The Trails I Grew Up On
A narrative about the complicated feelings of being home
Every time I make the drive from the cornfields of the Midwest into the lush horse pastures of central Kentucky and eventually reach the hollers of the Appalachian Mountains where I grew up, there is a sense of complex nostalgia that crashes over me like the waves of a river. All of a sudden, I’m a bright-eyed kid with unruly curly red hair and an obsession for looking at bugs underneath every rock I come across. I’m a lanky plaid wearing teenager who so desperately wanted to fit in and ended up falling for the first guy who said I was pretty. I’m a complicated mess of emotions who adamantly refused to get my ears pieced and who ran off into the woods whenever I felt anything I didn’t want to feel.
I think about learning to play the oboe for the school band and all the pizza slices I refused at parties because of my eating disorder. I think about reading The Great Gatsby, Tuck Everlasting, and endless amounts of dog books that always made me cry. I think about the balls of my feet in the stirrups of a saddle while trail riding horses on Saturday mornings with friends from the barn. I think about taking the ACT and freaking out over how to make decisions that could affect the course of my life (let’s be honest, I’m still doing that. Hello, mid-twenties crisis).
Overall, being in the mountains has this way of bringing up swirls of old memories. Some are warm or bittersweet, while others are just incredibly painful and still fresh wounds that hurt today. I feel like this is normal. Whenever you leave home and then come back years later to walk around your childhood house as an adult, there will be complicated feelings. So far, I have dealt with these emotions in one of the only ways I know how: by looking toward the trails for comfort.
My quiet hometown
The small mountain town where I grew up has advanced so much since my youth. Old businesses have closed and been replaced with new models. Names have been changed, murals have been painted, the buildings have been renovated, but most notably, an emphasis on outdoor recreation has been initiated. The parks and natural spaces I knew so intimately as a kid have been given a facelift, and new multi-use trails have been constructed, much to my delight.
While I have enjoyed the additions and seeing my hometown grow, seeking out the particles that have not been changed is what brings me the most solace. In the middle of the week, I made a point to sneak away from my family for an hour to walk my parents’ dog on a nearby trail that pivotally shaped my love for running at a young age. Behind the community track, a hilly gravel trail wraps around the surrounding mountains like a rollercoaster. For a few miles, it creeps up and down the rugged Appalachian wilderness with occasional views of my town from below during the winter.
Clyde’s Story
Coming from a family of dog lovers who are also passionate about animal rescue, it’s no surprise why Clyde fell into our lap. Two years ago, we stumbled across a Facebook post about a dog who was abandoned on the side of the road outside of town. Multiple attempts had been made by others to secure him, but ultimately, Clyde was highly stressed and tried to lash out at anyone who came near. Feeling ambitious and also frustrated by the situation, my mom and I went out there to find him. After doing a fair amount of bribing with Wheat Thins, I managed to get this big monster of a white dog into our car.
From there, we tried reaching out to different rescues in the area to see if anyone could work with him and his unpredictable behavior. Unfortunately, all organizations and non-profit groups were at max capacity and unable to take another dog in, especially one who was showing aggression. With no other options available, I was convinced that the only thing we could do was to surrender Clyde to the county animal shelter. This was the last thing I wanted to do because I knew the shelter was already overflowing and struggling. When I got there, I had a rather emotional heart-to-heart with one of the employees who immediately said that Clyde would be put down. Needless to say, I brought him back home, and so far, my family has been making it work.
Since then, Clyde has come a long way in building his trust toward my family and others. He has quite a rambunctious, energic personality that can be hard to manage sometimes. Anytime I am home, I try to do what I can to establish some boundaries and teach him basic manners, but with his small attention span and the fact that he’s literally 80 pounds of pure muscle, it can be difficult to handle. Eventually, the hope is that I can bring him to St. Louis to live with me. Because I am out of school and not working a traditional job at the moment, now would be the perfect time to get him ready for the transition from rural, holler life to a suburban wonderland.
The first trail I fell in love with
For our first official training session, we hiked along the gravel trail near the community track, a route I know like the back of my hand even after so many years away. As the only runner on the elementary school cross country team, I often trained with the high schoolers. Being tiny, slow, and highly intimidated by the “big kids” around me, I mostly stuck to myself during practice. After warming up on the track, it wasn’t uncommon for our coaches to have all the runners exercise on the trails in the hills since practically all of our home meets would incorporate parts of the mountain paths.
I remember being left behind each practice, watching the backs of the high schoolers cruise up the start of the trail while I struggled to keep up. Eventually, after weeks went by, being dropped didn’t sting anymore, and I actually started to look forward to the alone time. Just me, the trail, and the woods. The sound of my heavy breath laboring with the pitter-patter of my shoes against the dense gravel rocks beneath. Walking up the same inclines that used to cause cramps and stitches underneath my rib cage, now with Clyde by my side, I couldn’t help but feel whimsically nostalgic.
It may not have felt like it then, but life was incredibly simple and fulfilling.
It was life before being diagnosed with depression and an eating disorder, both mental illnesses that tried to kill me. It was a time when exploration and creativity weren’t snuffed out by doubt or self-deprecating thoughts. Every day felt like an adventure, with something new to discover or learn and get excited about. It was before I started placing unrealistic expectations on myself and before social anxiety clung to me like a straitjacket. It was a life where I was happy to wake up and look forward to whatever unfolded that day.
Maybe I am romanticizing the past. Maybe things really weren’t that great. But I was a kid living in the ‘before.’ What does my ‘after’ look like? I still am figuring it out, I suppose.
By the time, Clyde and I made it back to my truck, his tongue was hanging low, and his eyes were wired with the same exhilaration as mine after I get done with a hike. Once I let him jump into the backseat, I slumped my body deep into the fabric up front, thinking about the unwavering youth that I still carry within me. I run, hike, or walk on the trails and feel the childhood excitement radiate through my fingertips again. The pure joy of the outdoors and a connection to an earth that unapologetically holds me close everywhere I go. After so long, I return to the trails I grew up on and know that they still are there. Existing, breathing, persevering, and loving the same bright-eyed kid with unruly red hair even now.
Thanks for reading!
See you out on the trail!