Sean Speckin

I’m awake before sunrise, as I have been for months. 

My eyelids beg to stay shut. Maybe it’s a sign of sleep deprivation or my body’s resentment toward any and all movement. Regardless, I force them open.

I scan my body for aches and pains, a process that involves tensing and flexing my stiffened appendages. Part one of my daily routine has the same outcome; there are always aches and pains. I continue my morning muscle primer to prepare for the day.

My boyfriend is still sleeping next to me. We’re a mess of intertwined limbs; a knot impossible to untangle without waking him. In the real world, I’d have closed my eyes and spared him from a jostled wake-up call. 

But there are miles ahead. They won’t be conquered lying down.

I wrench my arms and legs from his grasp without remorse to begin the morning’s chores. 

There’s barely enough light to make out the surrounding tents, but know that the few early birds have already left. I’m envious of their ability to pack up and pound out early miles, but I know I can catch them if I hustle. It’s a competitiveness I never had before the trail, but one that now dictates my hiking style. 

I need a full ten seconds to stand up straight; my thighs and knees seize and strain as I rise to my feet. Shuffling toward our food bags hanging far too close to our campsite, I take a moment to admire my handiwork before undoing the line and lowering the bags to the ground. Throwing a line is the closest I’ll ever come to an olympic sport. Throwing a line is a hiker’s first acquired skill in the transition to trail life. 

Today’s breakfast? Oatmeal, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow. I’ve long since given up hot food on trail, so I pour cold water right into the packets and mix until I’m faced with an oh-so-appetizing oat paste to fuel my steps. I imagine my next town breakfast as I choke down the slop.

I begin packing up my gear, making  just enough noise to disrupt my partner’s slumber. Once he’s awake, I think nothing of breaking down our tent with him inside. It’s not the nicest of alarms, but it works wonders. He slinks out the far side, narrowly escaping the collapsing nylon walls. 

Before heading off down the trail, I find a secluded spot to “do business.” Non-hikers would find this vulgar, but hikers are quick to embrace the empowering primitive freedom of a cathole deposit.

By the time I leave camp, the sun is up. Light peeks through the forest canopy and reflects off the dew covered leaves. The morning air makes me shiver, but a brisk pace can balance out the cold within minutes. The first few miles shake off the soreness that weighs me down. I hike alone in the morning, as I find that it helps me ease into the day. Solitude is my morning coffee.

As I hike, the world comes alive: the birds start singing and the first winds shake the trees. There are no voices to quiet the birds or silence the breeze. The forest is the soundtrack to my morning.

Walking is boring. The mind is the only entertainment to pass the time. I swing my trekking poles at low hanging branches like a jedi on an alien planet. Sometimes there are rocks; I hop across them like an expert in primitive parkour. If the mood strikes, I’ll break into a run, like an ultra marathoner leading the pack. It’s all in my head, but my head is all the company I need. I’m invincible in the woods; a superhuman without limits. 

Before long, I’ve passed the early birds in steady progress towards our planned lunch spot. Hikers mostly congregate at shelters to rest and pass the hottest hours of the day. I barely slept my first few nights in shelters; I felt like vulnerable prey exposed to the night’s predators in the three-sided shacks. Now they’re eagerly anticipated mile markers intertwined with some of my favorite trail moments to date. 

On-trail, thresholds are reset. 

Stress persists. It’s no longer triggered by the deadlines, money, or reputation that dominates the real world; stress manifests in desperate searches for water sources and escaping the rain. My fear flares when I hear distant thunder. My anxiety builds when I reach a shelter with no space to pitch a tent. 

These challenges are so insignificant compared to the crushing dread of real world stress, and they’re greatly preferred.

The happiness quotient is rewritten on-trail as well. My mood is no longer dictated by professional success, monetary gain, or the accumulation of possessions. The more I walk, the less I want. My needs and wants are indistinguishable from each other: my feet in cold water; a comfortable and shady resting spot; food to fuel my trek; and friends to love and challenge me to learn about the world are the new markers of happiness.  

By afternoon, I’ve daydreamed of faraway lands and future adventures. My world has been shattered by revelations, then pieced back together to form something new and honest. My body has carried me farther than non-hikers could ever comprehend. My life on-trail is a protest against the status quo, and each step forward carries me away from my desires to exist within the confines of the norm. I’m no longer the college graduate, the volunteer, the self-conscious introvert, the ex-fat kid, the gay, the aspiring teacher, the youngest son, or any other label stamped on my psyche pre-hike. By dinner, I’ve laid out each aspect of my existence amongst the twigs and pebbles, discarding what no longer works and keeping only those that are worth carrying.

We cook dinner together as a trail family; a cohesive unit of individuals who weighed the pros and cons of group hiking and ultimately opted in. Our conversations turn to jokes, and the jokes to reflections on how the miles treated us today. I wash up near the water source before throwing a line to hang my food bag for the night. I hear the waning laughs of my family as they settle into their tents. 

We’re tired and sore, both in body and mind. 

Yet I feel as confident as ever. Every day I move forward, covering ground toward a goal I’m not quite sure I’ll ever reach. But I’m here now, and that’s enough. There is no failure on-trail, only success. I lay down in my tent, tying my arms tight around my partner. 

Tomorrow I’ll do it all again, and I can’t wait.