The Ceremony

How not doing a five month hike changed my outlook on life

Feel free to call me out, but to me, this is a story about grit, determination, and the elusive nature of cause and effect. Now, bear with me–I’ve got to set this story up with an exhausting insufferable rhetoric. But trust me, it gets better.

Last year, I was growing tired of my own bullshit. I was dissatisfied with every aspect of my life. It wasn’t that anything was truly awful; it was my own self-perception that was the problem. Ok, my relationships hadn’t been great. I was struggling to find joy in my work. I believed my mental and physical health were hanging by a thread. Every life choice I made I scrutinized and ultimately thought to be the “wrong” one. I couldn’t help but wonder if most of my troubles came from living in a mountain of my own self doubt. This mindset had me searching for evidence that everything was indeed awful. And when you go looking for evidence, you’ll find it.

I needed a break from my negative bias. A hard reset. A stick in the spokes would do. So I made a daring decision. Somehow I landed on hiking the Continental Divide Trail, a meandering 3,000-mile hike that would take five months to complete. The dogs would love it. It would be our longest walk ever spanning from the Mexican to the Canadian border along the continental divide. The CDT was the reset I needed, I thought. This was the challenge that would almost certainly shake me out of my discontent.

I did the research, got the gear and began testing it. I planned to take five months off and destroy my feet walking through five U.S. States. It was a decision that was baked with certainty and excitement. This daunting physical feat, however, would require intense training. It became my mission to strengthen my joints, improve my cardio, and increase my overall strength. I wanted to build as much muscle as possible so that once I was on the trail, my body would have reserves. People come out of these hikes far skinnier than they entered, and I was already lean. Strong legs also meant less work on the trails, so I had new goals. I called up Jeremy Martin, a trainer at Loaded Athletics in Vancouver, and asked him to create a program for this insane goal.

A rite of passage is an event that’s often defined by separation, transition, and return. Cheryl Strayed defines it by three different qualities: solitude, difficulty, and risk. I would eventually read (and watch) her book (and movie) Wild and be further inspired. Rites of passage are the rough seas that make you a seasoned sailor. When life gets too comfortable, too stagnant, or too dreadful, we need to shake things up. Something that shapes us, puts adversity into perspective, and reminds us what we’re capable of. Maybe it’s a big move, a new job, having a kid, getting a dog, battling illness, or learning something new. There’s usually something big waiting for us, whether we choose it or not. This hike was going to be the rite of passage I long needed.

Jeremy put together a program. It started by determining where my body was at. We worked on my technique through a functional strength training regime. Over the coming months I’d explore my physical limits. My progress was made through determination and consistency, qualities I’ve always told myself were out of my reach. But this time, I asked myself “what if I actually could do this?” Every week I’d show up 3-4 times at my little community gym and put in a generous hour of intense training. I’d stay active on rest days with hiking and walking and running. These physical challenges ignited me. For a guy who hates the cold (I’ve spent 15 of the past 20 winters travelling to warmer climates), I even started cold immersion in the frigid ocean in the dead of winter.

My relationship with my body changed, and so too did my relationship with my mind. I was showing up for the scrawny kid in me who dreaded sports. The kid whose confidence was shattered by bullies pushing me off snow banks, calling me weak, and the classic pointing and laughing. In grade seven, my own friend made fun of me for not being able to lift a hockey stick. I carried that shame into my adulthood. It was baggage I no longer needed to carry. Fast forward six months, and for the first time, I felt confident in my body. It’s insane to write that. But to my chagrin, even with the confidence, there was still shame–shame that I felt good about myself. I’m beginning to think that my shame had very little to do with my body. I remember a sticker on a friend’s fridge: “How to have a beach body: Step 1: have a body. Step 2: go to the beach.”

To my disappointment, I’m not hiking the Continental Divide Trail this year. Life had other plans. My mountain became a logistical one. I’ve been sorting out my taxes, dealing with a financial mess, working on new books, and in the meantime putting my energy into building better relationships. The first one was a better relationship with myself. Escaping into the wild for five months wasn’t in the cards.

Anne Lamott said “While you thought you needed the tea ceremony for the caffeine, what you really needed was the tea ceremony.” Moving towards a goal is its own reward. My training routine had crushed a lot of negative beliefs I had about myself. The physical benefits were just a bonus. Feeling better, more energy, better sleep (marginally), a better diet. Showing up for myself day after day felt something like self-love. It was the good evidence I needed to believe that I do, indeed, love myself. Taking action on a daily practice improved my mental health immensely.

The biggest win: my outlook on life has fundamentally changed. I am not exaggerating. One morning, I woke up, and everything felt different. It was exactly that. The day before was another miserable, self defeating slog, but that morning, there was hope. Nothing on the surface had changed, but my perspective did.

Maybe I knew the hike was a long shot. Maybe I just wanted the training. Maybe I’ll do it next year or when I’m 50 or choose a different trail altogether. It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about finding a silver lining. The training, the preparation, that’s the actual gift. That’s the ceremony. And maybe there isn’t as much risk or solitude involved in strength training, trail running, or hiking, but it’s certainly difficult, and nobody else will do it for you.

A few weeks ago, I strained my Achilles tendon. I’m recovering, slowly getting back to running. This injury would have been a lot tougher in my old mindset (though I wouldn’t have been running in the first place, but we’ll bookmark that for the existential newsletter). Achilles was a Greek warrior who was given the choice between a life of glory and dying young, or a long uneventful life in obscurity. Achilles chose the former. But obscurity and glory are concepts as useful as shame and pride. They might guide us up a mountain or push us into a dark corner. Ultimately, they only matter if we decide they do. So, what guides you? Is it shame? Glory? A rite of passage? Or is the knowing that everything you need is right there inside of you, waiting for you to embrace it.

With love,

Andrew, Yaya, & Boo