Colorado Trail Post Hike 9 October 2018

I am still in Ohio. And I am restless. It’s been over two months since I left The Colorado Trail. Two months of hazy contemplation and noncommittal decisions. The hatchlings have long since gone from their warm harbored nest. One late summer foggy morning, the slight young birds realized with sudden astonishment that they possessed intricate fragile feathered wings. They crept to the edge of the nest, their dartlike movements nervous and staccato. With a mighty lurch, one by one they simply flew away into the nearby trees, their pointed treble chirps floating in the air behind them. And then they were gone, vanished into the vast forever of the world. I sat in reverent stillness staring at the empty nest, aware of my drowsy breathing, aware of the sudden stark loneliness.

As I continue to pursue new leads that will hopefully return me to the world of employment, I keep a structured schedule that grounds me by providing elemental purpose toward each day. I wake at 6:30am without the aid of an alarm clock. I immediately get out of bed and make a pot of coffee. While the coffee is brewing, I make my bed, prepare my gym clothes, wash the sleepy residue from my face. I throw on a pair of old sweatpants, t-shirt and if it’s a cool breezy morning, I also throw on an old pale red cardigan sweater. I gather my ipad, coffee, mug and then make my way downstairs to sit outside on one of the rocking chairs. In the pale morning light, I read the New York Times online and think about my years in New York City. Or I consider why stranded fragments of my recent life continue to linger on the ruddy dirt pathway that climbs and climbs and climbs.

Sometimes dense early morning fog blankets the hillsides, enveloping the world in eerie gray calm with silence resting on deeper silence. Sable shadows reach longingly within the ghostly haze and suddenly a willowy flowered shrub reveals faded pink hues or a slender tree emerges, lanky with crusted bark. The rising sun’s hesitant rays send reams of glowing soft light beams through the murky mist. I sit back and slowly accept the emerging recognitions that appear around me as well as in my contemplative mind. And I sip steaming black coffee from my mug while keeping a steady rock in the chair.

Other predawn mornings, the rural atmosphere is decisively clear and expansive. Drips of wet dew lay dormant on every slender blade of grass covering the lawns and hillsides. I can hear random drops of water hitting the ground from the eves overhead as I await the first luminous blaze. And then from over the rolling crest, a rising burst of light from the eastern sun accelerates horizontal brilliance across the fields, illuminating the tiny droplets of dew creating a vast field of dazzling radiant jewels shimmering in the flurry. I witness the wonder of the world with earnest admiration.

I continue my daily routine by working out at the gym for a few hours. I stretch, perform various routines of resistance training followed by some form of cardio. The physicality grounds me; I am committed to at least something I can accomplish. The rest of the day is spent pouring over online listings for arts related job, refining cover letters and communicating with colleagues and friends who may be aware of potential available opportunities suitable to my experience and skills. Hopeful leads turn into dismal disappointments. I honestly have never been in this unstable position. I have always worked. And each position I was fortunate enough to have experienced seamlessly merged with the next. When I left Gavin Brown to fulfill the adamant adventure of a thru hike, I knew this day would eventually makes its way to the inevitable forefront. I just never imagined the formal process would be so unapologetically complicated and utterly conventional.

Somewhere in the course of the long day, my thoughts return to the Pacific Crest Trail and then the Colorado Trail. Out there, even now, those trails await brimming with radiant exposures and sweeping momentum. Sentimental longing and splendid memory return me to those durable impulses that set in motion the desire to hike from end to end. And those longings form renewed yearnings that eventually dissipate into pale rose sadness. I can say with rare certainty that for the remainder of my life – I will never fully recover from the brimming, tangible disappointment of failing to complete a thru hike. Never.

I am restless. I am still in Ohio. And I am enthusiastically ready to plunge into the next movement of my life. I suppress the rising anxiety with steadfast faith in my future. And I take strength in the absolute structure of my present day while allowing myself careful backward glances to my willing past.

Sometimes I take great comfort in looking at images from my hikes. In a very early image, I am standing by the Southern Terminus of the Pacific Crest Trail. My right hand is placed on one of the lower wooden columns and my trekking poles, with their tips placed firmly in the brown crusty ground, are held in my left. My head is tilted slightly. I am squinting because the heavy desert sun is shining in my eyes. My mouth is closed and I am half smiling as if I wasn’t quite ready for the image to be taken. As a result, I look overly confident, almost unabashedly cocky. It’s the expression of a man who sees himself walking heroically through the dry hot desert, sky high mountains and lush green forests - and finally reaching the climatic Northern Terminus.