a kingdom built of seeds

Why do you walk eight, nine, 10 hours a day? In any weather and conditions, on whatever tracks or pavement or gravel or dirt or sand or grass, through deep mud or rushing water—anything the day brings? In whatever environment, from muggy subtropical forest to beaches to farmland to towns or cities to quiet or busy roads to the few alpine areas in New Zealand’s north island?

Certainly not for the inspiration, nor even the experiences and lessons. You do it for the act of movement itself, the commitment, perseverance, mental fortitude, and grit. It’s not flashy, glamorous, heroic, or even all that rewarding at times. Again, it’s the act of following through that really makes it count. Put it in the steps of hard work everyday, however you feel and whether you feel like it or not. It’s like getting up and going to work. You just do it. 

If, during the walk, you asked me why I was doing it, I couldn’t give a straight answer. I still can’t. I only know it’s what I chose, and the only requirement was this: just get up everyday and walk. That’s all you have to do. Nothing else, nothing more.

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​​After 1715 kilometers / 1065 miles (again, with a few short hitches here and there), I finished walking the north island section of Te Araroa in New Zealand. It took a day under two months. Mixed feelings. Unsure what it meant. I felt the emptiness of it. “Oh, it’s over.” I stopped asking myself what it was for, what purpose it had.

I asked another walker, “If it doesn’t mean anything or make you excited, why do you keep doing it?” Good question. 

Really, like anything, it becomes a way of life. You just get up and go through the routine all over again. Waking up around 6AM and tearing down and packing up, oatmeal and instant coffee for breakfast, walking, muesli bars for snacks, walking, peanut butter on tortillas for lunch—maybe with some crackers, nuts, dried fruit, or chocolate if you have some, walking, arriving, unpacking and setting up camp, ramen and tuna for dinner, socializing with other walkers, crawling into the tent and quickly falling asleep, maybe after writing a little about the day (this routine broken up by welcomed town days, of course). Then suddenly, after two months of averaging around 30 kilometers per day, you reach the end, accomplish the goal, and it’s over. All the unique places, all the interesting people—other hikers, helpful locals, trail angels—all the good days and hard days and full-on bad days, all the shortcomings and successes…it’s all over.

What did I learn? What will come of it? 

Putting in the hard work to accomplish a goal is difficult but rewarding. You learn to live in the tension of playing the long game but taking it one day at a time.

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Two months of walking and I still can’t get around to adequately describing it. I still don’t know how to talk about it. What to say, when people ask how it was and what it was like? I got up everyday and walked. That’s all. It’s mostly uninspiring, with brief hits of deep emotion. After a while you look too much at your feet. You don’t take enough breaks or days off. You pay less attention to what’s around you than you did at the start. It becomes more about just getting there rather than being present. As usual, reality doesn’t match romanticism; experience doesn’t match the ideal.

But does any of that matter? Hardly. All that matters is that you get up and walk. That’s it. What a relief it was some days to know that nothing more was required of me. Not to be inspired or pay attention or feel good or look around or love it or even like it. Just to get up and follow through, everyday. 

Of course you always want more from yourself than you can possibly give. A hard lesson learned over and over. Or never. Just do what you can. Like the thru-hikers do. Like I did. I got up everyday and did the only thing asked of me. Eventually, it got me to the end of Te Araroa in New Zealand’s north island. I walked until I was finished. Yes, I still have another island to go, and I’ll come back next year to finish what I started.

It doesn’t need to mean something or be profound or hold obvious significance. (For someone like me who tends to get lost in questions of meaning and significance, who wants every experience to be profound, that’s easier said than done.) It’s the movement that matters. It’s the follow-through that counts.

“Get up off your mat. Stand up and walk.” I hear those words ringing somewhere in the background.