I can't rationally explain, the way I can other segments of my past, how I came to spend three years of my life backpacking the Appalachian Trail and Pacific Crest Trail. Nothing in my upbringing or education pointed me in that direction. I had no mentors that did such things. Its a piece of personal history so unique that I have to continually remind myself that I own it.
Its not something I dwell upon except when I spend long stretches of time at home, sitting on the porch waiting for the electric buzz of the city to magically halt. Since its impossible to experience silence in the city, I have to create it in the form of a memory. Then the full weight of depression hits me because I know its out there, its not waiting for me, It drives me to madness knowing I'm not were I should be.