The time I became a day drinker instead of a thru-hiker

Hello to my bestest besties and most lovely-looking looky-loos,

A few of you know that I did actually have plans to try to hike the entire Pacific Crest Trail one more time, even though all my attempts had ended in failure of one sort or another. After my most devastating failed attempt in 2016, I did the dumbest thing possible. I decided to drown my sorrows in drink. No, it was even worse than that.

I decided to become a day drinker. Like, I manufactured an alcohol dependency; grew one up from a measly 2pm Coors Lite (!) to round after round of Crown Royal and/or Double IPAS.

I wasn’t even a drinker. I was a drug person; I barely enjoyed alcohol. I only drank alcohol in my youth to get sloshed quickly, and that was only if nothing else was available.

So it wasn’t until I was already 40 that I found out the secret the rest of the world already knew: alcohol helps dull anxiety. It hushes the worries and ruminations, it loosens the inner critic’s stranglehold; it makes you almost kinda sorta fun to be around.

(By you, I mean me.)

PSA: Don’t start drinking in your 40s. If you’re gonna do it, you gotta start young. Not that I’m advocating that; I’m just saying, without a proper foundation, without years of your body processing all those sugars, hops, and empty calories, your body will go to hell in months, not years or decades.

The gist is that I spent a few years wallowing, digging holes too deep to easily climb out of, and self-inflicting wounds (like I needed more of those), like some kind of dark and inebriated second adolescence (like I needed more of that) until eventually, I was like

I should try to hike the PCT again.

Now, don’t laugh, don’t scoff; stay with me. It made sense.

You see, the whole PCT obsession began from an idea that, maybe if I acted almost the direct opposite of what my family and my youth had taught me, maybe I could heal myself. Well, that hadn’t gone how I had hoped; I was still the same problematic me, only now I also had a semi-drinking dependency and multiple adventure failures under my belt.

The thing I couldn’t get past was that I had tried! I had gone against the well-rutted synapses of my brain and, as cheesy as it sounds, dared to dream. I’d put forth effort, believed in myself as best I could, actively thrown myself into the world, and yet failed! Not just failed, but F-A-I-L-E-D! That’s right! Capped letters and spelled out!

For a person who collects evidence the same way a squirrel collects nuts, it was a death blow. Where was my redemption? Where was my top-of-the-mountain, Instagram-worthy success story?

Where was my shiny, new me?

It wasn’t fair! And toddlers got nothing on me: I cried not fair into a bottomless tumbler of Jack until one day I realized years had passed and, and, and . . .

I missed hiking. I missed waking up without a searing headache. Yes, I still quite liked giggling with ease until the late-night pass-outs, but I missed how it had felt to plan an ambitious plan, how, for a while, life was more than the negative stuff that had happened to me, how empowering it had been to choose my suffering.

Did I miss hiking up a steep switchback, looking at all the much, much skinnier, healthier people, and in my own unique form of positive self-talk, tell myself,

“Ladypants, look at you! You’re doing the same thing they're doing, but you’re doing it with an extra 60, nay, 100 pounds! That makes you stronger than them! Not a single one of ‘em could handle this level of effort, of obvious sticking out. You’re a killer, Ladypants! You eat mountains for breakfast!”

Yes, for some crazy-ass reason. I did, indeed. And that’s when I had the moment.

Some people have A-HA! moments. I have “DUH!” moments.

Ooooooh-oh.

I had failed. But I had been happier. Because the trying IS the doing. Because in attempting this crazy, ballsy dream of mine, I had accumulated a decade of hiking, backpacking, exploring, and adventuring.

I had accumulated a life!

DUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHHH.

So, I knew I had to try again, this time armed with the biggest DUH moment ever. I made the plans, stopped drinking, started hiking (Uh-oh. Bad knees. But let’s try anyway!), started assembling months' worth of food and resupply packages, and did all the things someone like me has to do to tackle something like the PCT.

In fact, that’s what I was doing one day in front of the TV. I don’t even know why I had the news on that day, as I was emptying boxes of instant mashed potatoes, dehydrated pinto beans, and one Taco Bell Mild sauce into plastic bags and vacuum-sealing them closed. My brain was so stuffed full of PCT mile markers and factoids and strategies on how to avoid having to hitchhike that I didn’t even hear the newscaster at first. But I saw the chryon. So I turned the TV up. A highly contagious infection was sweeping through China. Some airports were already closing down. In a matter of hours, infections were popping up on the East Coast and here on the West Coast. People were arguing online in the PCT community about whether or not the PCTA would revoke our permits.

And then the PCTA revoked our permits.

The age of COVID-19 had begun.

Thanks for reading! I’m preparing for the Camino, and so shit’s coming up! Feel free to comment and tell me ‘atta girl, or gurl, you cray, or really whatever you want. I like hearing from you.

xoxo, Amy

If you’re someone who’s tried, failed, tried again, or is currently avoiding trying altogether—I’m really glad you’re here.

You can subscribe if you want more of these “figured it out in real time” dispatches. Paid subscriptions mostly just help me keep writing (and occasionally fund questionable life decisions like producing a live storytelling show or walking across Spain). xoxo, Amy