My husband and his friend planned to spend the weekend hiking on the Appalachian Trail, with ambitions to push their limits and challenge themselves physically. Being a spunky little lady who hates to turn down a good physical challenge, I put in to join them. Both my husband and his friend were happy to add me to the weekend “fun”.
So, I set off on a trip that I knew would be hard for me. A week before the trip, I would close my eyes at night and find myself gripped with fear. The “what ifs” would hit and plead with me to stay home in comfort. However, when daylight would come, I would find a new resolve. “Come on Vanessa – you can do this. It is not that big of a deal. It’s just a walk in the woods.” Then, night would come again and my thoughts would override my daytime resolve. At noon on a Friday I got in the car to hit the great unknown; though the AT is an interstate in the world of trails, it was still the great unknown for me. My mind screamed! My heart was heavy. My fear was great but I knew with everything in me I had to do this. Not for anyone else, but for myself.
For 12 years I have struggled with panic attacks. For the first two years of these attacks, I was very chained. I did not want to leave home and I never wanted to be alone. Slowly I started to find freedom. I remember a time, 4 years into this journey, when the thought came to my mind that inevitably I would one day be in a place where I would not feel completely safe but would have to be okay with the danger. It would be a place where I was not in control, a place that would not provide an easy exit, a place that would be hard. I believe my walk in the woods was this place. I also believe there will be more “unsafe” places to which I will travel. I know that it is part of the healing that needs to happen in me.
We hit the road at noon and headed north. My husband really wanted to be at the trail in time to set up camp before dark, but the traffic in Atlanta put us behind schedule and the sun set as we were coming into the foothills of north Georgia. We had over an hour left to drive before we arrived at the parking lot where the Appalachian Trail crossed the highway, the spot where we would camp for the first night.
Riding at night, the dark seemed to consume me. Every mile we traveled toward the trail – and away from home – reminded me I could not go back on my own accord. I felt sick to my stomach and afraid. There is a medication that helps alleviate the symptoms of panic attacks; I choose to take it, even with the knowledge that it would effect my walk the next day. This medicine makes me very tired and puts my brain in a fog. With every pitch-black curve we drove into the mountains, I was simply trying to survive moment by moment. My husband knew the depth of the struggle I was fighting, even if our friend (who was behind the wheel) was not completely aware. My husband watched the GPS and counted our progress by the half mile and minutes. “Two miles and fourteen minutes to go… One and a half miles and ten minutes to go… One mile and seven minutes to go…”
After what seemed to be an eternity, I finally planted my two feet on the ground at Woody Gap. It was dark, cold, and very few people were around. I looked off into the distance, glad that I could still see the lights of the neighboring city. They were far away, but they were there, a city of refuge for a hesitant, terrified hiker. “I can do this.” We walked into the unknown (just a few yards from the parking lot) and set up camp. My bed for the night was a hammock between two trees, with my soulmate hanging right by my side. That is where he has been for the whole 12 years of this struggle.
My sleep was light, but it was sleep nonetheless. The day breaks. I was foggy but awake. Breakfast was finished and it was time to getting moving.
I strapped my pack on my back and off we went. I was feeling pretty good until we hit our first change in elevation. I quickly realized that, not only was this going to be mentally challenging, but way more physically challenging than I anticipated. OK people, I know what you’re thinking. “We are just talking about a hike! Why the heck are you being such a crybaby?” Believe me, I was asking myself the same thing. I was in nature among some of the most beautiful things God has made, yet I had an all-out war in my mind, reason versus fear, and reason was running out of artillery. With every mile I, was distancing myself from what I thought was “safe,” walking one step at a time further into the unknown. Our friend had the trail map (my husband didn’t think to bring his!), but he was hiking at a pace that I could not keep. My husband and I released him so he could hike as fast as he wanted, and he and the trail map disappeared around the curve, not to be seen again until the end of the journey. My husband had no worry in the world and was totally comfortable walking the trail by following the white trail markers (called blazes) painted on the trees along the way. He promised that we will eventually reach the open road.
I, on the other hand, was overcome with worry. No map, no signs, and no clue where I was. The fight was not with hills and elevation… my legs could handle that. My fight was with my will, my mind, and the feeling that I could not escape. It was true – I couldn’t escape, from the trail or from the struggle in my mind. The only way out was to keep walking. How much longer? I had no clue. How far had I been? I didn’t know. We were headed toward the highest point of elevation on the Georgia section of the AT, appropriately named Blood Mountain, and my husband thought there would be a sign that would let us know when the trail turned to head up it. With every step, I was waiting not-so-patiently to see this promised sign, but with every turn of the trail there was no sign in sight. We ask southbound hikers how far we were from our stopping point, just on the other side of Blood Mountain. “Oh, it’s about three miles.” “Just a couple of miles.” “Sorry – it’s quite a ways! At least four miles or more!” Every hiker seemed to tell me different information; either they are like my husband and are not good at judging distances, or they are like me and feel like they’d hiked much further than they really had.
My blood pressure was rising with every differing response. I am mad! No, I AM IRATE… not at the hikers, my husband, or our fast-hiking friend, but at myself. I had allowed the safety of my home to make my will weak. I had not challenged thoughts that made me feel afraid. I had run from places that made me uncomfortable. I had hidden from hard things. And, in that moment, I realized I had to stop running.
Elevation was changing and we had seen no sign to indicate whether or not we were on Blood Mountain. I was thinking to myself, “ff this is not the mountain, I am not going to make it over another mountain.” We started walking around 8:30AM and I thought it was now around 2:00PM. I was tired physically and mentally. The vegetation was changing as the elevation increased and we began to see more and more hikers, some of which don’t look like they’d hiked very far at all. As we came to the apparent summit of the mountain, an older gentleman greeted us, “Congratulations! You made it!” My husband responded cheerfully (while I tried to hide my tears) and responded, “Our friend with the trail map hikes faster than us. Where exactly have we made it to?!” I was so incredibly relieved to hear that beautiful, heaven-sent hiker respond, “You’re at the top of Blood Mountain!” I wanted to cry, cuss, and laugh all at the same time. The view was breathtaking, yet my mind could not fully embrace it. The war in my mind was slowing dying down, but my brain was full of gunsmoke. Was I going to surrender?
The climb to the top was difficult, but the climb down was a challenge of its own. Also with no end in sight, my feet were killing me and I just wanted to be done. However, I was not done and I had to pull my mind on board with my feet, which were in incredible pain. I had to shed my shoes, in such agony that I was willing to climb down the mountain barefooted. My husband brings a ratty old pair of burlap Toms on his hiking trips to wear when crossing creeks or to give his feet relief when relaxing around the campfire. He suggested, “If you’re willing to hike barefooted, at least wear my Toms. They’re better than no shoes at all.” I tiptoed down rocks and through slippery mud wearing Toms that were too big for me. Yes, this journey was getting to me. It was getting to a part of me that needed to change. The part of me that gives up when things get hard, the deep part of me that runs from fears that I have. The part of me that has no peace unless it is in control.
After 11.3 miles (that felt like 113!), many tears, and an intense internal battle, the walk was over but a new journey for me had started. Friends look at my husband’s photos of the hike and the expression on my face screams “This girl is NOT having fun!” but really, deep down, I was finding freedom. But I am fully aware that freedom comes with a fight. Will I hike again? Will I fight again? Yes, I will!!! Here’s to life of walking… all the way to freedom.