that all really should wait until we absolutely need rain gear to put it on: otherwise, we just end up soaked with sweat for no reason.  If it’s a warm-ish day and it’s just lightly misting or whatever, I find it’s best to just keep on hiking and wait for the full-on downpour to start before initiating a wardrobe change.

That rain might never materialize, or it might be much milder than expected, and then we’ve taken a pack-off break and gotten ourselves all sweaty for no reason. Or maybe the rain does come but it takes 20 minutes longer to arrive than I thought it was. I could have enjoyed 20 more unencumbered minutes not wearing a sticky bag of sweat!

So yes. Patience. Wait for the right moment. This is a reasonable plan.

Except everything in my psyche rebels against it. The moment that first dark cloud rolls across the sun, the first time an ominously cool breeze brushes past me, I’m on high alert. Rain jacket. Rain jacket. I should probably put on my rain jacket now. Or … now? I NEED TO PUT ON MY RAIN JACKET RIGHT NOW.

6. Pre-Booking Shuttles and Lodging

Photo: Andre Audette

Hitchhiking is a thing, guys! I know this to be true. So why do I feel I need to prearrange transportation and then hustle to get to the meeting point at the agreed-upon time, when I could just wander up to the roadside at my own convenience, stick my thumb out, and snag a ride with (probably) minimal difficulty?

But what if there isn’t any traffic on this particular road? What if no one stops? Someone always stops. Sometimes you have to be patient, but trust me, Me, someone always stops.

In general, it’s unnecessary or even advisable for thru-hikers to pre-book shuttles. Same goes for lodging. Unless Taylor Swift is rolling into Duncannon, Pennsylvania this weekend, you’ll probably be able to find a bed in town. And so what if you don’t? You’re a thru-hiker; living in the forest is literally your whole identity. It’s not like the world will end if all the beds in the hostel are full, just go camp somewhere.

I’ve more often than not regretted arranging things in advance, as it leaves me with less flexibility to change my plans on the fly. And changing plans are the name of the game as a thru-hiker. Maybe the weather’s going to be beautiful on my planned zero day but shitty two days later. Maybe I make some new friends and they’re all staying in a different part of town than me. You can book things on the fly, and it’s almost always fine; relax!

7. Avoiding Camping Alone But Also Avoiding Camping Near People

I love the solitude of camping just by myself, but it also wigs me out sometimes. I always get used to it after a few days, once I’ve settled into my hike, but when anxiety brain is running the show, it generally directs me to camp closer to other people. Just in case of … I don’t know, murderers?

In direct counterpoint to the above, people stress me out and sometimes I just don’t want to interact with them. I can’t fully relax if there are people close enough to potentially see me! What if they judge me?

My ideal scenario is to camp semi-near people but far enough away to pretend I didn’t see them so I don’t have to interact with them. Yes, I know I am very charming, thank you for thinking that about me. 🙂

8. Bags Inside of Bags Inside of Bags

Photo: Sam McClintic

So, my backpack is waterproof, but you can never really trust that a “waterproof” bag is really waterproof, you know? So I always back that up with a lightweight internal liner.

But those liners are super thin and you can never fully trust them either, and I like to keep my things organized anyway. So I figure might as well have a few smaller, also waterproof bags inside of my liner inside of my waterproof backpack, just to really make sure my prized possessions remain unmolested by marauding raindrops.

Finally, ziplocks. Ziplocks weigh nothing, more or less, and they’re clear, and they just feel appropriate for backpacking. Therefore, I keep some of my gear inside of ziplock bags inside of waterproof bags inside of my backpack liner inside of my waterproof backpack. Yes, I also keep spare ziplocks and grocery bags on hand too. Just in case.

9. Grouse

Photo: Rick “Quiet Man”

I’m not sure this one is anxiety brain so much as an actual terrifying thing. But gosh darn if I don’t feel like I’m about to go into cardiac arrest every time a grouse takes flight while I’m hiking.

One minute I’m bopping along, minding my own business, enjoying The Nature while thinking about nothing in particular, and the next minute the world is ending and everything is on fire and everyone is screaming, by which I mean an extremely non-aerodynamic and upsettingly noisy bird is in a battle to the death with its ultimate nemesis, gravity, somewhere in my general vicinity.

I gasp and clutch at my heart, which has gone from a sturdy 110-beats-per-minute cadence to a frenetic 190 in no time flat, and my armpits hurt, which is a thing that happens when I get scared. Does anyone else have this? Do we have a high concentration of adrenal glands in our pits, or something? Nearby grouse launch = extreme armpit agony for Kelly, every time.

Worrying About Worrying? Stop Doing That

Probably internally screaming in this photo — but with ice cream!

Some things that counteract anxiety include exercise, spending time in nature, and unplugging from civilized life. Sounds like a thru-hike is just what the doctor ordered!

Alas, while backpacking knocks my anxiety down several pegs, it doesn’t get rid of it entirely, as I’ve just demonstrated. It took me a while to accept this, because in regular life my anxiety normally manifests as a lot more hand-wringing and internal screaming rather than as an obsession with nesting waterproof bags, but there you go.  

If you have anxiety, fear not (lololol), there’s no need to let that keep you from thru-hiking. Just know that despite popular opinion, Nature Time isn’t necessarily a cure-all for the old existential dread. It will probably help, but until you’ve hit the trail and established otherwise, assume that whatever coping skills/medications/etc. you use to manage your anxiety brain in civilized life will still be useful for you on your thru-hike.

Don’t worry too much! Or at least, on top of everything else, don’t worry too much about worrying too much. Iykyk. Smooch.

Featured image: Graphic design by Zack Goldmann.