It was the hike that almost wasn't, then was, then wasn't again.
Hot tears rolled down my cheeks. Fresh and long-held. Why had I held them? I’ve had the tendency to bottle up my emotions (like plenty of us, I'm sure), and it’s still a problem for me. I should add, however, that I am good at letting out my emotions once I start talking.
And that I did. A few nights ago, my mom patiently listened as I cried through processing my own continued struggles with mental health. The fall before, I had experienced a period of increasingly intense and consuming anxiety, which eventually lead to depression. I began to doubt who I was, feeling detached from my usually ambitious, joyful self. The stress of classes that semester and probably a long time of (here it is again) repressing deep-seeded doubts and questions finally became debilitating. I was losing sleep. I was eating little and irregularly. I would lie awake for hours, thinking about my life and worth, about the worth of anything. I would skip breakfast and sometimes dinner because I had no appetite. I managed to assure others I was just stressed from classes, like everyone else. But I had a feeling for months that I needed some help.
By finals week that fall semester, I did reach out. I was, by that point, desperate to start feeling better. Each day felt impossibly long and near meaningless. What brightened my days a bit were talking with friends and loved ones. Otherwise, I felt disconnected yet on edge, like I was running on fumes. Once I came home for winter break, I felt like a shell of a person. I have heard people say they felt like a shell/husk of themselves before, but I hadn’t realized how aptly that can describe living with anxiety and depression until I myself felt that way. I felt like I was walking around aimlessly. I went about tasks as though they were prescribed: wake up, walk down the stairs, sit in that chair. Then think.
It sounds depressing and rough because it was. It took months just to come terms with the state of my mental health. But I worked so hard to seek out ways to feel better. I called my family doctor, therapists, psychiatrists. I started medication. I started running a little every few days. I tried to give myself time, and to talk with people about what I was experiencing, but still make myself do things I used to love. I did feel pretty alone, even though I had an endless list of people to reach out to. I lived in my head, and progress seemed slow. Sometimes I felt like I wasn't making any.
Flash forward to a few nights ago. I was expressing how frustrated and defeated I felt because I was still struggling the same issues as months before. I told my mom how I was still spending nights restless and anxious, dreading evening because it was when I felt most alone with my thoughts. I felt like I was back at square one. Considering where I was, I said I thought I should call off the four-day backpacking trip I’d planned with some friends. Backpacking had become one of my favorite hobbies, and I was supposed to enjoy it. It was supposed to be a way for me to process life and feel better, not a source of dread. But just the thought of planning the trip and engaging in conversation with my friends (who are wonderful and understanding) was somehow already exhausting me. But instead of making the call to cancel the trip that night, I decided to sleep on it.
As such, the hike was almost over before it started. Luckily, though, I felt better in the morning and decided that I should still go. I called my friends to ask if we could postpone the trip by a day and shorten it to a more manageable three days (to be easy on myself). We agreed to leave Monday morning for Pine Grove, planning to hike 35.7 miles to the PA-MA border. The distance was realistic and the terrain totally in our wheelhouse.
Our trip started off smoothly. By mid-morning the first day, we were hiking in a semi-exposed forest bathed in sunlight under a sky streaked with wispy cirrus clouds. A gentle breeze tousled the canopy of the trees, shaking loose pollen, tufts of leaves, and small branches. Storms had blown through the area the night before and left their mark on the forest. One tree about a foot wide (hickory, Joe guessed) had been snapped in half by another tree that had been uprooted, presumably by the strong winds. The splintered tree’s core formed dramatic spikes that looked sharp enough to impale, but which were actually flexible and water-logged. We took careful steps to maneuver across, casting backward glances at the stunned trees.
We eventually came to a section of forest described as being under a controlled restoration project. The project was continuous and consisted of phases of burning and mowing the forest in order to encourage the growth of certain fire-dependent tree species, like scrub oak. The forest was sparse and most of the horizon was visible between the few trees standing. I could almost hear the forest floor slowly drying out as the rain from last night’s storms evaporated from its spongy, bark-littered surface. Pine needles silhouetted by the sun looked dangerously sharp. Even though this area was being managed in favor of certain trees, the forest somehow felt inhospitable. I wondered how people chose certain management strategies over others, and resolved to learn more about it sometime. Meanwhile, Char and Joe were ahead of me, chatting. I sneezed.
We came to an even more exposed area where the wind was blowing strongly. Feeling a catch in my throat, I coughed once. Then again, harder. I started coughing even harder, trying to clear the feeling. But it got worse. Soon, I had one of those coughing fits in which your eyes start watering so much that your vision blurs and you feel like you’ll dry heave. I couldn’t inhale deeply, and was short of breath. Trying to stay calm, I stepped in front of the group and tried to cough the constriction away. I hunched and wheezed, coughed and swallowed. I could feel Joe and Charlotte’s concern from behind me.
“Anna, are you okay?”
Darth Vader replied. Or maybe Bob Dylan, or Christian Bale as Batman. Either way, it wasn’t me.
“I’m really fffgghh...fiiinnne.”
I sneezed again. I took shallow breaths and focused on not gagging. Covering my face with a bandana helped a lot. I took my allergy meds, realizing 24 hours had passed since my last dose. Slowly, I calmed down and the cough went away. For the next half hour, I was fine, just a little lightheaded. Then we came to another clearing where the trail crossed a gravel road, and the coughing started again. I thought I was going to throw up. I dashed across the road and into the woods, throwing my bandana back over my nose and mouth. Char reminded me that we could stop and rest at any time, but I didn’t want to stop. I just wanted to keep going. I was getting stressed and feeling awful, but still wanted to keep moving.
Every time we came to a clearing, it would happen again: the coughing, the wheezing, the gagging, the snot, the watery eyes. Each time, I would feel more lightheaded, and more dazed. My head started pulsing as I stared down at my feet. Char led and Joe trailed behind me because I kept falling behind when I stayed in the back. I watched my feet stumble into rocks that I saw but didn’t react quickly enough, or care enough, to avoid. I had never felt this way before. I tried to think of what might be making me so groggy and dazed. Your allergy medication is non-drowsy. You had coffee this morning. You got enough sleep.
I sneezed again.
The last mile was kind of a blur. Char kept turning around to check in, and I gave her a thumbs up. What else was I supposed to do? Fall down and cry, “Help! Call 911!” The situation didn’t seem to merit that at all. So we set up camp, and I avoided thinking about the restless night I would be sure to spend suppressing coughs and sneezes. I looked at the forecast for the next day to see if the pollen count would be lower. That day had been medium-high, and the next day would be higher. That’s when I knew I couldn’t keep going. After just 16 miles, I had to call it quits. Feeling the effects of just one day of my allergic reactions, I knew two more would make me miserable. I didn’t want to do that to myself or to Joe and Char. By Wednesday, I would be a monster.
I called my friend Karen, then my parents, to find someone willing to pick me up that night. Luckily, our campsite was only a 5 minute walk from the nearest road, so pick-up would be relatively simple. My parents generously offered to come without skipping a beat. My mom later told me that she figured I must have been feeling pretty miserable to ask in the first place. Great friends, great family.
I walked, or probably rather sulked, back to the campsite and told my friends what I’d decided. It was the first hike that ended short on my terms, and I was beating myself up about it. I explained that I had to get over my pride this time because I just wasn’t up for the possibility of feeling worse over the next two days. Joe and Charlotte graciously understood right away—have I ever mentioned that I’ve been blessed with great friends? We talked through options from there: Joe and Charlotte could either continue on their own, or come back home with me. They wanted to come back with me, claiming it wouldn’t be the same without me. They weren’t wrong: if they had gone on, they would have spent the next 48 hours free from the sounds of hacking, sneezing, and sniffling just a few yards away. Really, they explained that doing the last sections of Pennsylvania together was the only way. They didn’t want to separate now.
We packed up and met my parents at the trailhead. I flashed them a quick, humiliated smile as they pulled in. The sun was setting beautifully over the next ridge.
The next morning, Joe, Charlotte, and I were making breakfast and talking about the day before. Deep down, we were all still a little disappointed. I reiterated that I was sorry for ending the hike, but we were moving past apologies. Joe told a story about a time he hiked one of the fourteeners in Colorado—mountains that total fourteen thousand feet or more in height.
“One day I tried to take on a really difficult fourteener, but I just wasn’t feeling it. I was trying to make it to the top and back down in a day, but I was just not in it at all. A storm was coming in, and I decided to turn around before getting to the top. I beat myself up about it a lot, but I had to just accept that it wasn’t happening that day.”
Now, I know exactly how Joe felt. Sometimes, you just need to stop. When my friends and I go backpacking, every day, every step, is a choice. Every single moment is a move forward, an act of saying yes. But sometimes, the answer isn’t yes. Sometimes the answer is to stop and respond to yourself. Maybe responsiveness should always be the priority. I don't have answers.
My mental health is a process. I’m still trying every day to learn something new about myself and to find meaning in life. It's definitely there, but I've got to search a little more now than I used to. It seems to me that we all find meaning differently: some find faith very rewarding and important, others family, others a life-passion or vocation. Maybe all or some or none of these. I’m the farthest from my childhood faith I’ve ever been, and yet I might be the closest to discovering my own form of meaning-making and faith-building.
As I write now, I like to think that the process of learning how to respond to my needs while backpacking has helped me reflect on and accept seasons in my life when I felt very discouraged. I have a feeling it’s also preparing me for days that might not be exponentially more joyful, but perhaps more enlightened than these. My journal entry for today simply reads:
The hike ended because I was having trouble breathing and my allergies flared up. Trying to take that gracefully and accept what was. Put aside my pride and let it go. This is just as much a part of the process as walking.
post photo and top left+center right photo credit: Charlotte Martin
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