Walk down this road and you’ll find yourself on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). If you’re game for the whole 2,659 mile hike, you can hoof it from the U.S. border with Mexico all the way to Canada. Reese Witherspoon pretended to do it in the movie Wild, based on Cheryl Strayed’s real life slog.
I got to know the PCT travelers when I lived in the mountain town of Idyllwild, the first stop where the PCT’s can pick up mail, have a shower, collapse in a real bed and either head home doing the hike-of-shame or revive and trek on.
I became pretty good at telling the newbie hikers from the pros. They'd descend upon the town in the spring, like exotic migrating butterflies whose colorful wings were replaced with bright scarves and parkas, knit caps and sun hats. And, like newly hatched butterflies, some were energetic and buoyant as they drifted around, while others were pathetically saggy, hardly any flutter left in them at all.
The hikers would usually hang out for a few days before heading out again. They'd converge at one of the local coffee houses in the morning, carbo loading and chugging coffee, wearing Patagonia or North Face for utilitarian purposes rather than for style, like me. (This actually made me feel self-conscious. Wearing “new” mountain gear in the mountains is an immediate impostor-poser giveaway to real sports folk. It’s like wearing an Armani suit to a weenie roast.)
Watching the hiker gangs reminded me of being a kid at camp, bonding with strangers through a common experience. They were insiders in the same club. They were inclusive. Age, race, skill didn’t seem to matter. Instead, dedication to a shared goal was numero uno. How they offered an “all-for-one and one-for-all” kind of support was something to envy. Watching it made me sad.
In childhood, groups come together in good spirit as part of daily life: scouts and sports teams in the park, slumber party pals and tree house club buddies. But for adults? Not so much.
If you think you’ve changed since you were a kid hanging out with your buds, you’re wrong. And you know it. You can feel it. Most adults I know are hungry for contact. You’re the same, just bigger. You still want to be with your peeps, relishing the unmistakable feeling of being totally understood.
Those experiences come out of groups. In adulthood, people sometime secure that bond through hardship. Alcoholics Anonymous, cancer support or grief groups offer an essential nest for healing in the presence of others just like us.
But the kind of coming together I’m talking about is the kind we knew as little squirts. It’s the kind the Pacific Crest Trailers share. And, it’s the kind which science has suggested will make us live longer and healthier lives.
Journalist and author Dan Buettner wrote about the Blue Zones, areas on the planet where people live to advanced age in astonishingly good mental and physical health. “Community,” according to Buettner, is one the 9 elements supporting this super duper quality of life. He found that people who thrive in their older years have daily contact with others. They might be friends, grandchildren, people in one’s village, town or city. And it’s more than stimulation, it’s the experience of mattering, being “a part of,” belonging, feeling valued.
I’ve recently moved to a new community. I’m on the hunt for a vital group hang with my peeps. I’m starting with, no pun intended, Sunday morning bird watching.