Backpacking Lessons in Shenandoah

“Whether you can or whether you can’t, you're right.”

These were my husband Chris’s words to me as I breathlessly muttered, “I can’t do it. I can’t go any further!” during our hike along the southernmost portion of Shenandoah National Park. We stopped there for a couple nights of camping and a day of backpacking during our cross-country move from Boston to Dallas a little more than three weeks ago.

Earlier that morning, we took our time eating a bite of breakfast, hungry deer loitering near, and packed up the tent and camping essentials in our Penske truck. The truck sat awkwardly amidst the trees and campsites, Blue Ridge Mountains in the background. We spread out all of the supplies we’d need for backpacking next to our packs. With Chris’ expertise, we packed them, stuffing our sleeping bags at the bottom and layering packaged food, clothes, cooking supplies and pairs of dry socks. We folded up and clipped our sleeping pads to the bottom of our packs, threw the packs into the back of the moving truck, and headed to our starting place on the trail.

Why am I taking the time to describe all of this in such detail? Well, this was my first time embarking on a backpacking trip, and it was memorable! Plus, if any of you reading are infant backpackers, perhaps a little unsure of yourself, or just have no idea what you’re doing, I encourage you to do it anyway.

After Chris and I parked the truck, we noticed some Appalachian Trail thru-hikers pause for a break and a bite of lunch. As I watched them take their packs off, I wondered about their AT experience as a series of childlike questions flooded my mind: were they tired? Did they have enough food? How long have they been walking? Did they leave jobs behind? How do people do that for months on end? I felt connected to them, in an odd way-- like here we all were, regardless of prior backpacking experience, at the mercy of this expanse of land and forest all around us.

After Chris helped me adjust the weight of the pack with careful strap adjustments and did the same for his own pack, we crossed the road, said goodbye to our truck until the next day (or so we thought), and started on the trail. As I felt my heart rate increase and the muscles in my legs tighten almost immediately up the small incline of the trail, I began to wonder what I had gotten myself into. “I thought this part of the AT was for baby backpackers like me,” I wondered --first to myself, then groaning out loud to Chris. “I really don’t think I can keep going,” I said another fifteen minutes later, tears beginning to form. “I’m too out of shape, I shouldn’t be this winded, and every damn thru-hiker who passes us makes me feel bad about myself.”

The narratives we tell ourselves about what we are capable of are powerful things. After several short breaks filled with continued self-doubt, I finally decided to start listening to my partner, with much more outdoor experience than I, about the power of attitude to shape one’s experience of a challenge. As soon as I began to give myself permission to breathe as hard and fast as my body needed, to go at a pace that worked for me and not the next thru-hiker we would encounter, I began to enjoy it. And really enjoy it: the sunlight dappling through the trees, the wind blowing, the beautiful vistas that came into view during moments of the hike, and even the black bear we spotted maybe two dozen feet to our left while walking.

I do not believe that “attitude is everything,” which many of us become accustomed to hearing in our elementary school hallways or in interviews with athletes after a big game. There are too many stories and circumstances in which this familiar trope can erase the very real and lived experiences of injustice. However, this experience helped me learn in a physical way that our own abilities to both challenge ourselves and to be honest about what we are capable of are powerful tools, and to fully exercise them is a fleshy AND spiritual experience.

Chris & I did not quite hike as far as we intended the day we set out on the trail, and hitchhiked with a generous golden retriever-clad stranger back to our truck. I was more exhausted than I had been in a long time, but the dried sweat around my head, sore hips and legs were satisfying.

Thank you, Shenandoah, for enchanting me with your beauty and teaching me some powerful lessons on the trail.