Minimalism & Thru-Hiking

Minimalism is a buzzword of our era. There are Netflix documentaries and series about it, and YouTubers who make their living espousing the miracles of minimalism. Ironically- the marketplace is attempting to capitalize on the trend so you will buy more books telling you to get rid of all your things or buy the perfect bins for your pantry so you can finally have a photogenic gradient of legumes without any distracting labels (no shade-I reorganized my pantry into mason jars this year). 

Anyone who has thru-hiked has had personal experience with how freeing minimalism can be. When everything you need must be carried on your back, there is an advantage to bringing less, or bringing only what you truly need. Every item in our lives can carry a subconscious weight, as we knowingly or not try to figure out it’s place and purpose. I think one of the main reasons thru-hiking can be so addictive is that once people have their lives stripped down to the bare minimum, they crave that feeling again and again. When the only items we are required to keep track of can fit into a pack, our mental load is considerably lightened and free to focus on other things.

I’ve felt that yearning to return to a lightened mental load repeatedly in my life. I crave the simplicity of thru-hiking and will take drastic measures—like constantly moving across the country and living out of my car—to force unnecessary items out of my life. Whenever I would become settled again, I would inevitably accumulate more things and the process would repeat itself. 

Maximalism

Nowadays, I’m back to being established in one place, but it feels different. Before, I had my personal belongings in storage with various relatives across Arizona. Now I have mostly everything in one house--my house. And the past year I’ve mostly been trying to stave off the crushing overwhelm of all of these things I thought I needed at one point or another, from childhood or from five years ago. 

In this home life I am far from being a minimalist. I have shelves and shelves of books, mementos of my own, mementos of my parents, and far too many extra linens from the house I grew up in. In between the panic, I’ve had bursts of motivation to get rid of things— to sell, donate or trash the ultimately unusable. Anything remotely nostalgic brings all progress to a halt. The road has been slow.

Surrounded by all of these things, I can’t help but miss the months where every last thing I needed was being carried on my back. One spoon, one pot, one sleeping bag, one outfit was all I needed to walk thousands upon thousands of miles. It makes me wonder, do I really need an extra set of sheets for my bed, or more than one thermos to keep my coffee warm? How many things that are supposed to make my life easier, are really just weighing me down? 

Every one of my possessions while on a thru-hike.

Lightening the load

Materialism has been linked to less concern for the environment, more financial debt, and most importantly, a lowered sense of personal wellbeing. [1] Thru-hiking temporarily removes us from the capitalist grindstone and hurls us into the woods. Being in a car and winding down roads suddenly feels sickening and dangerous. The fluorescent lights and seemingly endless options at the grocery store prompt a steady panic to rise up my throat. I’ve heard it from thru-hiker friends too, town is nice, but it can bring a familiar sense of dread that is only soothed by the first step back onto trail. 

With all the time we have to think while hiking, it’s easy to narrow down what we really care about, and plan ahead for what we want to remove from our lives when we are done. 

I’ve witnessed the effect of this with my own thru-hiking friends--who upon return sold the majority of their possessions--sometimes to hike more, sometimes to start living in a van, and often just because they were searching for that sense of simplicity again.

Many hikers are left with the challenge of how to transmute the simplicity of trail life into all of the complications and chaos of modern life. One option is to Marie Kondo the crap out of your life—go crazy and get rid of anything that either doesn’t bring you joy or serve a purpose. Many people enjoy this and have found value in this approach. But does it really bring back the raw minimalism that the trail provides? 

Obviously there are other aspects of trail life that make it so life-changing and sometimes hard to replicate in our off-trail lives: being outside 24/7, singular focus on an epic goal, and a like-minded and close-knit community. So adding minimalism to your normal life won’t necessarily bring back the same simplicity of a thru-hike. However, separating yourself from the materialism and consumer culture that surrounds us will most likely do good things for mental health. 

Personally, I am trying to find the middle way. I am getting rid of as much as I can, but keeping the things that make it feel homey here. I haven’t had a home base in five years and I want to cultivate a space that provides the grounding I have been searching for in that time. I own too many books, too many houseplants, and too many toys for my cat, but I’m creating a home that feels like my own. And every time I bring a load of things I don’t need to the thrift store, I feel perceptibly lighter.