I will never do this again.

One year ago today, I was sitting in the open back of a truck with six other thru-hikers, wearing every layer I had, and huddling against the frozen evening wind as we sped along the winding road back to East Glacier Village. I’d never felt so free. So elated. And so very, very relieved. We were headed back from the US/Canadian border and I’d just walked across the entire freaking country.

The only thoughts crowding my mind that day and the days immediately following were how happy I was that I was back in the land of hot showers and endless food and comfortable nights. Other hikers had talked about post-trail depression right after finishing, or how hard it would be to transition back into normal life. But for me? Neither was true. The trail had been extremely challenging for me, and while I took pride in the fact that I’d done it, I also found relief in the fact that I’d never do it again.

And then.

I miss it.

It shocked even me the first time the thought flashed through my mind. It was ridiculous. But the feeling only grew, cropping up like some insidious virus I couldn’t shake.  For months, ever since finishing, everything reminded me of the trail. Random trail memories surfaced each day, startlingly technicolor vivid. Out of nowhere I’d find myself thinking of a particular rocky outcropping in Colorado where we’d sat at the end of a long day. Instead of putting up our tent right away, we’d pulled out ramen to cold-soak and eaten dinner as we watched the sun flame huge and bright as it slipped behind the hills. Or there was that day in Wyoming when we were surprised by a sudden deluge of heavy rain which turned the dirt road into a soup of sticky mud and painted the sky in a large rainbow.

I told myself they were selective memories. That I was simply forgetting all the challenging parts. But life on trail had gotten under my skin. My post-trail life in Seattle reminded me in some way of the famous Vonnegut quote, “Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.” I could turn on the faucet whenever I was thirsty, or hop onto a bus for the several-mile commute to work, or turn up the heater if my apartment grew chilly. And the sterility of it all ate at me. My days were no longer measured in miles and memories, but by the minutes on a clock.

I want to thru-hike the PCT.

Sometime around March I decided that someday I’d do another thru-hike. Maybe not for awhile. Someday. But as the summer slipped by, the longing to be back on trail grew stronger. The Seattle skyline was bright at night and I missed the stars. When I finally realized it was logistically possible for me to go on another thru-hike in the coming year, I didn’t have to think twice.  A whole new trail. A whole new set of challenges and adventures.

A year ago, when I’d just reached the end of my countdown to finishing, I’d never have dreamed I’d soon be counting down the days until I could start again.

Just half a year more. 2019.

And then my shoes will be back in the dirt, everything I need on my back, with my face turned north. I can’t wait.