PCT SOBO WA part 1: Despacito

7/14/17 to 7/18/17
Harts Pass to Canada Border to Rainy Pass
91 miles

Day 1

I wake at dawn to birdsong in Premila’s backyard in Bellingham (dawn comes so early in the north!) and a few hours later, twenty or so of us are packed into two large vans, heading for Harts Pass. Premila is an incredibly kind and generous trail angel who has arranged all of this (thank you Premila!!) and I experience waves of gratitude as I watch the thick forest go by outside the van window, the leaves of the trees hazy with that soft pacific northwest sunlight. Gratitude is what I’ve been feeling in general, lately. So much gratitude! Premila’s daughter, Swept Away, is with us- Swept Away southbounded the PCT in 2014 (and I met her that year on the Mt. Whitney trail while doing the L2H!) and is doing this first section again. Her labradoodle is in the van too, and I give it lots of pats. It is good luck to pat a labradoodle before a long journey, as the old saying goes.

It’s hot at 3:30 when we finally reach Harts Pass and I am shaking with excitement and pent-up energy after a week of no exercise travelling ever-northward getting all the things done. Also jittery with sleep deprivation and just sort of high off all of it, the anticipation and the bright yellow sunshine on the green mountains and the wild unknown.

We start walking and my heart is pounding and then my body remembers, I know how to do this. The PCT is gentle and kind, the most glorious single-track on god’s green earth and the mountains in the north cascades are massive and exploding with flowers and dotted with cute snow patches and my god, what a time to be alive.

My heart won’t stop pounding until 8pm when I’ve gone 12.4 miles and I’m plum wore out and I pitch the mosquito net part of my tarp in a dim forest and wriggle into my sleeping bag against the cold. I’m not in shape so I know what’s coming and I laugh darkly to myself as I drift off to sleep…

Day 2

I dream I have to kill a bear. It’s not too hard, turns out, once I set my mind to it. What? I think when I wake up, then I remember where I am. My shoulders and feet are a bit sore today, but not too bad. Tomorrow, then…   

This is my fourth time hiking this stretch of the PCT from Harts Pass to the border, since in 2014 I turned around once reaching Canada and hiked back to Harts Pass (my passport had expired). Once I turn around today it’ll be my fifth… I recount memories as I pass them on the trail. Here’s the long uphill where I felt tired in 2014, here’s where the washouts were, here’s where we took a break to watch the sunrise, here’s where Ramen and I camped our last night in 2013, when it snowed. Here’s the stream I got water when my hands were numb.

Paintbrush, columbine, lupine, Alpine Meadow’s Greatest Hits. All the green things tryin to procreate before winter comes back in two months. A week ago there was snow across the trail in this section, now there’s not and we don’t need our microspikes and ice axes. Some of the people who started with me are already in good trail shape and have packs the size of peas and they fly by me, but I don’t mind. I know the price they pay for packs that light- cold-soaked couscous in a peanut butter jar and a dropper bottle of bleach to treat their water and only deet between themselves and the mosquitoes at night. “Go! Go!” I think when they pass me, and I imagine them turning the mountains beneath their legs. Others have packs like mine with like 6 luxury items and a sleeping bag that’s warm even on the coldest nights. And of course, as at the beginning of any triple crown trail, there are a few people with 60 lb packs who also don’t know how to navigate, even on a trail like the PCT, and on day 2 they’re already crippled by the weight of their packs, sitting on the side of the trail crying and complaining. I feel compassion for them but I also feel kind of irritated because they did literally no research and didn’t know what the trail or conditions would be like or what backcountry skills they would need and there is so much assumption and entitlement in that and it’s such a white person colonizer thing and it really rubs me the wrong way, like Chris McCandless going to that bus in Alaska with a sack of rice and no skills and not knowing the river would be impassible and then dying? Like do your homework maybe and check you arrogance? And then I realize I’m being judgmental and also ranting in my head and I try to stop but it’s hard.

I don’t really feel anything at the canadian border, and there are lots of biting flies. I try to take a good selfie and then turn around and begin the long plod uphill. I’m getting tired but frick this section is beautiful.

I camp at Hopkins lake which is like a pretty jewel set into a bowl in the mountains. 24 miles today.

Day 3

The cold wind whooped all night and I was awake, although I know I must’ve slept. At 7 a.m. I pull myself up to find that my body is so sore I can barely move.

Ah, there it is.

I stand up and pain zings from my shoulders to my hips to my feet to the backs of my knees. Beginning-of-the-trail-pain. Old friend. I’ve been waiting for you.

Maybe 24 miles yesterday was too much. I’ll stick with 20s now, that should be doable, I hope.

I feel like I’m stuck in a wierd reality where I’ll pinball back and forth between Harts Pass and the border, forever. At last I reach Harts Pass and am then beyond it! And the illusion is broken, and I’m free. It’s cold today with clouds and the trail drags me up and then down again (gently) and I camp in a meadow after 19 miles.

Day 4

I wake once shaking under the cold stars to pee and then sleep till 8(!!), and in the morning I’m a new person. Everything is grand today, and the mountains are bursting with light. I’m invincible! No, wait, I’m not. Zing! Goes the pain. I want to be strong already! But that takes time. How long? A month? I argue in my head about it. 

The world is a painting of craggy peaks and wildflowers and I’ve had the same song stuck in my head for three days. I leapfrog some other hikers and make some smalltalk and that feels good. I accidentally hike 8 miles without water because I forget to check the water sources but it’s chill. I’m hiking the PCT inside out, all the downs are up and the ups are down…

I drop down into the lush lower elevation rainforest where the big trees are and the tangles of plants and I thank the trail crews (bless them!) who miraculously keep these 2,660 miles free of debris so that us ner-do-wells never have to lift our feet more than six inches off the ground. Hiking other trails and routes since the last time I was here has given me a lot of perspective, I realize, as I climb over one very cute and non-offensive blowdown that I’m sure someone will photograph and post to the PCT facebook pages with lots of dire warnings.

Down down down into the rainforest that eats the bright sunshine and exhales the most oxygenated air. Impenetrable understory and towering conifers and fungus and a million interconnected things. It’s a living creature, I can almost hear its heatbeat. I stop for a moment, in awe. Hello forest, I say to my friend.

I could try for 25 miles today but my tendons are telling me that if I do that, I’ll break, so 21.5 will have to do. At any rate, I’m grateful to get to spend a night in this magic low forest. There is so much pleasure in eating hot soup sitting on the ground after soaking my aching feet in the icy stream water. So. Much. Pleasure.

Day 5

I climb out of the forest and am deposited once again on ribbon trail through alpine wonderland with its riot of flowers and 15 miles later I’m at Rainy Pass, where highway 20 wends its way through the mountains. My next resupply box is in Stehekin, 20 miles further down the trail, but right now I could hitch to Winthrop, where I’ve never been… I sit in the dirt eating warm salami and think about it. My whole body aches and I’m pretty dang ty-ty, and in Winthrop I could wash my buttchafe. Fuck it. A sprinter van at the trailhead is going to Winthrop, they’ll give me a ride. Winthrop is hot and bright and old-timey western. In the hostel bathroom I discover that sunscreen is caked on my face in a wierd patchy way, and probably has been for days. I procure a cute bunk and sit in the yard post-shower, listening sleepily to other hikers talk about their insoles and whether or not we’ll need our microspikes for the next section (no-one knows) while my body furiously sends new cells to my knees ankles feet for repair. It’s good to be here. 


Southbound on the PCT in Washington!

I’m hiking the Washington section of the PCT, southbound! I start in less than a week!!! I’m kind of terrified, mostly afraid that my health will break. I feel like I’m standing on thin ice over a deep, hypothermic lake of chronic illness- the ice is getting thicker, but slowly. However! If I start to feel less than awesome I can just do part of the state. Even if I only do one section, that’s ok. Really I’m just super super excited to see my fren the PCT in the North Cascades- I have hiked the PCT through WA in the cold rain in the time of the ripe blueberries, and in the sunshine and swimming holes of August. Now I’ll get to see it with some lovely snow, do some satisfying problem solving at stream crossings, and maybe glissade a bit. Ahhhh I’m so grateful to exist rn and it feels so good to feel good after such a long time of… not. I’ll post blogs here but the first one likely won’t be for a while, as I won’t have service. Yay!

How DIY Fecal Transplant (has so far) Cured My IBS and Chronic Fatigue (with monthly updates)

on the L2H, 2015

In May, I wrote here about my chronic illness. Since then, everything has changed. In June, I cured (so far, at least) my IBS and chronic fatigue with DIY fecal transplant, aka Fecal Microbiome Transplant, aka FMT. Which is gross, and weird, but also kind of amazing. And it worked.

(Everything you need to know about FMT, including detailed DIY instructions, can be found here- thepowerofpoop.com)

If you’ve never read my blog before, here’s a recap- In 2013, I walked from Mexico to Canada on the Pacific Crest Trail. It was the first time I’d done anything very physical in my life, and I loved it. So in 2014, I hiked the PCT again. In 2015, I set out to walk from Mexico to Canada on the Continental Divide Trail. I was two months into this hike when everything changed.

I got giardia from drinking untreated groundwater. The doctor prescribed the antibiotic flagyl (metronidazole), and soon after finishing the antibiotic a dark sense of foreboding and fatigue that felt akin to the lead blanket that’s placed on you at the dentist’s office settled onto my shoulders, and it never left. Along with the chronic fatigue, I also developed IBS. I’d had digestive issues for years, but I’d always been able to manage these issues with light dietary restrictions (no gluten, dairy or soy). Now, along with gluten, dairy and soy, I couldn’t eat any grain, eggs or nuts without cramping and diarrhea. I began to follow the autoimmune paleo diet, which excluded these things as well, and this helped some, but I still had strange unspecified abdominal pain that came and went. I was also often dizzy and nauseous, especially if I tried to exercise, and constipated on the reg.

This wasn’t the first time I’d taken antibiotics, nor the first time I’d taken flagyl, but something about this combination of giardia + flagyl was the tipping point for my digestive system, and it was all downhill from there.

I finished hiking the Continental Divide Trail in September of that year, but the second half of the trail was not fun. Hiking, and exercise in general, had gone from something that consistently made me feel amazing to something that, about half the time, made me feel exhausted and sick. Over the next year I reluctantly dropped my physical activity level way down, and yet my health still continued to decline. In addition to the fatigue and IBS, inflammation appeared- my whole body would ache when I was stressed. I was occasionally feverish for no reason I could discern, or I would break out in hives. It was difficult to sleep well, yet if I got one minute less than eight hours each night I had flu-like symptoms the next day, and was hardly able to function. Even if I did sleep well, my chronic fatigue was often such that I needed to rest for an hour or two between each of the day’s activities- run an errand, lay in bed for an hour. Make food, lay in bed for an hour. Answer emails, lay in bed for an hour…

For that first year, I still had periods where I felt mostly normal, and I was able to twist my life around these. I was doing seasonal farm work as well as working as a writer, and when I felt sick I would work less, stop exercising, and rest as much as I could. This was actually enjoyable, at first. Who doesn’t want an excuse to lay on the couch all day, watching netflix? Eventually, my health would return and I would ride that wave, living my life as though I was healthy, until I had another flare.

Then, in late 2016, I had a particularly stressful month, and in the flare that came afterward, the brain fog appeared. I could bend my life around digestive issues, exhaustion, dizziness and gloom, but the brain fog was, by far, the most alarming set of physical symptoms I’d ever experienced in my life. Suddenly, I had difficulty organizing my thoughts. I couldn’t remember anything. I was confused. I couldn’t write. I could barely read. I couldn’t focus. The simplest tasks, like putting together supplies for a trip, were so overwhelming that I would cry. I felt like I had dementia, or was losing my mind, or both.

Also, the brain fog was embarrassing. Here is an example:

A friend of mine in Tucson, M, was waiting for her friend, S, to move to town, and into the spare room in her house. Each week when I talked with M I got an update about S- now she was on her way, she was almost here, she’d be here tomorrow. Finally S was moved in, and when I went over to M’s house, S was there. S and I talked for a good half hour- she’d moved into her room, she’d brought two kittens with her that she’d adopted on the way. She hadn’t had any car trouble on the cross-country drive. She’d already found a job at a restaurant! She was stoked to be in Tucson. I told her I was doing a training the next day for the organization that M and I both volunteered with.

“I’ll be at that training!” said S.

“Great,” I said. “I’ll see you there!”

The next day, during the lunch break halfway through the training, I walked around, introducing myself to people. I introduced myself to one young woman I’d never seen before.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Carrot.”

She looked at me like I was insane.

It was S.

Now it was early 2017, and my flares were growing progressively worse, and my periods of health more fleeting. There were entire weeks where I was too exhausted and low functioning to leave the house. I slowly scaled back all my activities, and began to self-isolate. For two years I’d been making my living as I writer, and several months previously I’d begun to volunteer with a humanitarian aid organization that did work around the US/Mexico border. Now each week there was less, and less, and less that I could do. The hours and minutes of my days were ruled by my black depression, my sense of impending doom, my leaden fatigue, my anxiety, my inflammation, my digestive issues, and my brain fog. I was having the worst mood swings of my life- even if I felt good now, in an hour I might feel awful, and I was constantly having to cancel the few plans I did make. I was still following an auto-immune paleo diet, I’d brought the level of stress in my life way, way down. I was getting acupuncture and I was taking an antimicrobial blend of chinese herbs called Thunder Pearls, as well as probiotics. These things lessened the intensity and duration of my flares, but overall, I was still trending downward.

Then, I had to take antibiotics for a deep dog bite. I didn’t want to take antibiotics again! But DIY wound care for a puncture wound that was very close to an artery was more responsibility than I wanted to take on. While on the antibiotics, I actually started to feel better. And once they were finished, I dropped into a flare so intense I could barely leave the house for an entire month.

I couldn’t write. I couldn’t volunteer. I couldn’t make plans. I could barely, just barely, walk my dog, but it left me so exhausted. I was making a small amount of money each month in royalties from my first book, and this is what I lived off of, unable to do any other freelance work or work towards finishing my next book. And yet, I was beyond lucky to have this little bit of money coming in. I have no idea how I would’ve survived otherwise. If I’d had a job outside of the house during this time, I definitely would’ve lost it.

I felt as though my life was over.

I was finally approved for medicaid in Arizona and had an appointment to see a general practitioner, and, after I described my symptoms, the doctor looked at me as though I was insane. I was only 34 and I wasn’t overweight, so how could I be sick? My blood tests and thyroid tests came back normal, which made the doctor even more dismissive. This, in turn, made me feel even more hopeless.

All around me was darkness, and I could no longer imagine a future. To quote a classic meme, nothing brought me pleasure any longer.

And while I was depressed, everyone else seemed depressed too. I mean, most of my friends do struggle with depression. The machinations of late-stage capitalism are attempting to destroy the last bits of what is right and good in the world, and this is a really hard time in human history to be alive. But, in spite of this, there is not only sadness. Humans (and other creatures) everywhere continue to experience joy, catharsis, contentment, inspiration… all manner of other things, in addition to/besides depression. At this point in my life, though, this was impossible for me to see. All I could see was sadness, sadness everywhere. Everyone and everything was sad, sad, sad. Sadness that had always been and always would be. If this is the embodiment, I thought, if this horrible nightmare of hopelessness is the sum total of embodiment, then what even is the fucking point.

One day in the midst of this terrible bleakness, I found myself describing my health struggles to a friend.

“I know someone who used to have a lot of the same symptoms as you,” she said. “And then she did a fecal transplant, and now she’s cured.”

The sound of a record stopping.

In the realm of chronic illness, “cured” is not a word that you hear. You hear “managed”, you hear “learned to live with”. You hear “in recession”. You do not hear “cured”. But the wild thing about this roller coaster ride called embodiment is that when you least expect it, things will turn on a dime. And this was that moment for me.

The next time I had a bit of energy I did some googling and found the website thepowerofpoop.com. I learned that the microbiome in one’s gut consists of around 1,000,000,000,000,000 (what even is that number) bacterial cells, which is about 10 times the amount of human cells in a body. I learned that while we have yet to fully understand the myriad species that exist within a human gut microbiome or what each species does, exactly, we do know that there are a heck of a lot of them and that they are necessary and helpful for things like digesting food, making nutrients available, protecting the gut lining, holding territory against invaders and producing serotonin. There are even fungus and viruses that play a helpful role in ways we have yet to understand! Antibiotics, especially broad spectrum antibiotics like flagyll, are like atom bombs in your colon- they wipe out large numbers of important species at once- maybe hundreds of different species! And once these helpful bacteria are gone, bad bacteria can take over, causing imbalances and making you super fucking sick. When this happens, it’s called gut dysbiosis. I imagined the colon as a mature forest- the indigenous plants and fungi work in concert with one other, holding the soil in place, moving nutrients around, breaking things down. If the forest is damaged or clearcut, invasive species can move in, choking out everything else. One would think that one’s microbiome could be healed with cultured foods and probiotics- but these contain, at best, half a dozen species, and these might not even make it all the way down to your colon. In our current dystopia of antibiotic overuse, one needs something more powerful than probiotics, something with all of the original species intact. One needs… poop.

Ten times more bacterial cells than human cells. What even are we. I imagined bacteria on swivel chairs behind my eyeballs, pulling giant levers, making my arms go up and down.

I imagined a village, bombed almost out of existence.

The original occupants, who carefully tended the land and lived in harmony with the earth, are gone. A roving band of derelict cannibals squats the half-burned buildings. They’ve strip-mined all the surrounding area, and burned the forests. The runoff from their mines leaks into the rivers, poisoning them. They’ve hunted all the animals to extinction. Everything in every direction around these villages is barren and dead. The cannibals are the only ones who can still survive in this toxic, blackened world. While these derelict cannibals have always existed, normally they would live in small, isolated groups far out in the hills, and most of the land would be occupied by the Original Creatures. But the Original Creatures are gone, killed by a bomb long ago, and only the cannibals live here now.

Worlds within worlds within worlds.

I learned from thepowerofpoop.com that if one has gut dysbiosis and one finds a donor whose microbiome is intact and makes a slurry of this person’s poop and gives oneself an enema with this slurry, one can re-introduce all of the original and necessary microorganisms that one is missing and possibly restore one’s health. There’s a “success stories” section of the site that’s organized by disease (here), and I read all of the IBS stories. Twice. Then I read them three times. Ok, full disclosure, I read them all five times. (I also really like this success story.) I felt a small candleflame of hope flicker on within my cold, dead heart.

It’s afternoon, siesta time, when the cannibals’ huts begin to burn. They’ve just drifted off in their hammocks when the smoke comes wafting in the open windows. The cannibals spring up and rush outside as the thatched roofs burst into flames, hot and red against the hazy 2pm sun. Alarmed and confused, they crowd in the center of the village. They’re not sure what’s happening, and then they see them- the Original Creatures. They’re astride their horses just beyond the last house, loading another round of flaming arrows into their bows. Their children sit on the backs of the horses, watching the huts burn. They’ve got their domesticated animals with them, and their carts piled high with burlap sacks of seeds. They’ve come to replant the forests and the fields. They’ve come to take back their land.

According to the website, I needed to find a fecal donor with good digestion, regular bowel movements, a limited history of antibiotic use, and no parasites, food intolerances, acne, anxiety, depression, or mood swings, as these things can all be indicative of gut dysbiosos. Well, I thought. That rules out pretty much everyone I know. Also, even if I did find someone who qualified, why would they want to give me their poop, so that I could squirt it into my butt? It was all just so… gross.

The universe works in amazing ways (although that can be really, really hard to remember when you feel like total ass nearly all of the time) and as it turns out, as soon as I started talking to friends about how I wanted to do a fecal transplant, people started to volunteer, and within a week I had two potential donors who each met the criteria for good poops. In a few days I was leaving Tucson to spend the summer on the west coast, and one of my potential friend donors was going to be in Petaluma, California, staying at her parents’ place. It would make total sense to pass through on my way to Oregon and we could do the transplant there, she said.

Everything seemed to be working out and yet, the small candle of possibility had died inside me, as I simply did not have the physiological and emotional health to maintain any sort of hope, about anything. I was still waking up exhausted each morning, attempting to get shit done (packing, moving out of my house, putting all in order for my trip) while navigating black, heavy fatigue, dizziness, digestive issues, brain fog and the most insane mood swings. Hanging with friends was excruciating- for an hour, maybe, I would be ok, and then suddenly all stimulus would become overwhelming, and the sound of other peoples’ voices would be like nails on a chalkboard. I would retreat to my dim, sweltering house and lay on the couch with a mason jar of icewater, cringing in my own personal hell. An unshakeable sense of impending doom hung over everything. There was no future, that much was certain. How could I possibly have hope?

The quiet solitude of long-distance driving through beautiful country was soothing, and even if I didn’t feel hope as I headed west, I did feel a sense of peace. I camped the first night amongst joshua trees on a dirt forest service road in Nevada, and walked my dog through the desert as the sun set over the mountains. The next morning I felt good enough to go for a very small run, and it felt exhilarating to be in my body again. I was able to pretend, for a moment, that everything was alright, but afterwards my body ached so badly, as one’s body does when one has chronic inflammation and one attempts to exercise, that I could barely keep driving, and every hour or so I had to pull off the highway to lay down on the bed in the back of my van and rest. This was nice though, too- lying in my shaded van in the desert afternoon, reading the copies of the New Yorker I’d stockpiled for the trip, small dog curled against my side. There, again, was that elusive sense of peace.

Driving through Death Valley brought back memories of the time, in 2014, that I’d hiked from Badwater Basin to the top of Mt. Whitney with some friends- The Lowest to Highest Route. One of the hardest hikes in the world, and I had loved every minute of it. (I wrote about it here and here.) There was Telescope Peak, still dusted in snow, now, in early june- a ten thousand foot climb over fourteen miles, cross-country, and by the time we’d reached the top I was so high on endorphins I felt as though I could fly. We hadn’t brought enough water for the climb, and were pretty dehydrated by the time we reached the hidden spring in Tuber Canyon, on the other side in the dark. Every night of the L2H we had either hiked late, woke before the sun, or there were some sort of insects that wanted to drink the moisture in our eyeballs- and so for six days, we barely slept. It was fun, though. We became one with the lonely beautiful desert and it was so, so, so fun.

I was relieved when I reached Lone Pine, not only because the temperature gauge in my van had stressed me out a bit on the steep, narrow highway through Death Valley. Remembering the time when my body worked the way it was supposed to made me feel so sad, and I wasn’t trying to feel sad right then. I don’t need to be able to climb Telescope Peak again, I said to myself. I just want to be able to walk my dog without feeling as though there are lead weights tied to my ankles. But they were one and the same, weren’t they? I was either sick, or I wasn’t. And I was sick. This was where I was at, and there was no changing it. No hope, no hope, no hope.

A few days later I arrived at my friend’s parents’ beautiful house in Petaluma. The weather was cool here, near the sea, it even rained a little. At walgreens I’d picked up everything on the shopping list from the Power of Poop website (here), with a few modifications- I wanted to be able to throw everything away after each enema, instead of having to wash things for reuse, because that, to be honest, is fucking gross, so I got disposable fleet enema bottles, the kind with the saline solution inside, with the intention of emptying the solution out and using the bottle, instead of a hanging enema bag. I knew that, in theory, a hanging enema bag would move the solution farther up my colon, but I’d also read online reports of people having success with the bottles, and I just really, really didn’t want to have to touch poop any more than absolutely necessary. I got latex gloves, as well. No touching poop for me!

I slept badly in the quiet indoors and the next morning, June 7th, 2017, I woke up feeling horrible, per usual; chalk full of dread and exhaustion. Well, I thought. Here goes nothing. We had breakfast and hung around waiting for my friend to have a bowel movement, which was funny. At last she pooped into a tupperware, which was also funny, and I set everything up in her bathroom- doubled gallon ziploc bags, paper towels, etc. (I won’t go into more detail here about my process to spare you the grossness, but I basically followed the DIY instructions on the Power of Poop website to the letter, except for using disposable enema bottles instead of a hanging enema bag, and I chose to use plain tap water instead of saline or distilled. Read those instructions here.)

Everything was done and in the trash by mid afternoon, and a few hours later we decided to go out for thai food. The inside of the thai restaurant was quiet and peaceful, and when my yellow curry arrived, it was incredible. That first spoonful of the warm, spiced coconut milk with vegetables and chicken was, somehow, one of the most pleasurable things I’d ever experienced.

“This is the best yellow curry I’ve ever had,” I said to my friend, surprised. I looked around at the low tables, the other diners murmuring quietly, the mirrors on the walls. “This thai restaurant is amazing. Is your food this good?”

“Mine’s alright,” said my friend.

“I feel happy for no reason,” I said. It was true. But probably, I figured, it was the curry. This incredible, incredible, curry!

Next, we drove to the ocean. And, I mean, have you ever driven to the ocean? Better yet, have you ever driven to the ocean on a winding country road with the windows down? While listening to pop music? In the fog? Because, I tell you, it is incredible. It is beyond incredible. It is euphoric! And then, I mean, the fucking ocean! There are so many things happening, sensory-wise, at the ocean. There are smells, and air, and the sea itself, all calm and knowing, and more fog, and sand, and one’s dog being free, and wet stacks of sea-soaked rocks to climb over. And if you are there with a friend! My god, have you even ever had a friend? Because I tell you, having a friend, especially at the sea with the waves doing things and also a dog along with you, is amazing. I mean, human connection at the fucking ocean! Have you ever even hung out with another human? Really talked to another person? Because it is just beyond.

We walked along the wonderfully-textured sand with its ribbons of pleasing detritus talking and laughing, and the waves made charming splashing noises as they moved in and out amongst the nice rocks, and the warm-cool sea air caressed my skin the way I imagine it caresses the skin of people in romance novels.

“I feel happy for no reason, I feel happy for no reason,” I kept repeating. And in my mind, I said to myself It’s probably just because it’s fun to hang out with a friend at the ocean, nevermind the fact that for the past 2.5 years off and on, and for the past six months consistently, I’d been unable to have “fun” at all, no matter what the circumstances, and every time I’d tried to have “fun” it had felt as though I had no skin, and sensory stimulus was physically painful, to the point that I’d decided that “fun” wasn’t even real, and was some sort of cruel joke that popular culture had invented to torture all of us.

That night I went to bed happy but still, more or less, without hope. I mean, what were a few good hours, really? In the face of everything?

I slept for eight complete hours minus getting up once to pee and when I woke in the morning not only was I not exhausted, but this world, this new world into which I’d woken, didn’t seem like such an overwhelming place after all.

Waking up not just rested, but happy?

The morning doomcloud of dread which had informed so much of my life was, inexplicably, gone.

This. Was fucking. Insane.

“I’m cured!” I said to my friend. “I’m cured I’m cured I’m cured I’m cured!!” This was, I knew, preemptive, but I didn’t care. My own good attitude, this morning, was irresistible, and I didn’t try to fight it. I just felt so fucking good. Not only could I not remember the last time I had felt this good, I had completely forgotten that feeling this good was even a THING. But, dear reader, it is. It fucking is.

My magic new feeling wasn’t edgy-good, anxious-good, manic-good, or any other sort of shaky good that would come and then be gone in a blink of an eye, dropping me lower than I had been before. My new feeling wasn’t mood-swingy good. It was a solid, down deep good, like a cold volcanic lake in the middle of a huge forest, like a steel pole ran through my body straight into the center of the earth, like this good had always been here and would never go away again. And the very best part? The very best and most unexpected part of all of it?

My mood swings were gone.

My mood swings, which yanked me with clocklike precision from anxious to sad to fearful to sleepy and back again, were gone. My mood swings, which randomly dumped shame, regret, and/or foreboding in my lap when I least expected it. My mood swings, which dredged up bad memories when I was trying to, like, hang out at a party, or shop for groceries, or walk my dog, and played them over and over again in my head, until I was exhausted. The mood swings which destabilized me until I didn’t know what was real anymore, and what was coming from my own broken body. My mood swings.

Were fucking gone.

(One month later, my mood swings still haven’t come back. My mood hath not swung one single time since that first fecal transplant.)

The day after my first fecal transplant, I did another. My goal was (is) to do ten transplants total, as that is a number that other IBS sufferers, whose accounts I’ve read online, have had success with. While it’s been shown via science that fecal transplants are helpful for a variety of conditions rooted in gut dysbiosis, c-diff is the only condition that’s shown to have a high success rate with just one transplant. And even with c-diff, doing two treatments will give you an even more stellar success rate than one. A fecal transplant is, in essence, a super-probiotic, and doing multiple treatments gives the bacteria more opportunities to take root. It’s also shown to be helpful to have multiple donors, as different people carry different combinations of species and you get even more gut diversity this way, and have a better chance of replacing key species you might be missing. It’s the pokemon of gut microbes and you’ve gotta #catchemall, as they say.

My second fecal transplant was uneventful, and I continued to feel, weirdly and amazingly, cured. My fatigue had lifted, gone like a storm in the night, the sky blown empty and clear. I looked around me, at this brand new world I had been born into. This world, this life that was so hard, so hard for all of us, but hard, now, in a rewarding, heartening, almost tearfully beautiful way, and why hadn’t I been able to see that before? The human struggle, our struggle, was beautiful beyond belief, and I had, suddenly, the beating heart and the good blood to live this life. To face the constant deluge of bullshit that each day brings, and to see, through all of it, the beauty. My “new” self felt familiar- it was the me of three years ago, the me of five years ago. I felt as though time was moving backwards, and all the stories I’d told myself while I was sick- that my life was over, that I’d lost everything, that there was no hope left in this world- all these stories started to fall away- and I felt turned around and upside down and as though I no longer understood anything anymore. What was sickness, and what was health? What was real, and what was not? And was putting poop in my butt really all that it took to give myself the will to live again? How strange and surreal was that. And did it really matter, if nothing made sense to me? I felt alive in my body again, did I really have to understand?

I left Petaluma and my incredibly generous donor friend and drove north through the redwoods, en route to Oregon to spend some time working on a friend’s farm. My plan was to space the fecal transplants out over the summer, and continue to find more donors as I visited friends. Although I felt good now, I had no idea if the feeling would last. Along with atom-bombing one’s microbiome with antibiotics, and killing species that way, stress and trauma can create environments in our guts in which helpful bacteria have a difficult time staying alive. This is why stress management is so important in maintaining longterm gut health. But we can only control so much of what comes into our lives- existence throws us curveballs of stress and trauma. They say it takes a full year for one’s new gut bacteria to take root, and there are anecdotal reports of people who’ve had success with FMT but then had a traumatic or stressful event within the first year and have lost their new microbes, after which their chronic illness returned.

If there’s anything I’d learned in the two and a half years I’d been bringing the activity level in my life down lower and lower, it’s that the amount of stress that the average american takes on is fucking insane. Of course, we all have to navigate capitalism. We all have to hustle. But we place so much social capital on being busy, on productivity, on not even having one single bit of chill, and it’s fucking bonkers. We can’t remove all stress or trauma from our lives- life is suffering, after all- but we can prioritize cultivating better coping mechanisms and stop placing value in productivity above all other things. Having a chronic illness wherein one single drop of stress or five minutes of sleep deprivation could send me into a flare of IBS and chronic fatigue had made me very, very aware of the sources of stress in my life, how that stress felt in my body, and the ways in which I could manage my response.

Basically, meditation. Meditation, I’d found, helped me manage my response to stress more than anything. I resolved to get more serious about integrating a meditation practice in my life, something I’d been trying to do off and on for a year. And if I did somehow, in spite of stress management, still have a gut environment in which good bacteria were unable to thrive, or if a traumatic event killed them all off within the first year? Hopefully it wouldn’t come to this, and I’d be able to cultivate my own healthy gut universe that could withstand many things. But if not, I was willing to do fecal transplants every month for the rest of my life. If that was what it took. For now, though, I would start with 10. And see what happened after that.

here’s a picture I drew of my dog meditating

That night I parked my van in a less-than-ideal spot and slept poorly, worried about being towed. In the morning, even though I’d slept less than eight hours, I felt good. This was unprecedented, as when I was sick, sleep deprivation would automatically trigger a flare. But not today, not in this heartening new world into which I now woke. I had no fatigue, no brain fog, no crushing depression, no digestive issues. I found a nature trail along a creek and went on a slow, loping, six-mile run in the heat, my chihuahua padding along beside me. The run felt great. Afterwards, I continued driving, and I had no pain or inflammation. At no point, that day, as I continued north into Oregon, did I think “I just need to lay down for an hour”. My constant need to rest was, amazingly, gone.

I kept running. I was no longer in the great running shape I had been at other times of my life, but running felt good again, thank god, and I knew I would get stronger. I worked on my friend’s farm in Oregon, and working felt good again, too. I found another friend willing to donate, and I did four more transplants. I didn’t feel 100% every day, some days I felt 80%, but that seemed normal. I definitely still got sleepy faster than my 25 year-old friends, but as I was 34, this seemed normal too. I no longer felt eighty, and that was the most important thing. I felt solid and strong, and each week I continued to improve. I even had one really stressful week- my dog was super sick, and I didn’t know why (he’s fine now, thx)- and still my health did not break, my chronic illness did not return. It’s 7/9/17 as I write this- a little over a month since my first transplant- and I’m still cured. I’ll continue to post monthly updates here, as time goes on.

The forest is back, now, with its dense tangles of plants, animals and fungi, and the Original Creatures move amongst it, harvesting food and scattering seeds, their babies in slings on their backs. The rivers and air are clean once again, and everything is as it should be. It’s been a good century (bacteria time), and so many new generations have come and gone that you’d be hard pressed, these days, to find someone who remembers the time when things were barren. The Original Creatures carry spears as they walk the forest- not just for hunting, but in case they happen upon a band of cannibals. The cannibals are rare, now, and some of the Original Creatures have never even seen one, and don’t believe that they exist. What could threaten this perfect life, this world of abundance? And yet they stay alert anyway, as they dig up tubers from the rich dark soil. They’ve heard too many stories from the elders to relax completely, and they’re ready to defend this land again, should they need to.

Here’s a graph I made of my mood changes with FMT:


No More Deaths Ajo May Monthlong Program

No More Deaths volunteers on a water drop

It’s heating up in the lowland Sonoran desert, and becoming even more dangerous for those who cross the border. Even though the temperatures are brutal, people still cross in the summer. Because they have to. The multi-week journey this time of year is insanely dangerous, and many people will disappear in the Ajo corridor without a trace. In the last six months, twelve sets of human remains have been found in this area by No More Deaths volunteers alone. People are dying and yet, it’s uniquely difficult to provide effective humanitarian aid in the Ajo corridor due to the vast tracks of designated wilderness, much of it closed to vehicle access or any public access at all. Recently, No More Deaths has been ramping up their efforts to try and solve this puzzle. How do we get water to the people crossing in the Ajo corridor, as the summer temperatures begin to rise. How. The May monthlong program, No More Deaths’ second monthlong volunteer program in Ajo, is part of this. We’re currently raising money to pay for the month’s expenses (we’ve already had two trucks break down, lol). Click the link below to put your money where your heart is and throw down some cash (if you have it). And thank you!!

Ajo Desert Aid Camp GoFundMe- https://www.gofundme.com/AjoDesertAidCamp

another one bites the dust

Let’s talk about chronic illness (with doge photos)

A few years ago, in 2015, I started to get sick. While I’ve struggled with digestive issues for about ten years (and been able to mostly manage them with diet), this was something new- one day on the CDT I woke up with a flu-like fatigue, akin to the lead blanket they put on you at the dentist’s office, dizziness, and blurred vision, as well as joint pain and overall inflammation. While I was in this unfamiliar place I couldn’t think, read, or remember things very well. I felt fuzzy and disoriented and was overcome with what I can only describe as a massive, shapeless, impending doom. If you go back and read my CDT journals from 2015 (here or click the link in the menu above), you can see the exact moment when I get sick (and after which the entries become a little… dark). It was a few weeks after I drank water from a cow pond in New Mexico that my steripen wasn’t actually capable of purifying (it was brown and opaque) and after which I stopped filtering my water altogether, in Montana. While I had no digestive upset, I finally found a clinic that agreed to test my stool and I tested positive for giardia. I treated the giardia with flagyl, felt better for about two weeks and then wham- the sickness came back, even though I no longer tested positive for the G. And the mystery sickness has been coming and going ever since, alongside my long-standing digestive issues. I ordered some chinese herbs from my acupuncturist that help me for some reason I don’t understand (but she does) and eventually transitioned to the autoimmune paleo diet (most of the time). These two things have allowed me to live my life… about two thirds of the time. Unfortunately, along with intense exercise (no more five month trails for me!) The Sickness is triggered by acute stress, which is, unfortunately, a sometimes unavoidable part of life. As of May 2017, I have days, weeks even! Where I feel almost normal- where I can run and hike, think clearly, remember things, where I dream and scheme and the future is suffused with possibility- and I have days where I can hardly do the dishes and walk my dog. Days where I don’t recognize people’s faces, can’t organize my thoughts, and the lead blanket of doom and dizziness keeps me in my bed and knocks down all my plans, all my schemes and dreams and any sense of a future at all, brings me back to the most basic level of embodiment- breathing. Existing. Just being alive.

big & smol

I recently got health insurance in Arizona (which will last just until trump takes it away) and started seeing a (condescending, borderline mean, and surprisingly young?) primary care provider who seems to know nothing about anything and doesn’t actually believe me when I tell her that I’m sick. I got a colonoscopy, the results of which came back normal. Last week I had the TSH test for my thyroid, and that came back normal. I’m trying to get the doctor to give me the (more) accurate test for lyme’s disease (western blot, I guess?) (I’ve had the apparently rarely accurate one already- the ELISA test, it came back negative)(I’ve never had a rash from a tick but I have been bitten so hey, you never know) and I’m trying to get a referral to a GI specialist so I can get tested for far-flung parasites that are not commonly tested for but which- who knows! Maybe I have.

down 2 ride

I’m not the first person to get giardia and afterwards develop some weird chronic autoimmune-y thing. There are a number of studies where this has been shown to be a thing- give it a google if you feel like falling down the rabbit hole of the medical interwebs. In some ways, my search for a diagnoses is arbitrary- I have a thing that is similar to a thing a lot of other people I know have, and here we are struggling, all together, mere mortals in the grinding maw of existence having our brief go of it before we blink out entirely. Through most of human history, the average life expectancy was 35. I’m 34. Life is a gift, I know. Who am I to think I am entitled to anything else but what every other living being has experienced for infinity. Life is suffering, life is striving, life is brief moments of transcendence. Nothing is promised and in the end, everything we love is taken away from us. Not one living being is exempt from this ultimate and final law- no matter if you are rich, or powerful, the top of the food chain or at the bottom of the sea, if you live a thousand years ago or a hundred years in the future.

much blankets

Seven years ago I was in a serious relationship with a wonderful human named Corinne. We planned to spend our lives together because even though “forever” might only mean “four years”, this is still a good and proper thing to do. We discussed the trajectories of our lives, growing old, aging. We talked about dementia. When we were old together, we decided, we’d wear little vials of poison around our necks. Each day we’d watch the other do crossword puzzles. As soon as cognitive abilities began to slip, the poison would go in the pudding. We’d do this favor for each other because dementia was, we agreed, a fate much worse than death. We’d do this favor out of love. We laughed while we talked about this. “In the pudding!” we said.

The worst part about The Sickness, when I’m having a flare-up, is not the fatigue, the joint pain, the digestive issues. It’s the loss of cognitive abilities. When I’m sick, and often in the time it takes me to recover afterwards, I cannot write. I just can’t. I can hardly organize my thoughts, let alone create interesting new ones. All my writing projects- and I have a lot of them! Sit untended. When I’m in this place, the one thing I have always had, no matter what, in spite of everything, the thing on which I base my self worth, however misguided that may be, is taken away from me. I have never ever not been able to write. Not being able to write is the thing that really knocks me down, that brings me back to the most basic level of embodiment. When I’m in this place, I breathe. I exist. And I cry. Sometimes I cry.

I’m trying really, really hard right now- we all are, and I know I’m not alone. I don’t exist in a vacuum, my god I have so many friends with chronic illness all on their own journeys, I am just one of many, and I have support too, and I’m also lucky, in many many many ways. We all struggle in this brief time we’re allowed as humans and then we’re reincarnated as a flower, a coyote, a tree, a saguaro, and then a human again because the struggle never ends, it goes on and on and on. I’m here to witness that, to be honest I have no idea what the fuck is going on- isn’t that what life is? Just enough time to say “what the fuck is going on” and then it’s all over. I’m here to witness the confusion for as long as I may, for as long as the universe, which is more powerful even than trump (thank god) allows me to. Maybe I’ll finish the three books I’m writing or maybe there’ll be a nuclear war and the only thing that will get finished is modern human civilization. Fuck, I don’t have any answers. If anything, I’m trying to approach all of this with a sense of curiosity and, if I’m really really lucky, with wonder. Also I have a dog, and when I’m in the just-existing place he lays in bed with me and I smell his good old pennies/salami-on-a-hot-dashboard smell and watch his little chest go up and down with contentment and I know that if he can be grateful for what he has (nothing), then I can be grateful too.

I’ll write a more positive thing soon. In the meantime, thanx for listening.

just a chihuahua enjoying embodiment

desert heat/small doge/blind faith

My gosh it’s been a long time since I’ve written on here.

I live in Tucson now and the heat is coming on; I live live here as in I have a very small house with furniture that I like from thriftstores and things on the walls that I picked out myself and houseplants that I dutifully care for and derive pleasure from, even when I don’t quite understand their individual wants and needs (like is aloe vera a plant that you water regularly or nah?) and sunbeams streaming in the windows for better or worse (now we’re in the fast slide towards the hot-dry part of summer and I’m envying friends’ darker more insulated cave-like houses, it’s going to be 98 degrees tomorrow oh my god). And, most recently, a small doge- I selected him at the second-hand pitbull store on the edge of town with the circus tents full of howling strays and he was drugged up for doggy anxiety and emaciated and seemed to be in pain but I could tell he had a good heart and in just a few weeks he plumped up and made a full recovery and now he chills and/or walks with me through town in the sunshine making friends with all the strangers and generally completing my life. It is impossible to have a dog responsibly while hiking five months of every year but for many different reasons I know that that part of my life is behind me; I would list those reasons here but the thought of doing so makes me feel tired. One month or two month hikes are still hard as fuck/super fulfilling depending on the route and I still want to do them and I have no qualms with paying a friend to dogsit for that amount of time, but thinking about a five month hike brings to mind that heavy scurvy-like feeling one gets in one’s bones after months on the trail that is a combination of loneliness/isolation/boredom and deep mineral deficiency. I do not want that at this point in my life. My health is just not up to it, and neither is my heart.

So, a soothing doge 4 me. Pinto Bean the chillhauhua.

my house & my doge

The world is fucking hard to be in right now. I oscillate between the bleak despair that comes from holding space for/deeply feeling this descent into hellscape dystopia endtimes that is happening all around us, wherein the only thing that allows me to sleep is the knowledge that we’ll all die someday and that modern human civilization, which selects for sociopaths but which is also inherently unsustainable will eventually collapse no matter how we feel about it and Trump and his cabinet will be in the ground and the butterflies will return and grass will grow through the concrete and wolves will move back into the cities and huge flocks of migrating birds will shadow out the sun and literally every living thing will rejoice ala the PBS documentary The Wolves of Chernobyl (which you can watch online here) (I don’t hate humans, for the record, and I don’t want humans to die out as a species, nor do I think they will)- and a dumb blind true happiness that bubbles up from a deep place located in the very center of my body/the earth whose name is WE EXIST AND THAT IS FUCKING INCREDIBLE AND THAT WILL NEVER CEASE TO BE INCREDIBLE NO MATTER WHAT IS HAPPENING IN THIS GREAT DRAMA CALLED HUMAN EMBODIMENT, FOREVER AND EVER, UNTIL WE DIE.

There you have it, the inside of my brain in the year of our lord 2017, planet earth. Come what may.


The other thing that soothes me right now is my developing relationship with/understanding of the US/Mexico border and my continued efforts to find some small way to make some small change that even though it may be futile and near microscopic it still seems important and/or the only thing that really matters- laborious striving and blind trust in said striving without promise of actual result as spiritual practice/deeply grounding thing that tethers me to this churning mad human world and keeps me from floating away on a paper boat of helpless despair.

My writing practice has changed. I hadn’t realized it but I’d become dependent on long hikes to provide structure in which to be creative and also an environment in which it was impossible to overthink my the writing itself, due to time constraints/how uncomfortable it is to write on my phone while propped up on my elbows in my sleeping bag as the oncoming cold slowly numbs my fingers and the minutes are ticking away until I have to get up again with the dawn. Basically, I wrote about 100,000 words of the first draft to Thru-Hiking Will Break Your Heart on my phone in this manner and now that I have a House with wifi and Many Comfortable Places to Sit and lots of snacks to eat I’m finding it hard to work on… anything. Not impossible, just a lot harder. Which is interesting, and I think speaks a lot to having some sort of structure/constraints for daily writing practice as well as a sense of urgency, even if you have to psyche yourself up/create these things yourself.

Other thing: I went on a three-day bike trip through the Sonoran Desert from Tucson to Ajo with a friend this week, and that was fun. I carried Pinto Bean in a pannier and we slept in the dirt at night and when it got too hot we wilted in the shade at gas stations and drank fountain sodas.

down 2 ride

The stars were incredible and the sun was brutal and the highway was lonely and flat and I listened to old country and at one point I saw a white horse standing amongst the saguaros and thought, how do animals live out here, with all the cholla and with no water, but they do and they thrive and it’s beautiful. Bike touring seems chill, it’s lower impact than long distance hiking and has more access to gas station snacks. I think I want to do some more of it soon.

Pinto harasses friend Elsa on our wee bike trip

I’ve been trying to improve my spanglish. I do skype lessons with a teacher in Guatemala via Proyecto Linguistico Quetzalteco and I got a textbook to use and that feels good. One idea is to bike tour in Mexico for a bit as that would combine my desire to improve my Spanish so as to be more useful around the US/Mexico border with my deep need for periodic adventure lest I go insane. Summer is also a good time to GTFO of Tucson as it’s blazingly hot but it’s also hot in Mexico then so… we shall see.

There’s an update for you. Life is… amazing. What the fuck even is anything. I hope each and every one of my readers is finding some way to navigate the pounding surf of this world right now. Also, here is the best piece of journalism I’ve seen recently re: the history of fascism vs. antifa, for your perusal (the mythology/existence of antifa is so important right now as it flies in the face of everything and gives me hope in a way I can’t explain)- Inside the Underground Anti-Racist Movement That Brings the Fight to White Supremacists (Mother Jones)

Also! Some No More Deaths volunteers are trying to raise money to deliver a truck to the Chico Mendes Reforestation Project in Pachaj, Quetzaltenango Department, Guatemala. They need a mere $2k, here is the link for the fundraiser- https://www.youcaring.com/chicomendesreforestationproject-795948

Superior Wilderness Designs 35 Liter Pack

I have a new pack! This is very exciting. I love an ultra-tiny ultralight pack company. The kind of company that consists of two people max, and whose highly custom packs are made to order in like a basement somewhere. The kind of pack company that you don’t even know exists unless you are deep into thru-hiking nerdery. I had a pack that I loved from a company like this, Jeppaks, but they only made products for a few years and I’ve been looking for a new tiny pack company to befriend ever since they winked out of existence and I shredded my Jeppak on the Hayduke. Then, last year, I saw Superior Wilderness Designs on Instagram, and it seemed like their packs might fit my specifications- framed and with a hipbelt, roll-top, super padded shoulder straps, aesthetically pleasing, no more than 25 ounces. A few days ago my new pack arrived, and I am stoked. 

The Superior Wilderness Designs 35 liter pack (it’s actually more than 35 liters when you include the outside mesh pocket, I’d guess 45ish liters?) is made of something called X-Pac… I don’t know what X-Pac is. Upon inspection, it seems similar to the burly dyneema composite fabric (née cuben fiber) used by Hyperlight Mountain Gear in their packs. X-Pac is waterproofish, much like cuben fiber. It also comes in great colors. So. 

so that’s your backpack, huh

Human remains recovery with No More Deaths along the US/Mexico border


Since December I’ve been volunteering with No More Deaths, a volunteer-run humanitarian aid organization that aims to end death and suffering along the US/Mexico border. I’ve helped hike gallons of water into the Sonoran desert along known migrant trails, and I’ve also helped recover human remains. I wrote a piece about my experience so far for the Guardian-

“Finding human remains anywhere else in the US would be cause for public uproar – newspaper articles, grid searches, possible criminal investigation, a desperate scramble to connect the remains to a missing person. But not here, where we are, in the dry wilderness of southern Arizona, 40 miles from the US-Mexico border. Here, a person died an excruciating, untimely death far from the ones they loved, and their skull now rests in the center of an ocotillo bush, as though that was the most normal thing in the world.” -19,444 gallons of water in the desert: how volunteers save lives at the US border

I’ve also been chronicling the experience on instagram, if you’d like to see more photos- instagram.com/carrotquinn

No More Deaths is an incredible organization. They’re staffed entirely by volunteers, and in 2016 they put 19,444 gallons of water in the desert, over an area of 2500 square miles. They also staff a remote clinic in the desert 365 days a year and produce reports on human rights abuses around the border. Nearly all their budget comes from donations, and their biggest single expense is truck repairs- volunteers spend hours each day driving No More Deaths trucks on the roughest roads imaginable, in order to reach the most inaccessible corners of the desert, and multiple truck repairs are needed each week. I feel that in the coming months, groups that do work around the US/Mexico border, such as No More Deaths, are going to need extra support and protection- and if you’re looking for a way to support No More Deaths, here is a fundraiser for their truck repairs!

One Year of Truck Repairs and Water for No More Deaths

Even if you can’t donate- and I totally understand that not everyone can- please share this fundraiser with your own personal social networks- sharing helps just as much as donating! And thank you!!


One-on-one thru-hike preparation coaching via skype

Hey all, there’s been a lot going on lately, both in the larger world and in my own small world. I promise to have some more writings about all of that soon (actually there’s something coming in like three days? that I’ve been working on). In the meantime, I’ve decided to begin offering one-on-one thru-hike preparation coaching via skype, for those who are interested in the luxury of such a thing! Read more here, or email me at carrotquinn4@gmail.com if you’re interested in scheduling a session. Yay!


what’s going down and what we can do about it

Shit is really intense right now. I keep wanting to write something on this blog, but things are evolving so quickly that whenever I feel like I know what to say there is a new development, and I no longer know what to say or how I can even say it.

We have, via electoral college, elected a fascist as president, in the classic definition of the word. (Definition of fascism, via wikipedia.) The week after the election, I felt like I was in mourning; I couldn’t stop crying, I was barely sleeping, and my IBS started acting up again, after months of relative stability. At the end of that week I realized a couple of things- a) as a white person who is less visibly queer than a lot of my friends, I’m much less affected by this than more marginalized groups and b) things are happening very, very quickly, so we (fellow white people, I am speaking to you) need to suck it up and get to work, and we need to get to work FAST.

It’s not that I haven’t been involved in what’s going on in the world before this election- but I’ve been focused on the long game, my particular long game being “build a platform through my writing and use that platform to help shape and influence popular culture”. After the election, I realized that my long game wasn’t good enough. I needed a short game as well. Because we may not have twenty years to slowly shape the world around us. We may not even have five.

Here’s some things you should know, if you do not already:

Trump has chosen Steve Bannon as his chief strategist, chief strategist being one of the most powerful positions in the white house. Steve Bannon is founder of Breitbart News, a website that serves as the largest online platform for the Alt-Right- “Alt-Right” being what the neo-nazi movement is now calling itself.

Here’s a video that explains the Alt-Right- https://www.facebook.com/ajplusenglish/videos/839915112816664/

Richard Spencer, the person who coined the term Alt-Right and who is considered to be one of the founders of the movement, said recently at an Alt-Right gathering to celebrate Trump’s victory:

“America was, until this last generation, a white country designed for ourselves and our posterity,” Mr. Spencer thundered. “It is our creation, it is our inheritance, and it belongs to us.”

(That quote is from this article in the New York Times)

Here’s another great/chilling article on Steven Bannon/Richard Spencer and the “Alt-Right”

And another one

And another one

Even if Trump publicly disavows the support of the “Alt-Right”, his choice of Steve Bannon as chief strategist speaks volumes, as does the other choices he’s made so far. According to this article:

“On Friday, Trump added another polarizing politician to his team when he nominated Alabama Sen. Jeff Sessions for Attorney General. Sessions was denied a federal judgeship in 1986 for his reputation of spouting off racist comments. Around the same time he named Lt. Gen. Michael Flynn, who once pronounced on Twitter that “fear of Muslims is RATIONAL,” to be his national security adviser.”

And if you need to hear it via podcast, the Rachel Maddow show is now available in audio form, and she is doing a GREAT job of spelling all of this out in her most recent episodes. Here’s a youtube clip of one of her recent shows:

Incredibly intelligent people who’ve spent their whole careers studying authoritarianism and the rise of fascist governments have been sounding the alarm in the weeks since the election. Fascists run on platforms of nationalism, often ethnic nationalism- the “Alt-Right” is an ethnic nationalist platform. These are the people who elected Trump. These are the people he’s choosing for prominent positions of power.

“Having studied authoritarian states for over a decade, I would never exaggerate the severity of the threat we now face,” says journalist Sarah Kendzior, in the article How to be Your Own Light in the Age of Trump. She asks us to “Write a list of things you would never do. Because it is possible that in the next year, you will do them. Write a list of things you would never believe. Because it is possible that in the next year, you will either believe them or be forced to say you believe them.”  (If you read nothing else I’m linking to, read the above article- please.)

Timothy Snyder, history professor at Yale, wrote this piece: What You Can Do to Save America from Tyranny and says that “Americans are no wiser than the Europeans who saw democracy yield to fascism, Nazism or communism. Our one advantage is that we might learn from their experience. Now is a good time to do so.”

In the New York Times piece A Time For Refusal, Teju Cole says- “Evil settles into everyday life when people are unable or unwilling to recognize it. It makes its home among us when we are keen to minimize it or describe it as something else. This is not a process that began a week or month or year ago. It did not begin with drone assassinations, or with the war on Iraq. Evil has always been here. But now it has taken on a totalitarian tone.”

The most chilling thing I’ve learned in my race to educate myself and understand, in the weeks since the election, how fascism rises to power, is the tricky way that fascism has of slowly normalizing previously unacceptable behavior. Here’s a great illustration, via a series of tweets, of this process, which has played out again and again throughout history:

How Fascism Accumulates Power by Testing People: in tweets

So what do we do? Aside from the small, burning, far-flung hope that enough members of the electoral college will align themselves with the popular vote, December 19, instead of with the way their states voted, and elect Hillary Clinton- barring that tiny kernel of hope- how do we fight this. How do fight Trump and his buddies. How do we fight fascism, which, unless you insist on being in total denial right now, is very, very much here. Fascism is not new. It has played out in various ways, again and again, throughout history. And now it’s looming over us, like a storm about to break.

I don’t have all the answers, but I do have some ideas.


1. Understand the situation. Read everything you can from reputable news sources. Read pieces by historians and professors and other people who know their shit. Read everything I’ve linked to in this post! Listen to podcasts (Democracy Now and The Rachel Maddow show, now that it’s audio, are my favorites). Understand the history of fascism, and how it relates to our current situation. HERE’S A REALLY GREAT ANTI-FASCIST READING LIST. Read things! Understand what is happening!

2. Talk to the people around you. Not just on facebook, which can sometimes function as an echo chamber, but in person- talk to your relatives, acquaintances and closest friends. Talk to your family during the holidays. Talk to people on the bus. Talk to people you know whose families immigrated from countries with authoritarian governments. TALK ABOUT WHAT IS GOING ON. Resist normalization. RESIST.

3. Find an anti-fascist organization in your area. Use facebook, google, whatever, to find other people gathering to talk about fascism and ways that we can fight it. If an anti-fascist group does not already exist, form one with your friends. Read things together. And organize. Which brings us to:

4. Learn how to organize. Find people who organize and learn from them. Read books about organizing. Join some shit. Get involved.

Harry Potter knew what was up

5. Protest. All forms of protest are valid. Find what works for you.


This blog is read, mostly, by long-distance hikers, potential long-distance hikers, and people who like to read stories about long-distance hiking. While on trail with my fellow long-distance hikers, I hear people talk, again and again, of using the trail as a way to resist living the sort of life that one has been told that one “should” live, of hiking for months at a time as a way to live a life that feels “real”. In this way long-distance hiking is, in itself, a subversive act. Every subversive act takes guts, courage, and a certain amount of risk. If you have the guts to thru-hike, then you have the guts to organize against fascism. Right now.

For my part, I’m currently en route to Tuscon, Arizona, where I’ll volunteer with a group that does good work around immigrant rights. I have some friends who are headed to Standing Rock. Other friends have raised funds and donations for Standing Rock, in lieu of going themselves. (the medic team at Standing Rock is currently in urgent need of supplies and funds, following the violence of a few nights ago- donate and learn how to help here.) If you’re a hiker and looking for a study group, I’ve created a facebook group- Long-Distance Hikers Against Fascism. The long-distance hiking community can sometimes feel, at best, apolitical and totally checked out of how environmental conservation is related to what’s going on in the rest of the world, and at worst, racist, misogynist, and generally super conservative. This anti-fascist facebook group is my small push back against that.

Whatever you do- do not be in denial. This is history in the making. When future generations look back at us, which side of history do you want to be on?