walking/hiking insights via John Mac

Sigh... I'm still not done with my epilogue post over at Kevin's Walk 4, and while I could entertain you with excuses, I really just need to finish the damn thing. In the meantime, my friend John McCrarey was kind enough to send a link to an Ann Althouse post about hiking the Appalachian Trail (I'll leave it to you to decide whether it's pronounced \ˌæp əˈleɪ tʃiən\ or \ˌæp əˈlætʃiən,\). One quote from that post struck me. It was uttered or written by Sean Gobin, a Marine veteran who took to hiking:

"Your brain really has nothing to do but start to focus on your life experiences and what you've gone through," Gobin says. "You come to terms with it, and then start focusing on the future and what you want to do with your life[,] what's really important to you. It was this really personal, cathartic experience." 

What struck me about that quote was how opposite it was from my own experience hiking across South Korea three times.  For me, distance walking reduces life almost to the essentials, leaving you with nothing but the present moment.  It's very Zen in that way.  The above quote talks about the past and the future; I feel as if I should play the role of Yoda scolding Luke for never inhabiting the present.  "Never his mind on where—he—was!  Hm?  What—he—was doing!"  For me, this is the therapy that comes with walking:  you don't dwell on the past, and you don't focus on the future.  You're in the here-and-now, breathing in each moment, basking in the beauty of your surroundings, feeling the miles passing beneath your feet.  It's the kind of therapy you can never get from a paid therapist, and if you're open to listening to the wordless language of the world, you can learn a lot—most of it inarticulable and ineffable.  This, friends, is religion for the unchurched.

Later in the Althouse post, Gobin gets quoted again, and this time, his sentiments are very close to my own:

Hiking with a heavy pack all day, every day helps burn off anxiety. The physical toll and time in nature alleviates depression. The routine puts hikers on a normal sleep schedule where they’re up with the sun and sleep when the sun sets. Plus, they’re so tired that they actually get a good night’s sleep.

“It’s very structured,” Gobin says. “It strips away all the things in life that are unnecessary. It breaks life down to its most basic elements.”

That's closer to how I think about hiking and distance walking—especially those last two sentences. While I'd never call what I did true hiking in the rough and rugged sense (civilization within easy reach, no chance of starving in the wilderness, almost no rough or steep terrain), I'm at a point where I can at least relate to the hiker's mindset. Gobin also mentions how your sleep schedule changes. On my own walk blog, I wrote:

I really do feel that I'm my best self when out on the path: I sleep and wake up at reasonable hours of the day, I engage in vigorous activity, and I curb my normally voracious eating habits. It's almost as if I can catch a glimpse of an alternate reality in which I'm living a more mentally and physically active lifestyle.

Whatever disadvantages come with distance walking are easily outweighed by the advantages.  I'm not a bona fide hiker by any means, but I admire the thru-hikers who tackle paths like the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and the American Discovery Trail.  Perhaps, one day, I'll number myself among them.