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Half of what you think you need in life is bullshit
(Blakely)
The next morning I had a calm morning, sun filtering through the trees, dappling light around the ground. I made coffee and enjoyed a mug while looking around at all I had accomplished. I thought of myself at the beginning of the hike, full of tears and sadness and the aches and pains, and now, I would hike six miles by lunch. I was strong, almost gloating to myself, while I wrapped the moleskin around my toes, pulled on my least stinky socks, and added a bit more deodorant.
Seven miles to go.
I put my hair up in a ponytail and heaved the pack to my aching back, a few unsteady steps to get my weight above my hips, above my knees, above my feet, and I began to hike.
* * *
A few hours later I saw a small sign that pointed one way: trail, and another way: town.
I left my trail behind.
I felt sure of this decision.
I had been planning it for so long and I had done it. I was grateful to Frank for the talk the other day. Like a guardian angel he had changed my goal for me, an albatross named Frank. My hike had gone from being my trudge to being my trip, and my pack felt the lighter for it.
Someday I would tell my kids about this. It would be a part of my story: Your mom wanted to hike the trail and so one day she did. She had nothing but a big giant backpack, but come to find out, kids, it was double the stuff she actually needed. Heed my warning, half of what you think you need in life is bullshit.
Except if I was talking to my kids I probably wouldn’t curse. But then again, this was big — cursing is necessary sometimes to drive the point home.
Half of what you think you need in life is bullshit.
And once I walked and camped and gave myself permission to finish, I had accomplished all I wanted.
One step in front of the other, and I had left my old self behind.
Over a week in the woods by myself.
I came to the end of the path at the backside of a wide blacktop parking lot, far away was the big box store, cars close to the doors, but here most spaces were empty for a few rows, except one—
Liam’s truck.
Parked.
He was leaning on the front.
He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, loud.
He cheered, “Hoo-wheee! Woodshee, ye did it!” and then he began to applaud.
