The Why
I woke with a start to the incessant tune ringing in my ear. Instinctively, I swiped right to silence it. As my head poked out from beneath my quilt, I surveyed my surroundings. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon, but the grey twilight hinted at its approach. Seconds later, my stoved hissed to life with the intensity of a jet engine. I slid my feet into weathered shoes. I poured the now hot-ish water into a disposable bottle, dumped in some instant grounds, and shook it. I listened to the drawn-out sigh of air leaving my inflatable pad. With the fluidity of muscle memory, I stuffed my belongings into my pack, rolled down the top, and cinched it tight. I took a long swig of bitter coffee, tinged with the taste of hot plastic and BPA. Such a familiar, yet unpleasant sensation. I threw my pack effortlessly over my shoulders. It was time to go to work.
My day had started just like this, more or less, for the previous 68 mornings. It would continue in this pattern for a good deal longer. Forty days. Maybe fifty. I didn't keep track anymore. All I knew was that this was my life now. Wake up. Walk. Eat. Walk some more. Keep walking. Eat more. Poop in the bushes. Sleep. Repeat. It was a routine that I'd come to love and hate simultaneously. There was no newness in it anymore. It was almost like a job. Although my surroundings were constantly changing from desert, to mountains, to valleys, and back to desert again, the routine never changed: get up early, move fast all day, pausing only for short breaks, and stop when it's about to get dark.
I'd started in the scorched earth of the Chihuahuan Desert in New Mexico, touching a rusty barbed wire fence that represented the US/Mexico border. I planned on ending at Waterton Lake, which straddled the Canada/US border in Northwest Montana. Currently, I was in an area of Wyoming known as the Great Divide Basin. After following the jagged mountain crest of the Continental Divide for some 1,500 miles to this point, the gently rolling plains of the Basin were a welcome change of pace. Without the long mountain climbs and post-holey snow of Colorado, I could cover ground at a good clip. Four miles per hour was doable without breaking a sweat. Today would be a big mile day. There was a tiny historic mining town called Atlantic City (population 57) nestled in the hills beyond the horizon. My goal was to get there before the only bar/restaurant closed for the day.
Why was I here? Why hike 3,000 miles? Why put yourself through all that toil and pain? Why quit a good-paying job? Why spend four months of your life, "just walking?"
It seemed like I'd been asked those questions a thousand times. Strangers would pose these questions to me, and I never had a profound answer for them. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is what I wanted to be doing, but I didn't quite know why. I wasn't out there for any of the clichéd reasons that people go on various pilgrimages. I wasn't out there to "find myself." I wasn't running from the law. I wasn't having a mid-life crisis. I wasn't out there to wax philosophical about the meaning of life. I wasn't out there to "commune with nature," whatever that means. It just seemed like something worth doing.
I'd first learned of the Continental Divide Trail (CDT) while in the Marine Corps, aboard the USS Green Bay on my second deployment. My Kindle was loaded with dozens of books, including one entitled "The Great Divide," by Stephen Pern. In short, it's about an Englishman who hiked the CDT in the early '80s, before there was even much of a developed trail in place. The author tells the story of the highs and lows experienced on trail, in a very matter-of-fact way that really resonated with me. This is when the initial seed was planted in my mind. I had spent weeks on end living in the cramped confines of a Navy ship berthing. Lying in my bunk, the ceiling mere inches from my face, I felt like I was in a floating coffin. I'm a very restless person by nature: I can't sit still for long without feeling like I'm going batshit crazy. So naturally, I was out of my element. To cope with this, I'd toil away for hours at night, running the 350-meter loop I'd devised from the back of the cargo bay to the top of the flight deck and back. During these tedious runs, I'd fantasize about what it would be like when I got home. I promised myself I wouldn't take it for granted. I swore that I would go on some grand adventure. I wasn't sure if it would be the CDT, but I knew I had to do something.
Two and a half years later, there I was, walking through the high plains of Wyoming at what most would consider a startlingly brisk pace. I'd asked a lot of my body over the last two months, and it had adapted accordingly. I demanded that it hike 25, 30, sometimes even 40 miles a day. In return, it required that I provide a steady flow of high caloric density foods. My diet was roughly equivalent to what a third-grader would eat if left to his own devices: lots of cheap, highly processed snack foods, with the occasional tuna packet mixed in for protein. Basically, if it can be found in the aisles of a run-down convenience store or a Dollar General, it's fair game. But, as they say, if the furnace is hot enough, it'll burn anything. In long-distance hiking, it's all about calories: quantity over quality.
Out here, there was a lot of time to think. Much of the time, I spent a shocking portion of my time thinking about food. Due to a truly insatiable appetite, I'd find myself constantly fantasizing about what I'd eat when I got to town. Over the last couple of months, though, I'd also spent an increasing amount of time pondering the question, "Why?" It wasn't in a doubting way, but a curious way. I had no intention of quitting, and never had, but I genuinely wondered why thru-hiking brought me such satisfaction. Why was I choosing to put myself in such "uncomfortable" circumstances every single day, in the pursuit of an arbitrary goal? If you were to measure my minute-to-minute happiness throughout each day on the trail, most days, it wouldn't be anything spectacular. Some days it would be downright miserable. Yet, for some reason, every day I woke up, took a swig of instant coffee, and was ready to do it again. And I still wasn't sure why. I could list a couple of dozen things about long-distance thru-hiking that I liked, such as the adventure or challenge, but none of them seemed to get at the heart of the matter.
As the day wore on, my pace didn't waver. In fact, it had picked up a bit in the last hour. I'd gone from a faint single track cutting across the sage flats to a smooth grated dirt road that would lead right into Atlantic City. I'd also reunited with my hiking partner, Wesley "Megaman" Tils, who'd succumbed to the allure of food and would be joining me in town. I could smell the burgers already. I could taste the magical fizzy beverage known as Coca-Cola -- I'd even settle for it's lesser cousin Pepsi. The sun was low on the horizon, and I knew they'd be closing the kitchen soon. I pulled my phone out without breaking my mechanical stride and checked yet again to make sure we were on pace. Two miles to go. "Alright, that's about thirty minutes. We've got this," I said aloud, as if speaking it into the world would make it so.
After separating from the Marine Corps, I found myself in a pretty low spot. On paper, things were going alright: I'd completed trade school, secured a decent job, and was ready to pursue an ecology degree. In reality, however, I'd never felt worse. Despite my eagerness to move on from the military, I had to admit that it provided something I was desperately missing at this point. It had provided structure and purpose. Whether I liked it or not, there was always a mission, and there were clear instructions for how to carry out the mission. Anything from routine fitness tests to month-long training ops all involved guidelines for execution and metrics for evaluating success. Not to mention, I was always surrounded by my peers, who, like it or not, had become my de facto family.
Once all that was gone, I felt lost. I had some half-hearted goals, like going to college or getting promoted at work, but there were constant doubts and distractions. I never knew if I was taking the right path or working hard enough. Even on my best days, I felt like I was sort of sleep-walking through life. But hiking was different. For those 112 days, I had only one goal, one absurd and ultimately meaningless goal. But I worked towards it every single day from dawn until dusk -- sometimes later -- and went to bed knowing exactly how much closer to Canada I was. And to put the icing on the cake, I had a badass hiking partner who was even more gung-ho than I was.
Hours later, I lay beneath the canvas of an old teepee in front of the bar. My stiff legs were restless, as if they weren't aware the day was over. I'd hiked 45 miles that day, my longest day yet, all in pursuit of a simple cheeseburger and a Coke -- and it was the most satisfying feeling in the world. In hindsight, I realize that this day was a perfect encapsulation of why I was out here: it gave me purpose. The goal of walking a continuous path from Mexico to Canada may seem totally arbitrary, and it probably is, but the feeling of waking up every single morning knowing exactly what I needed to do was intoxicating. Along the way, there was a seemingly endless supply of days just like this; days where all that mattered was getting over the next pass or making it to the all-you-can-eat buffet. It was the first time since getting out of the Marine Corps that I'd been absolutely certain what my purpose was.
Truthfully, there are a hundred reasons why I've chosen hiking. There are so many aspects of this lifestyle that I find worthwhile and rewarding. At its core, though, what makes thru-hiking so perfect to me, is that is strips away all unnecessary distractions, and allows me to focus on one singular goal. And that purity of purpose makes all the sacrifice worth it.
Follow Captain Kirk’s adventures on Instagram at @jesseniemeir.
