No more lollygagging

Back from Mexico -- which was so incredible, I'll have to definitely fill you in on soon (by the way, humboldt squids apparently aren't all man-eating after all). But for today, here's what's on my mind, for whatever reason:

This time of year reminds me of my life a whopping 16 YEARS ago -- wow, I can't believe it's been that long -- when I was just a young thing, hiking a long trail with my crazy dog. We started the day after what the weather people called "The Storm of the Century," which dumped more than 3 feet of snow on the east coast, from Maryland to Georgia. For we Alaskans, this is just another snowstorm, but there? It stopped everything. Power outages, school closures, infinite accidents, blocked roads, etc. You name it, the weather did it.

Still, my plan for hiking the 2,100-mile Appalachian Trail had been in the works for months, and I was not ready to give up. My start date -- March 17, 1993 (St. Patrick's Day, and now, coincidentally, my daughter's birthday) -- was delayed by one day, but I made it to north Georgia on March 18, ready to begin the six-month journey toward Baxter State Park, Maine. My partner was my 2-year-old German shepherd-greyhound mix, Ruby (Trail name: Order; I was Chaos, for obvious reasons), and we were accompanied by a guy from Michigan, also starting the trail, named Mark. We planned to hike together until we both were comfortably acquainted with trail life (which turned out to be about 10 days) then move on at our own paces. I never saw him again.

To this day, I'm still not real sure what my parents thought of the plan. I was out of college and had a good job at the Roanoke Times, the regional newspaper. Why then was I dumping everything to live out of a backpack for six months? I'm sure they thought I'd lost my mind.

The story is complicated, and involves a lot of soul-searching on my part, but the short answer is this: I didn't want to be one of those people who let life pass her by. I wanted to see what was out there, and I was afraid, at that point in time in my life, that if I kept on the working-woman routine, I would find myself confined to an office with no windows in just a few years, looking around me, going, "What happened?" eating Little Debbie snack cakes and shopping at Wal-Mart.

Life was too short -- I knew it.

So off I went.

Appalachian Trail thru-hikers call this time of year "Springer Fever," because with spring there also comes that restlessness that makes one want to get moving. Even here in Alaska, where I'm watching snow fall heavily right now -- winter is still here despite what the calendar says -- I'm getting that itch. I want to do something different, shake up the pot, see what comes tumbling out. My god, one can only do so much laundry and wash so many dishes before they become invisible.

All romance and adventure aside, though, hiking the Appalachian Trail was a tremendously difficult mental and physical undertaking. While hiking is not, say, as adrenaline-rushed as blasting down white-water or climbing inverted rock faces, it is most definitely an endurance event. Every day, from March 18, 1993 to Sept. 11, 1993, I had a goal, a purpose and a reason to keep going. It was simple, really, and even on the days when I "lollygagged" -- only hiking three or four miles because I just couldn't muster the willpower to go more (or, more likely, because I was enjoying a good book, or time with friends I'd met along the way, or just taking in the scenery) -- the fact is, life was simple. Hard, but simple.

I yearn for that now, and I get frustrated when people say, "It's different, you have kids, bills to pay, 'responsibilities.' " What the hell are "RESPONSIBILITIES" anyway? This is a rhetorical question -- of course I understand what I need to do to raise children who can add to society, become functional, compassionate adults. I just question the "getting-there" process that seems so wrapped up in money, status and possessions. Can't my family and kids learn this a little differently?

My mind is wandering like a heavily braided river right now, and I'm not exactly sure why, but I know a good portion of this blather has something to do with the arrival of spring, and that "Springer Fever" itch I'm feeling to make more of our life than the monthly mortgage and homework routine to which we so easily fall back on. To instill in our kids a sense of adventure -- and confidence to follow-through with it -- is much more valuable to me than making sure they have the latest "whatever is in style" these days. It's a balancing act of earning enough to provide this (which is why we spend more money on travel than we do on home, possessions, etc.) while still inserting some sort of sense of normalcy (although normalcy is much overrated, but that's just me....)

I could've driven the Interstate from north Georgia to Maine, checking out all the cool places along the way, making a wonderful vacation of seeing the towns and meeting the people through each of the 14 states through which the Appalachian Trail passes. The end destination would have been the same.

Still, I believe the route is the key. In fact, it's not the same trip at all.

And I don't want to lose sight of that now, when all the pressures of the "must-haves" seep in to today's life.