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To share my ‘why’ for hiking the CDT and GDT combined, I need to explain some background: I’ve been attending and serving 10-day silent Vipassana meditation courses in the tradition of S.N. Goenka for the last eight years.
Aside from my thru-hikes, they are the single most life-changing and clarifying investment of my time I’ve made — which raises eyebrows, considering that on these courses you literally do nothing.
You sit, for 10 hours a day, on a meditation cushion. You observe your breath. Sometimes you walk a little outside. You read nothing, write nothing, speak nothing. You sleep at 9pm and wake up at 4am. Twice a day you have a meal in silence, facing the wall. Occasionally you go to your pagoda cell, which is basically a closet, and sit in darkness.
The tattoo I have on my ankle is a nod to meditation.
Why are you looking for pain?
I bring this up because in the first few courses I sat and served, I associated meditation with pain. Sit for an hour without moving, and any position that seems comfortable in the first twenty minutes becomes unbearable by forty-five.
On my third course (which was particularly painful for me as I’d had ACL surgery three months prior), I had a breakthrough where I realized that it was possible to stop struggling and observe the pain objectively: to accept it as reality, rather than fight it. The pain was still there, but it became interesting instead of infuriating. Once I learned to view it as a neutral sensation outside of me, it no longer had power over me. This is what I wrote in 2020 after this course (full version is on my Substack):
Minutes forty to fifty are the real fight: every minute burns. The pain pulses — raw pain that licks your calf, like the pressure on a branch just before it snaps off the tree. You try to dissect your pain, as instructed, but you can’t focus. Feeling the pain only feeds it.
Tell me now that you do not identify with your pain. Tell me now that this pain is not you, that you are not screaming that your leg is on fire. Tell me now how you have the wisdom to observe your pain with detachment.
Like clockwork, minute fifty is when your leg goes numb. The pain dissolves into bubbles, and an occasional throb. Your leg has given up trying to get your attention; by observing it, you suck the oxygen out of the fire. The pain is still there, but you are looking at it, turning it over, letting its cooled coals fall through your fingers.
At a meditation center in Shelburne Falls, MA.
On my fourth course, I spent a lot more time stretching and had no pain. I’d grown accustomed to telling time by the pain. I felt lost without it. What was I working through, if there was no pain?
I went to the teacher looking for answers. I asked her if I should stop stretching, that maybe I was trying to be too preventative and should let the pain happen. “Why are you looking for pain?” she asked. “If there is no pain, there is no pain.”
That was really humbling and profound for me. I’d always associated growth with overcoming challenges and doing hard things. Was I seeking out pain? Why?
One of my reminders to myself. Taken on Portra 400, Colorado Trail.
Is there value in seeking out pain?
Sometimes I wonder if I’m thru-hiking for the same reason: seeking out pain. Is there value in actively working to be so frequently beyond your comfort zone? Is there value in putting life and career and all other interests on pause for six months? Is there value in backing out of the lives of your friends and family while you put yourself through self-inflicted struggle? (This summer, I will miss two weddings and my brother’s graduation. When I hiked the PCT, I missed my brother’s 20th birthday, my sister’s 25th, and my mother’s 60th.)
Last summer I spent a night completely soaked in my soggy quilt on the Colorado Trail. My pack liner had failed in heavy rain that evening, and everything I had was wet. I was so cold.
Instead of focusing on the very obvious thought (“You took time off work to do anything, and this is what you chose?”), I breathed through it. I practiced equanimity the way I’ve trained in meditation: observing the sensation of cold objectively rather than identifying myself with the cold, accepting that this is the situation right now, assessing my options without panicking.
From experience, I knew I was not cold enough to be in danger, only cold enough to be severely uncomfortable and unable to sleep. So I tried to meditate through it: I focused on my breath, I dissected the actual objective sensation of cold, I reminded myself that all I had to do was get through the night. When the sun came up, I’d be fine. (I was indeed fine.)
A challenge does not have to be a struggle. The struggle comes from the resisting. Accept the situation, and it will pass.
Similarly, a thru hike is so much about surrender. Surrender to the conditions, surrender to scuttled plans, surrender to what is, and keep going.
A reminder to myself. Taken on Portra 400, Pacific Crest Trail – Washington.
Pushing the boundaries of what’s challenging
When I think about why I’m hiking the CDT and GDT, then, I am approaching it from a place of curiosity. I want to know what happens when I put myself in a situation where I’m bound to face challenges; how I’ll respond. Will I accept, or will I resist? Will I be able to surrender to the present?
Not to discount the feat of hiking the CDT, but I felt fairly confident, knowing my own ability and experience, that I would be able to complete the CDT, barring disaster beyond my control. It wasn’t a question mark like my first thru hike, the PCT, had been.
No, I’m hiking the combined CDT and GDT because I’m truly not sure I’ll be able to, and I want to push the boundary of what I think I’m capable of. I’m hiking it because it intimidates me. (It also intimidates me that so many people now know I’m trying to do it!)
This is distinct from fear: my plan is challenging, but not impossible; tight, but not inherently unsafe — at least for what I know of my own preparation. The unknown factor in my equation, then, is up to me. What a deliciously thrilling space to play in. It’s where you see clearly who you are.
A reminder to myself. Taken on Portra 400, Colorado Trail.
So, yes, it turns out I do seek out pain. In beautiful landscapes, I think it’s worth it. I’m hiking the combined CDT and GDT because I continue to want to explore the space between what I know I’m capable of and the limits of what I think I could handle. I’m planting myself in a pot that’s a bit too big to see if I can fill it.
I want to surprise myself and see how far (literally) I can go — and to accept if the answer is that I couldn’t get there. That might actually be more interesting to wrestle with than finishing what I’m aiming to do.
Secondarily, it’s a beautiful corridor of the U.S. that will bring many new landscapes for me. A friend recently christened the route the GCDT: the Great Continental Divide Trail. I like it. I hope that my attempt will bring more attention to this unparalleled opportunity to walk along the spine of North America. I hope to inspire others to undertake the same challenge.
A reminder to myself. Taken on iPhone, Pacific Crest Trail – Washington.
Reminders for myself
I’m now one day out from starting this attempt. I’m writing this from a meditation center in Colorado, where I’ve been for the last week. I’ll pick up a rental car shortly to drive to Texas, catch a bus to Lordsburg, and catch the shuttle to the border. It’s really happening.
I like to keep a few phrases on hand to lean on when I’m struggling on trail. I’m keeping these in a note on my phone and sharing them here in the hopes that they may help you, too:
- Everything that you are has prepared you for now.
- The process is the purpose. Allow it to unfold.
- All you have to do is start, and continue.
- All climbs end.
- This is for you.
A reminder to myself. Taken on Portra 400, Pacific Crest Trail – Sierra.
xx
stitches
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