The desire to go out on a really long hike starts, like so many of these things do, with previous participation in a really long hike. In my case, that previous really long hike was in 2016 when my dad and I successfully thru-hiked from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail (or PCT). The motivation for that really long hike seems so simple looking back on it — I loved backpacking (and loved backpacking with my dad), and growing up going on many trips in the Sierras, came to know of the PCT as the ultimate adventure for somebody with these inclinations. And so when he retired, I closed up the small business I had started with a friend, and we took off.
Looking back on it, I never really had any doubts about being able to complete the trek. I was 24 and in great health, some general fluffiness from college and post-college beers and leisure sports notwithstanding. My dad was 61 and also in great health, as he has been for my entire life (and his too for that matter). A marathon man in earlier years, he is known in Ramona by nearly everyone as the runner / hiker / biker / basketball player that just won't stop. Leading into the PCT, I had also moved home, which made preparing for it together much easier and much more exciting. I was just over a year into a relationship with my significant other, Jenn, and she and I decided that we were going to make it work while I was gone. We did that and more, building a beautiful life that we still share today. My mom made dehydrated meals, and both she and Jenn were able to meet up with us at many points along the way. Our extended family was also in stable positions all around. Our time on the PCT did have the inevitable logistical, health, mental, and physical challenges inherent to a thru-hike, but I now realize how fortunate we were to be able to do it and to do it all so relatively smoothly. It was the adventure of a lifetime, and I'm eternally grateful to have shared it with my dad and with the countless friends, family, and loved ones that supported us along the way.
The years since have been more challenging.
Right after we got done with the PCT, Jenn told me it was some of the toughest months of her life and made it clear that she didn't want me taking part in something like that again. She wanted me back in LA ASAP, and my roommates also needed me to move back into the apartment that we all shared together. So I found a marketing job for a tech company in downtown LA, and moved back to the Southland. Subconsciously, I thought it was my job to keep everyone happy and so I packed away the parts of my life that would risk doing otherwise. Not the ideal transition from spiritual nature pilgrimage back into society.
After commuting via skateboard for 6 months, I developed SI dysfunction, something that has plagued me over the last 5 years, and something that I'm learning had a significant emotional component as well as an actual physical one (my hips and spine misaligning to one side). The job itself ended up grinding me down as well, and I left when it finally started adversely affecting my quality of life in significant ways. The subsequent months and years were filled with trying to piece enough together to make ends meet — driving for Lyft (in Los Angeles after being in the wilderness for 4.5 months), getting certified as a personal trainer (liked helping people improve their health, didn't like the money I was making at Equinox), and a plethora of other things before jumping into a full-time data science coding bootcamp despite having practically zero technical experience. Throughout all of this, Jenn and I were establishing small patterns here and there in our relationship that would wind up having larger effects down the line, things like co-dependencies and people-pleasing that seem innocent enough but are insidious in their own ways. Don't get me wrong, there was still a lot of love there (and there is now more than ever), but there was also damage that we did to each other along the way.
After graduating from the bootcamp, I moved back home and began to teach some of the data science topics and courses that I had learned a genuine interest in and passion for. As I moved more into the "ed-tech" world, I reconnected with a passion for teaching that had been dormant for some time. I finally found a home in companies that I felt were doing some good in the world (shoutouts to both Thinkful and Emeritus), and I worked with teammates who taught me incomparable amounts during our times together. Professionally, things were very good, but I still felt that something was off, and that came to light in all the other aspects of my life. As someone who was working fully remote several years before the pandemic hit, I had a slight headstart on some of those feelings of isolation that many of us have unfortunately become close with over the last few years. The digital world can do that to anyone, and it undoubtedly did that to me — someone who wants to be more connected and more social than I had come to understand at that point in my life.
Grief and loss can also make you feel more alone.
Two years ago, Jenn and I lost some really wonderful people. In the span of about 6 months that year, Jenn's mom, my grandma, and my grandpa all passed. I could speak at length about any and all of their deaths, however for Jenn's mom, it isn't my place to do so so publicly, and for the others, I'll wait for another time. Cumulatively, they took a devastating toll on Jenn, on me, and placed a tremendous amount of pain and stress on our relationship. We were separated from so much of our normal support systems due to the start of the global pandemic, and we spent many long days and nights at the hospital, at bedsides, and with the family that we could. It never really felt like enough, and I understand now that it never really does.
When confronted with all of that loss, it inevitably conjures up questions in your own mind, sometimes fueled by the unpacking of old dreams. When my time comes, will I be able to say that I did everything that I wanted to do? Will I be able to say that I at least tried to live my life in a way that is aligned with the story I tell myself in my head? Will I lean into the things that make me feel alive or will I continue to act out of fear and / or complacency?
All of that loss and all of those questions can be agonizing, but they started each of us on a journey of personal and spiritual growth that we are continuing to this day. In her grief, Jenn discovered the healing power of therapy, and of plant medicine, and lovingly brought me into both worlds. I am forever grateful to her for her strength and resolve in exploring her grief and for being strong enough to share all of that with me. And it is thanks to both of those worlds that I am sitting here and writing this post on the eve of a departure from San Diego to Atlanta, to once again set foot on a long trail with my dad. Through guided experiences and my own willingness to grow, I was able to rediscover my voice in my life and in our relationship. I was able to communicate the things I wanted us to work on, and I was able to find more true self-love than I've ever known in my life. I was able to let go of the bad narratives I was telling myself about myself, and I no longer have the same panicked feeling of unanswered "what if's" that I had before. In facing our pain and our past, we've healed ourselves and in healing ourselves, we've healed our relationship in some amazing ways.
And that's what thru-hiking is also about — healing something inside of us in some unseen way. Or maybe it was just somewhat unseen for me the first time. But with time to reflect on my first one, I can see all of the healing that the PCT gave me. It healed me in tangible ways — waking and sleeping with the sun, putting away screens, burning an obscene amount of calories every day, and seeing nature's beauty more than ever before. It was also healing in gentle ways that are still unfolding for me — I find my voice more when I write about these trips, even if only a small number of people read these posts. I put myself out into the world more and that outreach invites more of the meaningful connections with others that make me whole. Even as I go into sparsely populated woodlands and mountains, I feel more in touch with my fellow humans, with the divine, and with myself.
And as love and healing bloom in the soul of the self, we are more able to show up for the people around us, whether they are strangers or the people closest to us. That growth begets growth, and so we owe it to ourselves and to the world around us to figure out the activities that make us better people and to lean into those endeavors. I owe it to myself to set out on a journey with less blind confidence than before but to once again feel that there is a grand adventure on the horizon. I'm attempting to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail for me, and I am happy that you're along for the walk :)
Love you,
Dodge
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