After The Hike

I took this photo in October 2022 while solo camping in the Coconino National Forest. A month after I returned from hiking the Camino de Santiago, I set off road-tripping through the Southwest with only a vague plan. Pulling into a campsite off the side of the road, I ate a can of cold beans and pitched my little backpacking tent amongst the trees. I was free. Yet I craved rootedness and was striving for some sense of normalcy as everything I knew was up in the air - my career, home, partner, faith. I spent months in this liminal state. In retrospect, I think I needed it; the caverns in my heart are deeper because of it. Read my reflections on this moment of liminality below.

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November 8, 2022

I had read several books about thru-hikes and FKT (fastest-known time) attempts before I started out on my own first thru-hike. They all had one thing in common – the story was in the adventures, challenges, joys, and lessons found on the trail itself. While the authors would share how they felt upon completing their long, life-altering journeys, they would often end the story shortly after they had reached their goals. Thus, I was unprepared for the effort – the uncertainty, longing, profound joy and sadness – that I would face upon my return to “normal life.” 

In the summer of 2022, I hiked over 500 miles across northern Spain. I left my prestigious job at the end of June, packed up my little rental house in Austin (where I’d been living for the past five years), and flew to Europe with two pairs of hiking clothes in a 38L backpack. I gave away all of my furniture and scattered my remaining things between my parents’ house in Houston and a small storage container. 

I loved the life that I left. As a trail runner and burgeoning cyclist, I had everything I needed in Austin. Great trails, friends to run and ride with, ample races and athletic events. I knew my way around, had a community, and felt lucky to be there. And still I felt the call of adventure. I wanted to have an international learning experience, practice my Spanish, test my endurance, and explore my faith and spirituality, a journey I’d begun two years prior at the start of the pandemic. So with lots of hope and a little nostalgia, I set off to hike the Camino de Santiago.

I have a lot to say about the hike itself: how humbling and mortifying it can be to navigate a foreign country with only a tenuous grasp on the language; the liberation and self-consciousness of going topless on a beach for the first time; how I learned how to hike through the pain of blisters and chafing. But one of the most unexpected surprises was the challenge of returning, of navigating the chasm between paradoxical worlds.

On the Camino, each day was essentially structured the same. Wake up at or before sunrise, pack your pack, hike until you reach your destination, shower, wash clothes, and find something to eat. There was deviation, of course. Some days were much longer than others. Sometimes I’d stop at a supermercado for snacks or lunch and eat at a beautiful overlook or perched on a boulder looking out to sea. Other days I’d stop for a Kas Naranja and Spanish tortilla at a local bar by myself or accompanied by whoever I happened to be hiking with that day. But life was simple.

I hiked for a total of 34 days. On day four, I met some fellow peregrinos at a monastery atop a hill in the Spanish countryside. Three of them became close friends. I fell in love with the fourth. When I flew back to the states, I left a man I loved spending time with who made me belly laugh, kissed me on the forehead, and raced me up mountainsides. I left the freedom and exhilaration of working my body outside all day. What I was most afraid of losing was the woman I was becoming there. The woman who trusted her gut, took the trail the way she wanted to (often by running the downhills, which many people thought was strange), and allowed herself to make the choices that felt good in the moment. I felt that I was becoming closer to the most authentic version of myself, and I was terrified of losing her once I got back to my life in the states.

For better or for worse, I didn’t return to my normal life. I landed in Houston for a few weeks with my family, and when I was ready for some air, I embarked on another month-long journey, first road-tripping through the American southwest, and next bouncing between friends’ places in the northeast. I spent this time hiking, running, cycling, camping, connecting with friends, and starting to apply for jobs. I felt moments of utter wonder and gratitude - diminished by towering saguaros in the pink light of a desert sunrise, gazing at a sparkling lake and fall leaves from atop a mountain peak, spontaneously running into an old friend on a crowded Boston street. And I also felt moments of aching sadness – lost without a clear career trajectory; longing for a sense of rootedness, privacy, community; and heartbreak of feeling caught between my career, my home, and the person who made me feel so loved but was so far away.

I didn’t know I needed to prepare for this. I had one of the best springs of my life, crossing off several bucket list items, because I wanted to live courageously. That carried into my summer and brought so many blessings – friends, love, self-discovery, physical challenge, natural beauty, and adventure. Since my return, I feel more emotions than I’ve ever felt before. Some are warm and tender. Others are a nagging pain, a stomach hollowness that I can’t fully repress.

I don’t know what’s next. I want to progress in my career, contribute to meaningful, positive change. I want to race again. I want to love and be so dearly loved. In high school and college, I was often teasingly called an overachiever. That part of me believes I can have all of these things if I just work hard enough to find the answer. The doubtful part of me says I’ll have to give up at least one of them. Any number of things can happen now.