The following was written in November 2017:

It has been 82 days since myself and the five other Storm Runners have exited the John Muir Trail.  Rather, it might be truer to say it has been 82 days since I have physically exited the trail.  Mentally, I will never be the same.  There is something about the trail that will always stay with me. 

Hiking the John Muir Trail took only 20 days.  A mere fragment in time.  A small fraction of my life.  But the effects of the trail are seeming as if they will have a lifelong impact. 

Shortly after I returned back to society, specifically back to Atlanta, I started to feel frustrated and sad. 

Frustrated by society.  By all of the daily things people worry about; all of the things that people get worked up about.  Absolutely yes, some things are worth getting worked up about and some things matter a lot to others and not necessarily to me.  Everyone has their own perspective.  But there are things, many things, that you can’t control and it’s not worth losing sleep over. 

Think about how you felt throughout your day today.  There was probably things that made you happy and caused laughter.  There might have been something that made you really sad.  Maybe you cried.  What made you stressed today?  How stressed were you?  Was it temporary or are you still worrying about it now?  Is this something you can control or is it out of your hands?  Ask yourself, “Do my stressors actually matter in the long run?”  Chances are the answer to that question is no.  Many of the things that people stress about on a daily basis do not matter in the long run. 

I came to this realization during my first or second week back to work after exiting the trail.  At the time, I worked on a procurement team for a large corporation.  I was sitting in a lunch meeting with multiple category managers and directors.  They were talking about a major supplier that had recently stopped all production due to an impending bankruptcy.  The supplier was one of the main producers of this product and the decreased production would significantly impact the market in a negative way.  

It might have partially been due to the fact that I was still new to my current role and was working on understanding the market, or that I didn’t have any of the history on this situation, because I had been out of the office for multiple weeks, regardless, as I ate my lunch in the crowded office cafeteria, I looked around the table as the category managers and directors discussed the market drama.  I watched as each of them showed signs of stress, worry, concern, and whatever other emotions would emerge as you are discussing a major market shift in a negative direction.  

I understand that we should care about the impact that our business would face, that is after all what we are paid to do, but what was going through my mind as I looked around the tense and stressed faces of my co-workers was, “this doesn’t actually matter in the long run.”  In the long run, the discussion that was occurring is not going to matter.  As individuals in this company, we cannot stop the impending bankruptcy from happening.  We are able to mitigate risk to the best of our ability to help ensure minimal impact to our company, but at some point our company will probably be gone.  At some point the market will find a way to correct itself. 

After coming back to society, I would often also feel sad… An unusual amount of sadness.  I was missing the trail.  I was missing the people.  The culture.  Life is simpler on the trail.  I did love coming back to see neighbors and friends that I had missed while I was away.  My neighbors even threw a welcome home party for me!  But I was missing the lack of distractions; the real-ness; the in-the-moment-ness.  

The trail culture on the John Muir Trail (and other long-distance trails from what I have heard) instantly connects you with everyone you meet along the trail, whether it is just for a fleeting moment as you pass each other on a ridge or whether you decided to camp night-after-night with the same group.  You’re instantly bonded to these people from this experience you’re sharing.  Most will remain strangers, but a select few just might become forever friends.  

The connections you make while on the trail are unlike anything I have ever experienced.  There was a pair of friends that my sister and I camped with almost the entire second half of the trail.  We spent less than two weeks with these ladies.  But the fact that we were surviving in the wilderness, making go-no-go decisions, battling storms, and braving mountain passes with each other brought us together incredibly quickly.  

At the end, it had felt like we had known them for months!  Who knew that meeting people with an automatic common hobby (backpacking), an amazing adventure (the John Muir Trail), and none of the daily distractions of the modern world (cell phones, social media, politics, work, etc. etc. (I really could go on and on)) would bring people together at an almost absurdly quick pace.  These ladies, and a few others, became our trail family.  I will always cherish my trail family.  The trail is absolutely beautiful, but it’s the people that make the experience really amazing. 

Long distance trail culture is a spectacular thing.  You can try to describe it, but I’m convinced that unless you have experienced it, you can’t even fathom an appreciation for its magic.

I am both frustrated and saddened at times with being back in society.  Even at 82 days back, I still have these feelings.  For a while, I didn’t know what to call these strange feelings that I now experience.  It wasn’t until I was talking to my friend who has hiked and completed both the Appalachian Trail and Pacific Crest Trail that I was told the name of the swinging emotions that were happening – it’s called post trail depression.  That’s exactly it.  That is exactly what I am experiencing.  Post trail depression. 

It’s this new mental state, which comes and goes, that is driving my want, no, my need to experience the trail culture again.  Hiking the John Muir Trail has created a longing; a restlessness within me.