The Paradox of Independence
When I began to plan my thru-hike in earnest, I had a very clear vision of how it was going to go. Freshly divorced, tiptoeing into the dating world, and with plans to move out of my home state after the hike, I was adamant about one thing: I was going to do this hike alone.
I didn’t want to have anyone waiting on me to come home, because I wasn’t returning to Louisiana, and I certainly didn’t want to share this once-in-a-lifetime experience with a new partner that I found on-trail. I wanted to experience the trail alone, because I felt that anything less would threaten my newfound independence.
I should’ve realized by then that making Big Plans only serves to invite god/the universe/whatever to completely change those plans for you. In this instance, I found an incredible partner who is now waiting for me in our new home state.
But even as I accepted the very inconvenient reality that I’d fallen in love while not intending to, I struggled to decide how much to include my partner. Did I lose independence points if he visited me? What if he mailed me packages? What if I left the trail to visit him?
All of the above has since happened. And none of it has changed the fact that every step I take is mine alone. Every mile hiked, I have hiked on my own. No one could do it for me.
And yet.
This idea of radical self-reliance is one that I’ve learned to reassess with a critical eye. How independent are we, really? Is complete independence even something we should strive for?
For me? The answer is no.
Take, for example, my gear alone. I could never, not in a million lifetimes, make all my gear from scratch. From the map on my phone to the research that went into the design of my shoes, my tent, my trekking poles, and the science backing the efficacy of my water filter - I could never be that much of an expert in developing, designing, and creating even one of these items. Take, for example, the FarOut map on my cell phone:
Mining the metals that create the phone, the battery, etc.
Developing the software that makes it run.
Building and launching several GPS satellites into orbit that my phone can communicate with for texts and calls.
Plotting the entire track of the Appalachian Trail, including water stops, locations of shelters and campsites, and information about towns.
Compile that data into an app.
Download app onto phone.
Build a multi-state-wide string of power plants and power lines so I can charge my phone at regular intervals.
Done. Easy, right?
The work and collaboration required to just build and maintain the Appalachian Trail, or any trail, is also mind-boggling.
I’ve run into trail maintainers who walk around with heavy packs filled with sledgehammers, shovels, pickaxes, chainsaws, fuel for the chainsaws, and even more trail-building tools I don’t have names for. Imagine carrying all the tools you need to blaze your own trail - easily 80+lbs of gear - for the whole 2200-mile hike. In addition to the 30lbs of gear, food, and water you need to survive. No, thank you.
“Autonomy requires collaborators.” -Jan Baars
I think the best and most difficult lesson of the trail thus far has been this: that there really is no way to be 100% independent. Hyper-independence is an exercise in futility. Yes, there is much to be said for finding the willpower to do something like the Appalachian Trail. No one can hike your hike for you.
But the trail itself represents a massive collaboration of trailblazers and outdoor enthusiasts that spans well over 100 years. You’re never really doing it alone. You’re literally following a path that others have laid before you.
And this reality doesn’t cheapen the experience at all. As I’ve hiked and come to terms with the reality that I’m in no way, shape, or form doing this hike completely alone, it’s revealed a far more beautiful truth: That we all need each other.
Our relationships with each other don’t threaten our independence: they’re the only way we can have even a measure of independence.
