Starting the PNT: A Return to Narnia
I never appreciated the tragedy hidden in C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe until thru-hiking. If you’re not familiar, a team of young siblings stumble into a magical realm where they embark on epic quests and grow into adulthood as kings and queens; at the end, they accidentally return to 20th century England, where no time has passed. They are once again children, unable to speak about the miraculous odyssey they just lived to anyone but each other.
After returning from my own version of a grand adventure in what felt like another reality, and finding that the rest of the world was largely uninterested or unable to relate, I finally understood the unique type of grief and longing the fictional siblings of Narnia must have experienced.
I hiked the PCT in 2022. But when I was done, I wasn’t really done.
For the past two years, it’s been hard to think about anything other than my time on trail. Any tangential mention of nature, camping, hitchhiking, sunglasses, mosquitoes, Gatorade bars, mayo packets… and it would all come back to me. As so many others can attest, thru-hiking ruined me. Regular life is now something I do temporarily, between trips to the woods. As hard as I try to fit back into society, my heart is still outside. Naturally, the only solution is to return to the fantasy of thru-hiking!
Why This Trail?
The Pacific Northwest Trail is most often completed in a span of 60-90 days, between late June and mid-September. With the lower snow pack in the Rockies, I could leave the first week of summer vacation, and be home by Labor Day. As a public education servant employee, I spend much of my time between late June and early September in the woods. When your annual contract is already only 190 days long, it can be difficult to convince employers that you need extra time, to, you know, roll around in the dirt.
More hikers, more problems
After spending a few weeks solidly in “the bubble” on the PCT, I got a taste of the resource woes of an overcrowded trail. Finding a campsite involved ending your day prior to 4pm (or being lucky enough to stumble on a secret spot unknown to the FarOut comment section). Poorly-buried toilet paper and corners of candy bar wrappers were everywhere. Towns looked like a swarm of locusts had passed through, taking all the hotel vacancy and Knorr pasta sides with them.
And on top of that, I found myself constantly socially drained. I’m a real introvert’s introvert. Even though I spent all day walking alone, simply approaching a water source with hikers gathered felt daunting. By the end, I found myself avoiding others, sick of small talk. I had a hard time making authentic connections, because my social battery was always running low.
But the Pacific Northwest Trail Association estimates that “upwards of 50 people” hike the PNT annually (coincidentally, the same number who start each day on the PCT). I could feasibly see very few other hikers. I anticipated that encountering another person out there would be rare, like a wildlife sighting. Rather than running away from crowds, I might comfortably share the experience with a small handful of others, in the way I first envisioned when I learned the term Tramily.
Bring on the bushwhacking!
When researching this trail, I practically drooled over the reports of undeveloped tread, route-finding, and difficult terrain. These descriptions sounded like enticing amenities rather than drawbacks to me. I was thirsty for a challenge! Prior to starting the PCT, I had researched and practiced a myriad of snow, navigation, and water-related skills. Blogs and books led me to believe my life would be on the line on a daily basis. Fortunately for my mother’s nerves, it was not.
I don’t mean to downplay the endurance required to simply walk thousands of miles, regardless of hazards, but… I felt like my first thru-hike had been relatively cushy?
I started just early enough to avoid water issues in the desert, had low snowpack and easy river crossings in the Sierra, and avoided mosquitoes and bad weather by flipping around for fires in the north. Somehow, I only got one blister.
As much fun as I’d had, I didn’t feel like I’d earned the title of thru-hiker. Like I hadn’t suffered enough. I didn’t put myself in the same category of hikers who braved hundreds of miles of snow cups, mosquitoes, blowdowns, and Leukotaped feet. But hardship almost seemed like a guarantee on the PNT.
Imposter Syndrome (n): A persistent feeling of doubt involving one’s accomplishments, worthiness, or status, despite evidence to the contrary.
You’ve heard of post-trail depression, so why don’t we ever talk it’s awkward cousin, about pre-trail imposter syndrome?
The last thing I thought I’d question after finishing one of the country’s longest scenic trails was my legitimacy as a hiker. But it shouldn’t have been a surprise. I’ve always been especially prone to imposter syndrome. Every degree and award I’ve received has been accompanied by thoughts of “but that doesn’t really count, because…”
So the night before I was set to board a train for Glacier National Park, my mind was spinning with questions about my ability to hike the PNT. Whether I’d really hiked all those miles two year before, or if I’d misremembered. Whether the training I’d done since was all a fluke, and I’d collapse once on trail. Was I really tough enough for this trail? I had invasive thoughts about forgetting to pack my water filter, or that my tent was inexplicably wrong for the task. I even dreamt that I’d somehow learned navigation backwards, and discovered after a few hours of wandering in Glacier that I was even further from the start of the trail than when I began.
Mountain lions, and bull moose, and grizzlies, oh my!
On top of all that, I’d be hiking in grizzly bear country for the first time in my life.
Because nerves put me in the mood to make bad decisions, I chose to watch PBS’s Night of the Grizzlies while packing. Learning about the circumstances of historic fatal grizzly attacks in Glacier was surprisingly comforting. We’ve come a long way in our understanding of bears and preventative measures since the 1960’s. I then proceeded to watch the National Park’s backcountry safety video, and found it far less reassuring. Maybe because of the nonchalant manner in which the narrator instructs you on how to behave once an attacking bear tries to eat you.
But I’ve heard they exaggerate those things, to make sure the tourists are on their best behavior.
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