Can I land now? – Penultimate thoughts on my 2017 AT hike

Last days before moving out. Making do with cushions and kitchen chairs.

Dec 29th

It’s been 4 months. The same amount of time from the initial leap in April to the fall on the Webster Cliffs trail in August which ended the journey. In that intervening time, we have prepared our house for sale, moved out and closed on the sale. I’ve been looking for work since the end of October.

And although the everyday experience of the hike is fading somewhat, there is hardly a day when I don’t think about the trail, either because I am grateful for the everyday conveniences of home, or because I miss the friendships I developed on the trail, or because, in some ways, the simplicity of trail life has much to recommend it.

However, I do like being dry and warm. I love being with my best friend and partner, Debbie, as well as the time I spend with family and friends here.

But here’s the thing: I’m still falling.

There were many times out on the trail where I would think about home, about the place and people I would come back to, and, although I missed them, knew it was not yet time, and that they would be there waiting when I finished. So although I was homeless in all the ways that impact daily living, I could feel the support that waited for me at the end, even if I couldn’t see or predict the ending. So I was falling, but the trail provided structure, something like sliding, an illusion of being contained and directed.

We moved out of the house on Thursday, December 14th. We have no house waiting for us, nor do I have employment. (Synchronicity is a killer: I have my music library playing on shuffle, and Ellis Paul is singing as I write:

“And everybody needs a place to call home

A roof overhead, a bed for dreams of their own” – Take Me Down, from Translucent Soul

<sigh>

We are temporarily housed in Debbie’s childhood home, which has been mostly empty since her mom passed over a year ago. 95% of our belongings are in storage and inaccessible until our actual move.

Dog’s coat is somewhere in storage. Sub-freezing temps required some improvisation.

There are a few opportunities that I am following up on. But most is on hold due to the holidays; companies are not moving on hiring until after the first of the year. And the options out there range from local to the Portland, Maine, area. We can’t buy a house until the job thing gels. I thought the uncertainty of the day to day on the trail would end when I came back home. But now I see it was just practice for now.

It’s strange; I’m not really concerned that I won’t find a job, because I am confident that I have the skills and experience that folks need. It’s the not knowing where I’ll be, whether I will be building on where I left off last April, or tearing out my roots to start over someplace new (current song: Ben Howard singing something about “how they tear at you now”!) that’s eating away at me.

So how do I hold this? I wish I could could learn to fly, to have some sense of control over the free-fall. In the past, I have trusted the Universe to hold me and provide opportunities; I have to admit that since last November, my faith and trust have been battered and dented. (Current song: “My day will come, if it takes a lifetime” – Jason Isbell) I miss the clear blazes marking the trail, and my GPS app that told me when I was off trail, and directed me back.

I had a dream the other night where I had gone back to the trail; it was cold and snowy, I had to crawl up the slope on an unbroken trail, and as I approached the top, I heard moving water. At the sound, it occurred to me that I was out on the trail without my usual supports, I didn’t have maps that showed water sources or shelters, I wasn’t even sure that I had my hammock and tarp. I wasn’t alone, but it seemed to me that the others were relying on me and my experience to help them get through, and I wasn’t sure I could care for myself, let alone any one else.

So I’m homeless again, without the home to go back to. I want to trust that a soft, safe landing is in my future. In our future, that of my wife and I and sons and daughter-in-law (and furry family, as well).

What effect has my hike had on my life? It turned the world upside down. So far no regrets.

But can I land now?