Here’s Your Sign

Last October, with anticipation of possibly doing the trail, I changed my phone’s wallpaper to the image of the wooden sign that sits upon Katahdin.

Every time I opened my phone, there it was, in all its’ glory, calling to me.

I’d be on the treadmill, fighting through the incline and I’d tap my phone, motivating myself to keep going. This was my reason for all the late nights, sweat and pain. I was working towards that plaque on a mountain, very far away.

I imagined what it would be like to finally have it in my sights: walking towards it, almost in slow motion; to place my hand on it; to climb it; to cry in triumph, with hands held high. What would it be like to turn around, having all those miles behind me, knowing that I did it?

Even the beginning of the trail, at Springer Mountain, I felt the pull of Katahdin: I’ve got to get there.

In the few weeks I’ve been on trail, I’ve felt a shift. I absolutely want to get to that sign at Katahdin and have that accomplishment of finishing, but it’s odd how my focus has changed.

The trail itself is now the sign; the accomplishment. That sign represents so much more than an endpoint.

The sign is the rain, the cold, the deep snow, the slippery mud, the sludge, the big boulders, the never-ending uphills, the slow and steady downhills. The sign is the last mile of a 22 mile day. It’s the moments when you’re certain you can’t go any further, but you make it anyway. The sign is the comradery you feel for your trail family and genuinely worry about getting split up from them. It’s about trail towns, good food, trail blessings and aching muscles.

So many people have said it’s about the journey. I can fully understand that sentiment now. I can’t wait to see what’s around the next bend, over the next ridge or what the next town has to offer.

I have a long way to go, but the anticipation of Finding Katahdin is slowly turning into hesitation. I don’t want this journey to a plaque on a far away mountain to ever come to an end.