I quit.
Or rather, I had decided to quit. I was 60k from my nearest exit and defeated. It wasn't even a difficult section of trail, but I was just done. Everything that I was seeing, all of the beautiful mountains, crystal clear rivers and alpine lakes, all of the grassy river deltas, all of it, it all looked familiar. Each view was calling to mind a view from the past. When I walked along through shrouded mist, I thought of the Oregon coast. When I scrambled up and down scree fields to views of craggy, open tops, dotted with the last lingering remnants of snow, I was reminded of California. When I walked down desert-like gorges, painted by rising red hills, I was reminded of Paria Canyon and the southwest. So why was I here? Why was I as far away as I could possibly be from my family and friends, the people that I loved, the people that knew me best, the people that I could share these moments with? Why should I keep walking along in New Zealand by myself? What was this accomplishing? What was the point?
The section started off well enough: 30 easy kilometers, first along Lake Rotoiti and then up the river towards its source (pictures scattered throughout in roughly chronological order). I met a nice couple from Seattle and a German guy who would rather be alone at my hut and had a fine night. The next day was a nice saddle with a view, then down to a river, then back up to the clearest body of freshwater in the world, Blue Lake. There, I met up with Jeb, Robby, Amy and Brit (the Americans I had been leapfrogging with) and it was nice to have some familiar faces and good company around. I spent the evening talking with Jeb and a teacher that was out on a trip with 17 high school aged kids. We watched the sky and enjoyed the beauty of such a pristine place.
The next morning, I woke up late, and just stayed at the lake, taking pictures, and soaking it all in (this time in the peace and quiet that remained after the school group had left). But as I killed time there, admiring the lake and trying as hard as I could to take in the beauty and really appreciate the moment, I found myself falling deeper and deeper into a state of despair. I didn't care how clear the lake was, I didn't want to take pictures of it, I had seen it before, in the granite alpine zones of California. And then I stopped trying to be positive, I stopped trying to think about how much I
should be enjoying it all, and just let a heavy wave of sadness wash over me. I let it permeate me and run throughout, filling every fiber of me, not worrying about how I should be feeling, not rushing to get over it and move on, and I just let the emotion run its course.
I felt so much better afterwards. The whole state of sadness had been short lived, but complete, total, all-encompassing. It left me tired, my legs feeling heavier than ever, but also cleansed. I wasn't happy afterwards - I remained downtrodden all day - but it felt better to just embrace how I was feeling and not try to force it through me or alter its course. All emotions are transient and sometimes we just have to embrace them, good or bad.
So, I plodded on. I had a long day over another gorgeous pass and ended at a tiny little shack along a wide river. The next day, I hiked on, slowly, still feeling low, questioning everything. Eventually I stopped thinking about the things that got me down and thought about the things that I wanted to do. I started to develop a plan for what I wanted, right then, and how I could execute it. I wanted to see my friends. I wanted to go home. I wanted to start using my brain again instead of just my legs. I wanted to be mentally stimulated. I wanted a problem to work on. I realized that I was happiest when my brain was working on something. If it doesn't have a problem to work on, it tends to just spin, frantically darting down the same neural pathways it always runs down, never stopping, never slowing, always spinning, always moving, always clamboring for something to do. I realized when I gave my brain something to do was when I was always happiest. I realized that I have always been happiest when I am learning, discovering and working on problems. When my brain has something to tackle, I feel like I can feel new passages and trains of thought developing. I've felt good after a good physical wringing, but I wanted to be doing something mentally as well. I wanted to go home, see my friends and start doing things to find a job that would give me that mental stimulation. I would keep backpacking and biking and running and swimming, but embrace something that I've always heard and always diregarded: "everything in moderation."
So I was done, I was going to hike 60 more kilometers and then make plans to go home, coming back to visit Dave and Wampler in mid-May.
That night I walked to a beautiful hut on a grassy flat just upriver from a confluence. The next morning, I decided that I didn't want to walk that day. I wanted to stay put and enjoy this beautiful hut and let a tropical depression (rainstorm) pass over me. So, I did nothing that morning. I sat around and read old Nat Geos that had been left in the hut, had tea, and relaxed and thought. I thought that maybe it wasn't time to go home, not yet. This day of relaxation was great. There was no place I'd rather be. Seriously. This was the most perfect place in the world to me at that moment. And I realized that I wasn't done with the trail, but I was done being
stressed about the trail. I was done trying to chase people down and coordinate things and force order into something that needed entropy, chaos, surprise intrigue, unexpectedness. When you're solo, if you try too hard to force order on things, to control every aspect of it, then you are setting yourself up for failure. You put a strangle hold on things that drains the color out of it all, you eliminate the adventure, take away the fun. So I spent the morning relaxing.
Then, around noon or one, Dylan and Mary showed up at my hut. They were so lively and energetic and enjoyable to be around that they immediately inflated my spirit. They ended up staying the afternoon and night at the hut and we all sat around and talked and played cards and joked and instantly felt better. I was rejuvenated. The next day, we walked 30 k out to Boyle Village and then hitched together to Hanmer Springs. And wouldn't you know it, it was St Patty's Day. We headed out to the Irish pub in town and ran into Jeb, Amy, Robby and Brit! I thought they were long gone, but they had decided to take a zero day in town. So, the 7 of us celebrated St Patty's Day together - with rounds of "jugs" (baby pitchers), Irish stew, pizza, a live band, the lively people of the town and some wonderful dancing. It was just an awesome night.
So, as a way of closing, it turns out that, as much as I joke about it, I actually don't hate people. I may be quiet sometimes, but I'm a social person. I love my friends and family, I love meeting people and being around them. I don't want to just go on a long, lonely walk in the woods. The long, lonely walk was good for a while, but it's people like Mary and Dylan, like Jeb, Amy, Robby and Brit that make the trail. It doesn't matter if you walk every step of the trail, it matters what you do with the steps you take. If something isn't working, you have to change it, you have to do something to make it right. For me, that was taking a zero day in the middle of New Zealand backcountry that ended up saving my trip. I want to be here now, I want to stay, I want to keep walking.
I've unquit.
