MassHole

Massachusetts...that's where I'll get back on. It's a feeling that I had, yes it would mean skipping 1/2 of ME and all of NH and VT but something told me to get on in Mass. So I did.

"You're not going to cry this time, right?" my mom asked with that I'd be so proud even if you did look, "Definitely not!" I assured her. This would be round three to the finish I thought.

So my mom hugged me, teared up, said that she was so proud of me, then hugged herself and waved, only to catch up to me 30 seconds later, hug and tell me how proud she was of me for a second time, and snap a picture. Then I saw my dad. Another wave and some more, "Bye...love yous," a few more steps, byes and I love yous and then just me huffing. I had been three weeks off the trail resting my foot and I sure felt it.

There are apparently 5 stages of grief:

1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression and
5. Acceptance

By the time I got to the Wilbur Clearing Shelter I was in denial. My right ankle isn't really giving me trouble, it's nothing that a little stretching and massage can't take care of, I thought.

I realized I forgot my water purification tablets in the car and quickly dialed my mom and hoped the call would go through. They were at the top of Greylock Mt. enjoying a burger in the lodge. "We'll leave them with the receptionist," coaxed my mom.

I was just three miles away from Greylock, however, the storm was still storming and I knew that I'd better give my perfectly healthy ankle a rest.

Buzzz....Buzzzz....my phone was ringing again, "Hi honey, guess what I'm doing right now...hiking the AT!" I've met Detroit Dave," "Deleware Dave," I corrected, "right and Dilly Dally." Just then I knew I needed to get to Greylock.

By the time I met my mom I was at stage 2: Anger, but I was keeping it in. When my mom saw me she shrieked, "Jilly!!!" as she scuttled to me to give me a big hug. She went on to say how happy she was to be on the trail and how she could now say that she completed part of the AT and how she wished she could hike the whole thing. She continued to say how there was such a positive energy on the trail, that everyone is so kind and that she was again so proud of me. I felt terrible, one for not matching her enthusiasm and two for pretending that nothing was wrong when yet another injury was brewing.

"Is everything ok?" my mom asked after slightly skipping and commenting on the vibrant green leaves and the great smell of the outdoors which was met with a "mmmmhmm,"

"Ok, what is it?" my mom asked with a furrowed brow. That's the thing about moms they always know when something is wrong even without you saying anything. Side note. I get blotchy when I cry and this dreadful blotchyness lingers for hours after I sprinkle and no matter how long I used to wait to go down stairs after episodes of water works to allow for the scarlet to clear up she would always see me and say, "have you been crying?"

So it was at this point that I did not keep my word about crying. I sobbed, and felt sorry for myself. I was angry for attempting the trail yet again only to have my body say, "No, no, no, not gonna happen."

"Give me your pack," my mom said with the athority of Superwoman. For a second I thought I caught a glimpse of furling cape. I protested. The pack was heavy and she wasn't used to it, and we had only a mile left till Greylock. But she insisted and had a pep to her step the whole way back to the car.

Stage 3: bargaining, crept in, what if I rested it for a day, then continued to hike, maybe I just need to break in my hiker feet again.

4. Depression. I failed I thought. What am I to do now?

Back at the car my dad told me that after I left he told mom that he was going to miss me but then he thought, well she'll be back in a week.

More sobs. "Oh! I dedicate this song to you Jilly," my mom said as Ozzie sang, "Mamma I'm coming Home,"  over the car radio. More sobs. My dads shirt was soaked in tears and nose pudding.

My dad has taught me that the best way to deal with difficult situations is with humor. During adolescence he was notorious for making you feel terrible about the bad thing that you did and then making you laugh right after. Back in the car after a moment of silence I said, "I feel like one of those spoiled rich kids. I want you to drive me three hours West then I'm going to hike and then I'm going to call you when I get too tired so you can come and carry my pack the rest of the way. Then I want you to get me  Dairy Queen."

Now I'm home. I'm sure some of you have seen me or heard from another person, but I am home and ready to own it. At this point I am at stage 5: acceptance.

Everything happens for a reason. I realize that I am not meant to be on that trail right now and my body is telling me so. So now it's on to the next chapter in my life, although we'll leave an earmark at this one, since it is possible that I will continue it at some point.

"you don't need to hike 2,000 miles to figure something out," my dad said. He's right because I have figured lots of things out, that something is wrong with my body and I need to find the root of the problem, that my family is there for me always, that people are going to say, "Aren't you supposed to be on that trail," and that I may feel like I want to wear a hat and sun glasses when I go out, but more importantly, life happens and when you flow with it it will eventually open you up to an ocean of possibilities, ones that I may not have seen had I been battling the current while swimming up stream.

The trail provided me with lots of material to write about, many people to connect with, and a feeling of independence and fearlessness. I can say that I walked barefoot through the woods by myself...check. What's next...swimming with sharks...we'll see about that.