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learning curve article from backpacking light

By: Maggie Slepian

Every backpacker, thru-hiker, or endurance athlete knows how to suffer. It’s an intrinsic part of what we do, and it sets the people who reach their goals apart from the people who quit from the discomfort.

Maybe you remember when you first learned to suffer. It could have been on a thru-hike, elsewhere in the mountains, or in some other, disconnected part of your life. I learned to suffer during my first season as a wrangler in Yellowstone National Park. It was 2010, I had just graduated from college where I had lots of friends and soft hands. I went from my plush New England existence to working 14 hours a day at a rugged corral where my coworkers hated me. It was my first experience with both manual labor and being despised.

Leading up to this point, I’d never had to “gut it out.” Life had been easy. To everyone’s surprise (and possible dismay), I finished the season—a full four months where I wanted to quit every. Single. Day. It was the first time I’d suffered in something and saw it through to the end.

I put my gym-class-rejection past behind me and learned to keep up because I was willing to be uncomfortable.

When it comes to many endurance endeavors, mental fortitude often plays a bigger role than physical capabilities, and this includes backpacking—athletic abilities are irrelevant for most long-distance hikers. Out of shape? Hike fewer miles. Out of breath? Stop and rest. It’s not a race and there is very little skill involved in walking. With this lack of hard skills is where the ability to suffer comes in. This is what sets the people who finish apart from the people who throw their packs down at a road crossing, stick out their thumb, and google nearest airport from the bed of the pickup truck that took pity on them.

I am a very average athlete. I lack coordination, endurance, speed, and anything else it took to succeed in gym class. As I got into climbing, mountain biking, and thru-hiking, I learned that while I was average in anything that makes people passable at sports, I could keep up and do well because I was willing to suffer. The mental aspect could override any physical shortcomings.

Long-distance backpacking is mostly mental. If you can gut out the bad days, you can finish.

I thought a lot about what sets people apart during my recent thru-hike of the Ouachita Trail. The people who are out there completing thru-hikes aren’t necessarily the ones who excelled in high school athletics. We saw a few other thru-hikers out there last month, and it seems like half of them quit before the halfway point, citing pain and discomfort. Totally fair! Long-distance backpacking can be a wildly uncomfortable experience and not something most people put themselves through. The people who do get out there are often surprised by the sheer misery some days on the trail throw at you.

Lying down on an asphalt bridge crossing during a night hiking section to alleviate some pain and get through the next four miles.

But the worst was the pain in my heels. It prevented me from sleeping and made me walk with a staggering limp. I had the nagging feeling it was the start of plantar fasciitis, but I never figured that out. Whatever it was, the pain would be absent for two or three miles each morning, then start building throughout the rest of the day until I would count my steps, backward from 500, to have something else to focus on.

This was the healing process for my blisters. The swelling and heel pain would continue to get worse over the next 100 miles.

For some (maybe asinine) reason, it never occurred to me to quit. Sure, I’d have stopped if I felt like I was truly injured, but the fact that my feet would (mostly) recover each night gave me confidence that I wasn’t doing irrevocable damage to my body. I figured my feet were just Going Through It, and as long as I could continue physically moving forward, I would. The suffering would eventually end, and in the grand scheme of things, I told myself it really wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t my knees or ankles, it wasn’t gastrointestinal distress, it wasn’t my back going out. I could walk through it. Plain and simple.

Whatever was going on with my feet, all traces of the pain had faded within two days of finishing

When we each learned to suffer, we also learned that the suffering eventually ends. That’s what keeps us going. My wise, endurance-athlete father once told me: “It doesn’t always keep getting worse.” That’s how I keep going, and that’s how I finish what I start.

Despite my curated existence on the internet and the fact that I am a Writer in the Outdoor Industry, I am not a skilled athlete and I don’t possess supernatural endurance capabilities.

Some of you might be lucky enough to be skilled athletes or have those supernatural endurance capabilities. Most of us though? We’ve just learned to be really, really good at suffering.

Original Source: Backpackinglight – Learning Curve: Learning to Suffer by Maggie Slepian

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