The Knock and the Beginning
3/21/25
Ft. My first non-official trail magic
On the plane to San Diego
It has begun! I'm officially unemployed, moved out, and in the air on my way to start the Pacific Crest Trail. I'm scared. I don't want say it out loud because it dampens my confidence and reveals that I am not 100% prepared for what I'm about to attempt. Still, fear is not necesarily a direct result of unpreparedness. I could be "prepared" for anything on trail and it still wouldn't always play out exactly how I'm expecting or hoping. I could be "prepared" for every situation and still be afraid of the fact that I've never done this before.
So here I am, definitely not 100% ready for every aspect of the trek ahead- that's not how this works. I'm pretty sure that's not how anything works. But here I am, as prepared as I can be at this point.
Yesterday it sunk in deep that I COULD get lost. I COULD have my electronics die on me or have an uncomfortable hitch or get injured. I COULD be alone in some backcountry loneliness, alone in some backcountry fear. Real possibilities, I'm telling ya. Not to say they've never crossed my mind before, just that they became very real as my flight crept up on me. The trail is no longer something that I'm planning to do months from now. It is now something I am doing...something I'm currently doing.
There's an odd thing that happens right before a voluntary, abrupt life change that I am confident is not unique to me. You plan and dream and wait on this exciting interruption to daily life, telling yourself to "just stick it out! Just 6 more months! Just 3 more months! Just a few more weeks!" And then the interruption knocks on your door, asking to be let in. You pause at the sound. You have to answer the door. This is where the odd thing happens. As you walk toward the door, heartbeat in your throat and eyes locked on the knob, new thoughts begin to flood in. Unfamiliar thoughts. A sense of responsibility with a side of doubt lands on your shoulders. Responsibility for what you've gotten yourself into. Doubt about your ability to carry it out.
I'm switching back to first person like my college professors told me not to do. Last night was when I heard the knock at my door.
I cried when I quit my job, tears flowed when I hugged my friends, I sobbed when I said goodbye to the wonderful ladies of House 3, my heart stung when I took one last look into my empty room on Pineview Drive and slowly pulled out of the driveway to leave it behind me. But in the midst of all of that, I never heard a knock. It wasn't until I was driving out of Holland and onto the highway alone, with only my family left to hug goodbye to, that I heard it: a knocking on the door.
12 hours before boarding my flight, I still hadn't checked in or paid for my checked bag. I still hadn't decided which damn bra to bring with me. I still hadn't set up my watch. As I drove to Grand Rapids, billowy white clouds in the sky, the knocking continued. I didn't answer. Just kept driving. Stopped at REI. The knocking continued. Drove to my parents. The knocking continued. I hauled my bag with all of it's unorganized contents into the living room and sprawled it across the ancient carpet. Knock knock knock. I sat down on the floor of my childhood home with my back against the wall. My parents were sitting at the table and sweet Becky was playing with her blocks, happy as could be on the couch. More knocking. 10 hours until take off and the running-around was done. The goodbyes were mostly finished. No more gear left to buy, no more belongings left to move. No more time left to hide behind. 10 hours. Knock knock knock.
A deep, soul-filling breath overtook me as if I hadn't breathed in a week. I didn't even know that I needed it. Knock knock knock.
I closed my eyes. I opened the door.
Behind it stood a visitor I wasn't expecting; one I wasn't particularly excited to invite inside. Behind the door stood a cloud of doubt, fear, panic, and uncertainty, all wrapped up into one force called Reality. Reality had been knocking for months, I just hadn't heard him. Well- that's a fat lie. I heard him. I just didn't let him in. Just like the neighbor guy a few months back, banging on our front door as I was in the shower. I heard someone but chose to waste water like a spoiled Michigander by extending my shower rather than answer the door. Three more times I heard someone banging on the door. I hid inside the walls of my room, for some reason telling myself not to answer because I was home alone. I don't give a shit about being home alone. I just didn't want to open the door to what happened the last time I answered: one of the neighbors being pissy about the length of our grass.
So instead of being an adult, I told myself I didn't need to bother because I was home alone. A stupid excuse to avoid potential confrontation about my lawn. In the end, it wasn't the yard police. The guy next door had a water leak and just wanted to let us know the city workers would be by soon to fix it. Poor guy just needed some H2O; the commodity that I was just dumping down the drain 10 minutes prior.
The comparison falls apart a bit here. Behind the physical door, I didn't know who was there. Behind the metaphorical door, I knew who was coming. I knew Reality was there, I just didn't want to deal with him or the emotions and responsibility that he brought along.
It seems that I'm painting myself to be a careless and ignorant 23-year-old. Maybe I am. Although, I think this is also just a time of life where I'm becoming aware of the fact that the person I think I am is not necessarily the person I really am. That's a topic for another time. Let's go back to the door.
On my parents' living room floor trying to catch my breath, staring into Reality's face, I had a thought I’ve never had in my whole life: "Do I really want to leave?" I've never been seduced by comfort. It scares me quite a bit actually. I have the view (unhealthy maybe? I think it's situational) that comfort = trapped. I don't think I'm special. I know that there are people out there who are afraid of settling down as a result of not wanting to be "stuck" or held down. I just haven't run into many of those people living in west Michigan.
I'm not here to condemn the act of "settling down." I'm just admitting that it's a deep-rooted fear of mine. Maybe someday the Lord and I can work through that. Noted.
Anyway, what I'm getting at is that Reality reminded me of how good I have it at home, how wonderful my friends and family are, and just how crazy it is to drop it all and go hike for half a year. It's not like I'm disappearing (hopefully). This is just the largest interruption I've ever experienced. And I chose this. It would be an entirely different beast if I lost if I had lost it all- my job, my friends, my room, my paycheck, my ability to shower. Yes, that would have been an immensely different thing to have those luxuries stripped from me like a modern day Job.
Instead, I chose to leave it all. I chose to leave and now whatever happens is largely my responsibility. I believe the Lord sustains me and is with me, but I am responsible for making decisions and for being wise and safe once I step foot on the trail in a couple days. I put myself at the brink of this trek, and I must try my best to get myself to the end. Of course, no one is making me do this. If I can't finish, I can't finish. That's that. Whoop. My point is that I paused my entire life for this goal of mine. And now there is truly nothing left to do but start. Nothing left to do but start, and to do my best.
When I sat face to face with Reality, I couldn't help but give in and to be overwhelmed with the worry that I did not do enough to prepare. It's easy to say "oh yeah, this is how I'll stay stocked up on food, this is what I'll do if I run into a rattlesnake, this is where I'll need to send my bear can in my ice axe, this is how I'll handle a pervert, this is how I'll make friends." It's easy to say all of that. It's scary to be 10 hours away from running into some, if not all of those scenarios. It's actually real now. No more hiding inside my bedroom walls and no more hiding behind the deceiving cushion of time.
Reality reminds me that I've never done this before, and that half the people I talk to about this adventure think I'm an idiot. I'd like to make a correction, though. Earlier, I said that behind the door stood a cloud of doubt, fear, panic, and uncertainty. Let's make an edit. Reality was the visitor and the emotions I listed are just my reactions to the visitor. Over the next two days and beyond, my hope and prayer is that I'll be able to ride a healthy balance between the two. I think Reality and fear can be friends if they put in some effort. Hmm. Another topic for another time. Fifty minutes until I land. Time to wrap up this novel.
My final thoughts for now relate everything I just said to the very beginning pages of a book I'm borrowing currently. Greg from the climbing gym is one of the most kind-hearted and down-to-earth folks I've had the privilege of getting to know at the gym. Right before I left, he gave me this book, claiming it sounded a lot like the journey I'm about to embark on.
On page *something* of Through Painted Deserts, Donald Miller says, "I could not have known then that everybody, every person has to leave, has to change like seasons. They have to or they die. The seasons remind me that I must keep changing. And I want to change because because it is God's way...everybody has to change or they expire. Everybody has to leave. Everybody has to leave their home and come back so that they can love it again for all new reasons... I want to keep walking away from the person I was a moment ago because a mind was made to figure things out, not to read the same page recurrently. I sometimes look into the endless heavens, the cosmos of which we can't find the edge and ask God what it means. 'Did you really do all of this to dazzle us? Do you really keep it shifting, rolling round the pinions to stave off boredom?' God forbid your glory would be our distraction and God forbid we would ignore your glory."
My heart's prayer, as I'm 20 minutes from California soil, is that this adventure would change me. Grow me in some way. Bring me into deep dependance on my Maker. It will. God will. It's funny that the same day I started having doubts about leaving is the same day I read those applicable words of Donald Miller.
My prayer is that you, marathon reader, will change too. And that you will be challenged along with me. Maybe a 5 month hike without deodorant isn't your avenue for change, but that's what life has led me to. Then hopefully, we'll both look back on these words in October with a smile on our faces and peace in our hearts.
Here it goes.
