I Will Not Smile for You
I discovered something.
When I share the truth of the difficulties of a thru-hike, it tends to make people uncomfortable.
When I share a post about how much Pennsylvania tested me, or the Virginia Blues, I’ll get a flurry of DM’s and comments urging me to change the way I’m experiencing the trail:
“Cheer up”
“‘I’ve been doing this long enough that I know when this trip is over, I won’t be thinking about how uncomfortable, or how cold, or how much pain I was in. The parts that you remember from these trips are the good parts.’ -Alex Maier”
“Your bad day is still better than a day at my job.”
“You should check your attitude.”
“You’re still enjoying yourself out there, right?”
“You’re not going to make it if you complain all the time.”
And it was surprising that these responses are surprising. After all, I’ve been told to smile more my entire life.
In December of last year, I was waiting in line at the DMV to change my name on my driver’s license. As I fidgeted, thoughts swirling about the divorce that necessitated the name change, the remote job I had to get back to in less than an hour, and the trip I was having to make to my storage unit later that day, I pulled my mask aside to sip some coffee. The man in front of me immediately waved to get my attention.
“You should smile more. It’s a beautiful day! You’d be more beautiful if you smiled.”
I wish I could say that I’d snapped back at him, but instead I stared at him silently and unsmiling until he turned back around with a muttered: “Just trying to make conversation.” Then I went back to my fidgeting and coffee and swirling thoughts.
Comments like that began, as they do for most women, when I was around 11 or 12 years old. Incidentally, that’s also when the catcalling began.
My body and my smile and my personhood has been commodified as long as I can remember. So really, it’s not surprising that I’m being urged to become a happier and more beautiful caricature of a thru-hiker.
It’s a continuation of the same expectations that have hounded me my entire life, and likely will, in some shape or form, until I die.
We women understand that our expected role in society is to be consumed. By media. By the male gaze. When we are anything but the happiest and most beautiful version of ourselves, we tend to get stuck in throats, choking those whose desire is to swallow us whole.
The vision of an incredible, beautiful, life-changing thru-hike with no negative emotions or physical difficulties is certainly palatable. But it is not honest.
The honest truth of my Appalachian Trail thru-hike is that it is one of the most difficult things I have ever done.
The reality is that I have never been less “beautiful,” whatever that means.
I haven’t shaved my legs, pits, or mustache in almost two months. I never knew that I could grow a Tony Stark-esque anchor beard. But, here we are.
I have a little mirror to check my chafed and sweaty back for ticks every night. Sometimes I think I find one, but usually it’s just dirt or a fraction of leaf. Then I fall asleep with the dirt or the leaf still attached to me.
There have been many days where the loneliness of separation from my partner, family, and back-home friends claws at my insides, and it’s all I can do to not quit then and there.
There is dirt embedded under my nails that has been there for months and will not budge, no matter how many times I dig the tip of my knife under there.
The longest I’ve gone without a shower is 16 days.
The word I use most often on trail is “fuck.” As in “fuck this shit, fuck those rocks, fuck the fucking rain.”
I have had time to think out here, yes. But I certainly haven’t happened across the meaning of life or found complete peace and healing. I strongly suspect that when I finish the trail, I will leave with far more questions than answers.
I understand that for those dreaming of a thru-hike, an account of emotional and physical pain on trail is a difficult pill to swallow. It sours the daydream. It brings the imagination thudding back down to earth.
I also understand that we’re social creatures, and to some degree take on other peoples’ sadness. In a way, my pain is your pain. It’s uncomfortable.
There are many reasons you may want to see me as a happier, more easygoing version of myself out here in the woods.
But reader, I can’t be that for you.
I know that looking at an experience in retrospect often leads to a sanitized, less “real” version of events. One of the main reasons I wanted to write from the trail was so I could remember the many real hardships of the experience. One day I’ll look back on this thru-hike with rose-colored glasses, but I feel that doesn’t do the experience justice.
I’d rather remember the days when the trail handed my ass to me, but I made it to Katahdin anyway.
Because being beautiful or being happy didn’t get me to Katahdin. I did.
My sweaty, chafing, often miserable, stubborn, hairy, stinky self is the person responsible for getting me this far.
And she will take me all the way to the end.
When I climb on top of that sign, you’ll see me smile. I’ll smile real big. I promise.
But it will never be for you.
