When I came home from the Arizona Trail I fell into a hard depression. I knew it would come. I had expected the coming down of the 2-month wilderness high to happen… I just didn't expect it so soon. I'm acquainted with depression - my unwelcome silent partner who rarely consults me before making operations decisions. I felt as though I could manage it. Years of therapy had helped to build tools for just this moment. I was ready to meet her, see her, and show her the door.

And then reality hits. And I always forget what a fierce bitch depression is. She's a thief; stealing my strength and using it for herself.

I'd given myself a few weeks to ease back into things, yet I refused to peek into my inbox, open my mail or begin the process of re-entering the life I had left. Instead, I slept and cried and tried to write and then cried at not knowing what to write. I didn't eat enough and called the day a success if I changed pajamas. After a few days, the haze lifted enough that I could take my dog for walks. And then we walked.... and I cried and Astrid would look at me with such confusion. She would stop ahead and wait for me with those bewildered eyes and then run in fast circles around me, wagging her tail and nipping at me to play. Reminding me of where I was - the trees, the path, the birds, the SQUIRRELS!!! How could I not be happy in such a place? Dogs are amazing. My dog is the most amazing dog in the world. Walking and being in the park near my home and being in my yard were the only things that felt right. The movement of my body and the connection with the earth were the only activities I could manage and the only soul I could share company with was my dog. Everything else felt heavy and unfamiliar.

This went on for several weeks until light begin to creep back in. I began to reconnect with my world. My family, my friends, my yoga, work. I started to let the calendar fill back in and make plans. I still couldn't write though. I couldn't revisit the blog.

It wasn't that writing about my experience had become too much work, or work at all. The opposite, actually. I loved writing; I enjoyed sharing my experience. I loved hearing from the 5 of you who were reading (that probably includes my mom). But I just couldn't.

I'd left off in Oracle and had written a post about my next section of the trail. This section we'd started hiking with Maniac, and because I wanted to share a bit of Maniac's story, I wanted his permission before posting the blog. I'd sent him the email and texted him to ask for his review. Even before reading it, he'd responded in true Maniac style: 'Write whatever you want, my life's open..... You don't need my permission to speak truth."

So, I had his permission. But still I didn't post it. Because once I posted this, then I'd have to keep writing and eventually, the trail would end. The stories would end and I would have nothing left of the AZT but the memory of the experience.

I didn't want it to end; I wasn't ready.

Then, one afternoon, I was with Wildflower, lamenting on how much being back in the Real World sucked as we stuffed our faces with too much frozen yogurt, one hand connected to our cell phones when she stopped suddenly, her face turning white as she looked at her phone.

"Something's happening." she began scanning her Facebook page. "It's Maniac. Something's happening with Maniac." We immediately began scavenging through our phones - reaching out to Maniac, to his best friend, looking through his page and his friends' pages..... until we had our answer. His best friend confirmed. Sean was gone, "You know how, of course." We did. The knowing made me swallow hard. Anger and sadness and guilt all at once.

Maniac was dead.

We looked at each other with tears in our eyes and just hugged. There were not words to express this. We were just with him. He just texted me last week. This isn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to be okay.

It has taken me nearly 6 weeks before I felt like I was ready to post this. I didn't know at first if I should keep the original story the way I'd written it - before Maniac died. I considered re-writing it with my new perspective, but that felt inauthentic somehow. And if there is one thing I know for certain, it's that Maniac would want authenticity.

So, here is the blog I wrote. Before I lost my friend.

Black Hills & Bees, Maniac Style

This next section of the AZT passages 14, 15 and 16 would take us into the Black Hills and through the low desert. Until now, we'd been up and down mountain ranges and through high desert, which can be quite forest-like. Now, we would be hiking at lower elevation (read:hotter) with less shade and less water. THIS was the Arizona I had in my mind when I'd been planning this trip.

Me and Maniac near the start of Passage 14: Black Hills

In the Black Hills we are surrounded by Teddy Bear Cholla (TBC) - a type of cactus that gets its name from the very soft and fuzzy looking branches it grows (spoiler alert: they are NOT soft or fuzzy) Arizona locals often refer to them as Jumping Cholla or Jumping Cactus because the branches detach with the slightest disturbance - even a light wind - and will attach to whatever, or whoever, is in its path. The 'soft' looking barbs stick everywhere - arms, legs, backpacks, shoes…. and are quite a process to remove.

Oh, and did I mention the little barbs on the end have just a bit of poison in them? The kind that stings, swells and then bruises over the course of two weeks? Yeah. Fun times. But here we are, walking through the Black Hills with with fields of TBC just waiting to jump on us.

Despite the constant threat of being stuck by the TBC and the unforgiving sun beating down on us - the Black Hills is relatively easy hiking and a nice break from the mountainous passages we'd endured previously. Sean had decided to stick with us 'just for a little while' leaving Oracle, but warned he would be on his way soon enough. Like many Thru-hikers, Sean was Out Here working to let go of attachments Back There. I often think that the biggest problems in life are our own - that there's no way to rate one person's struggle to another. It's all perception and personal priorities. Despite that belief, there is an inherent heaviness to Sean's struggle. At 21, Sean was shot in the head outside of a Phoenix bar, rendering him blind in his right eye. In an all too common story in our society; his treatments, surgeries and recovery created an opioids dependency that he has struggled with in the near decade since the shooting. Prior to starting the Arizona Trail, Sean was addicted to heroin. As in, he was high when he stepped onto the trail. His first month on the trail was spent going through the same obstacles we had faced - challenging terrain, drastic heat and cold, limited water.... but he endured all of that while battling withdrawal symptoms.

I don't think it took us more then an afternoon to give Sean a trail name. We'd stopped among a field of TBC to catch our breath and watch him walk full speed up a slight hill, seemingly unaffected by his emotional and literal baggage. His pack is insanely heavy, anchored down with excess water and food - the seams stretching under the weight. Despite his pack weight or his life's work, Sean hikes with enthusiasm and energy, periodically stopping to smoke a grape flavored cigar while he waits for us to catch up.

"He's a maniac." Wildflower said with certainty as we watched his long legs carry him away at an ultra-human pace. "He hikes like a maniac. He is a maniac. That's his name." Maniac accepted his trail name wholeheartedly and, just like that, Sean became Maniac.

Maniac is a yogi and had a pretty strong yoga practice prior to his relapse, something he's looking to re-establish in his sobriety. He listens to The Sunshine Song every morning after his meditation and yin yoga practice, a Kundalini chant I was unfamiliar with prior to meeting him. I know it by heart now. He smokes and drinks and then beats himself up for smoking and drinking. He's a genuinely nice guy who also is pretty entertaining and, perhaps most importantly, thinks Wildflower and I are as hilarious as we think we are. And even though every morning starts with a disclaimer that he will be going his own way soon, we are happy to have him along.

With the desert terrain comes limited water sources and we all were acutely aware of how far we had to go. Our 45 mile stretch from Oracle to Superior had relatively limited sources - 2, to be exact. We'd filled our packs to capacity at the trailhead - Wildflower and I both carrying an excess of 7 liters of water - adding an additional 15 pounds to our packs. I'm fairly certain Maniac was carrying 11 liters of water. But then again, he's a Maniac. Perhaps even more disturbing than the distance between water was the uncertainty over what the quality of that water might be. As we scan the map our imaginations began to run wild reading names like 'Bloodsucker Wash' and 'Beehive Well'.

Bees, as I'd read prior to starting out, would be a prominent feature on our trip. They are a price to pay, I suppose, for the gorgeous wildflower display we had been enjoying for the last couple of weeks. Like us, as water sources become scarcer, bees are always on the hunt for water themselves. Where there is water, there are bees. Fortunately, I've never had any particular issue with bees. Growing up, they were simply a part of summer. My grandfather kept bees for years - they were something I appreciated rather than feared. Wildflower, however, is allergic to bees. She carries 2 Epi pens with her in the event she is stung and I, like her, have no interest in having to use these devices. So, when we arrive at a float tank or water trough that is of particular interest to the bees, I'll gather the water and Wildflower will keep a safe distance. Better safe than sorry, we assume. Until the Black Hills, this duty had been fairly undramatic. Then the three of us arrive at Bloodsucker Wash. The water itself comes from a spigot conveniently placed in the very middle of a concrete barrel that you access by walking across a rotting wood plank that is balanced precariously on the edge of the cow trough. The plank, half submerged in the algae and bee filled water was not going to be a reliable support, so it became a test of jumping across the water, balancing while pushing down on the bee covered float tank and filling the water container while..... did I mention I'm still balancing..... while the bees are EVERYWHERE. Well here, it looked like this:

This went on for several gallons worth - Maniac and I taking turns filling up while Wildflower watched from a safe distance, ready to take on the job of filtering and cooking. First, through a bandana. Then through another bandana. Boil lunch water, purify the rest. Wait 15 minutes. Add a Crystal Light packet to conceal the taste of honey that isn't as sweet when it's coming from random bee parts. Okay, 2 crystal light packets.

Fruits of my labor. I'd like to tell you the color changes dramatically after we filter it... but that would be untrue.

We lingered for some time under the shade of a mesquite while we enjoyed a hot lunch and our bee water. We'd lucked out in that there was a cloud cover for the few days through these desert passages, but that didn't seem to bring any ease in the moment. I'd never experienced this level of discomfort. There was heat and sun with no shade or breeze, warm water that didn't quench thirst and more calories being burned than we could take in. The only comfort was the company I was keeping and knowing that the misery was shared. Even Maniac's hyper-speed slowed a bit as the afternoon heat would set in. The three of us hiked well together, Maniac in the lead, stopping every few miles for a snack break where we would sit and solve the world's problems under the narrow shade of Saguaro Cacti.

Wildflower enjoying our pack break in the Black Hills looking towards the Tortilla Mountains.

The Unforgiving Arizona desert. Maniac and Wildflower ahead with no end, no shade and no water in sight.

You get to know a person when spending unbroken periods of time with them in extremely unkind conditions. There were times of laughter and conversation and then long periods of silence and quiet frustration over conditions none of us could control. On Day 2, I woke up to the sound of Maniac's voice over the lull of the Sunshine Song, "Mmmm... I love the smell of grape cigars and farts in the morning." And so began a day of one-liners speckled in with deep yoga philosophy conversations. On Day 3, Maniac ran out of cigarettes and he spent half a day with a mile between us - I think probably for our benefit rather than his. When we all met up again that evening, our collective feeling of being 'over it' was palpable.

I was tired of hiking, tired of sweating, tired of being tired and mad at myself for feeling so broken.

That night the three of us made camp near our water source where another bee party was happening and looked with uncertainty at the sky. It was dark and cloudy and had angry energy. We debated if we should set up our tarp. Maniac, a Phoenix native, reviewed the possibilities.

1. It could rain, but it took a lot to rain in Arizona.

2. Even if it rained it would only be for a few minutes anyway.

3. It probably wouldn't rain. It only rains, like, three times a year.

We decided to risk it, keeping our tarp and poles at the ready.

We'd be near the town of Kearny the next day and although we had enough supplies to bypass it entirely, we'd read reports of other hikers ordering a pizza to be delivered to the bridge where the trail crossed the road outside of town. I checked my phone and saw that Red Shirt Guy, had reached out. A foot injury had forced him off trail, ending his thru-hiking attempt after 300 miles. He was still in town though, had a car and wanted to help us. I couldn't help but think this was payback for delivering his jacket to him several hundred miles ago. After a few minutes of mileage calculating and map reviewing, we made a plan with Guy to meet us the following day at the Gila River where he would take us into town for a resupply and lunch. We fell asleep with dreams of root beer floats and pepperoni pizza. I'd heard they even had a salad bar....

...... I'm not sure which woke me, the rain, the thunder, or the wind that made both sound like they were everywhere. Wildflower and I snapped into action, grabbing the tarp and setting it up as the wind battled our every effort. Maniac had also jumped out of his tent to put up his rain fly. I don't remember a lot, but I remember a lot of cursing, a lot of frenzy and at the end of it Maniac was secured in his tent (we later learned he'd actually forgotten to seal the door) and Wildflower and I were in our tarps yelling back and forth to one another "It's only going to rain for a few minutes - right, Maniac?"

Word to the wise: do not take weather advice from Maniac. It rained all night. Perhaps our most uncomfortable night because the rain created such humidity that even if we could keep ourselves out of the downpour, the constant sweating kept us drenched. I woke up at one point, praying it was time to justify packing up and hiking. I looked at my clock. "Ugh!!!!"

Wildflower was still awake, "What?! What is it?!"

"It's only 12:15!!!" I cried.

"Ugh!!! WHY?!?!?!" Wildflower cried.

Through the wind and rain I could hear Maniac, "Oh fuck. 5 more hours of this?!"

In other words, we had a long night.

Morning brought with it clearer skies, but the damage had been done. We'd have to pack up wet gear and dry it later in the day. It meant heavier than necessary packs and three hikers who felt like they hadn't slept a wink. The thought of Guy, the town of Kearny, and the reward of Pizza and the conveniences of town were the only things that got us moving that day.

Within the first 1/2 mile of our hike we were to ascend what was labeled on the map as 'The Big Hill.' It was, as promised, a big hill, with switchbacks to ease the steep incline. Maniac left camp after us but soon caught up, passing us and scampering up the Big Hill as though he wasn't on Day 30 of Heroine sobriety, Day 3 without booze, Hour 23 without nicotine and carrying a soaking wet 50-lb pack while hiking on feet that looked like hamburger meat from the blisters. He was a maniac, after all. I knew the thought of a cold beer and a cigarette was what was keeping Maniac motivated. Wildflower and I were equally as excited about the idea of pizza and a salad bar, which at this point, in my mind, would be a multi-aisled smorgasbord of fresh fruits and vegetables from around the world.

At the top of the Big Hill, we were met with a path along along the ridgeline flanked on either side with wildflowers. Unlike us, the landscape was beaming in the glory of last night's storm. Everything was green and red and yellow and in bloom and without any of us acknowledging it, the weight of our packs and the stress of the night lifted with the clouds as we flitted along the ridge stopping to chat and snack and admire the 360 degree views of where we'd been, where we were headed, and all of the nothingness in between. It was one of my favorite stretches of trail.

Ridge as we hike towards the Gila River and the town of Kearny

A trailhead picnic area gave us the opportunity to dry out from the night before. Within minutes, our soaking gear and clothing were completely dry.

Our final few miles flew by as we raced to meet our Noon meeting with Guy at the Gila River Bridge. I was in the lead and as we descended to the Gila River I could see the pavement of the road and eventually a single rental car parked on the side with our fellow traveler, Red Shirt Guy waiting to take his smelly friends to town.

After our initial hugs and check-ins, we all piled into Guy's rental and into the town of Kearny. The salad bar was not exactly what I'd imagined it to be, but after a few trips, my veggie craving had been subdued. We spent some time in town with Guy, resupplying and eating - the things Thru-hikers do in town. I could feel Guy's sadness over having to end his journey and could tell we were all sad he was unable to get back on trail with us.

I'd suspected before we arrived to Kearny that we might lose Maniac in town. Towns, by his own admission, had a way of sucking Maniac into them. He hiked like a Maniac, and he rested like a Maniac. And although he had claimed days before that he definitely wouldn't stay in Kearny - now that we were here... with the beer and the cigarettes and the hotel bed... I couldn't blame him for wanting to stay. Not to mention, he had blisters on the bottom of his foot that really should have seen a doctor. So, we finished our pizza, loaded into the car and drove Maniac to the end of town where the only hotel was. We said our goodbyes, making him promise us to hike quickly and catch up to us in Superior where we planned to take a rest day. He hobbled up the stairs on his blistered foot with his heavy pack, two cases of beer and a carton of cigarettes under his arm.

"I hope he gets back on trail." I sighed to myself and out loud.

"Oh he will," Guy said matter-of-factly as he pulled out of the parking lot. "It might take him a few days, but he will."

Wildflower agreed "He'll get back on. He'll finish. He's a Maniac."

Guy drove us back to the Gila River Bridge and we said our final farewells to our trail friend from Whales. We promised to all keep in touch and off he went. Once again, it was just us. Yogabird, Wildflower and an entire pizza from Old Town Pizzeria wrapped in foil in our packs, semi-refreshed and ready to hike the remaining 40 miles to our next town - Superior.

Afterward

Maniac did get back on trail, and we did see him again after Kearny. We'd made a plan while hiking with Maniac. He knew that hiking this trail was literally saving his life, and he knew he couldn't stop hiking. Not yet, at least. He had friends with permits to hike the John Muir Trail in June. So, his plan was to finish the AZT, meet his friends to hike the JMT and then... what? We told him to just keep hiking north on the Pacific Crest Trail. By then, he'd be meeting up with other PCT Thru-hikers and when he made his way up to Washington we'd meet up and hike. We'd climb mountains. We'd talk about how amazing our lives were now that we were thru-hikers.

Maniac did hike the AZT. All 811 miles. Well, except for 7 miles outside of Oracle - 7 miles he promised he'd return to complete when he went back to visit Marney. I still have a message he'd sent me from his satellite device as he neared the Grand Canyon, "As tired as I am, it's scary it's almost over." He finished the AZT and continued on to hike the John Muir Trail. A 220 mile path through the Sierra Nevada's that included a summit of Mt. Whitney. But then he stopped. Maniac didn't keep hiking north on the PCT. He went back to Phoenix. And then he was gone.

Maniac's death took me by surprise, as did my response to his death. I fell back into my depression. I couldn't always identify my feelings - sometimes sadness, sometimes anger, sometimes guilt. I had shared quality time with Maniac, we'd had deep talks and the three of us had laughed a lot. When reflecting on my time on trail, I see Maniac as a highlight, providing laughter and insight and motivation.

I still can't articulate why the bond between thru-hikers is so strong. And maybe it's not. Maybe it's just me. But what I felt is that on the trail you are faced with yourself. You're forced to see the good, the really bad, the truth, the beauty - and the people who you end up sharing this time with are going through their own version of this as well. It's a lot like a yoga class, actually. You have an individual practice, but are creating group energy. And because this huge and intense work is happening and it's so personal and so intimate, the group energy you create becomes huge and intense and personal and intimate as well. It was not only Maniac that I was grieving - he was a container for so much more.

I also recognized that I was mad at Maniac. Hiking the Arizona Trail was the hardest thing I've ever done - and he did it too. I thought if he could do this amazingly difficult thing of thru-hiking an unforgiving and harsh trail, he could conquer anything. Including his addiction. He just had to. I imagined that Maniac would be that friend I see every so often and it's like no time has passed. I imagined one day we'd reminisce about this time. I imagined that when Maniac thought about how he got sober for good, this trail and his trail family would always come to mind. I was mad at him for shattering that image. I was mad at him for not being strong enough. And that sounds harsh and selfish. It is. But it's also my truth and I needed it to be true. I thought he would make it out of the hook of addiction because I believed so fiercely in his strength. I saw it. I was inspired by it.

Then I'm reminded of my own attachments. Of my own past addictions and how I'd let them hold me hostage for so long. Of my own depression and what it felt like for me when I came home from the trail. Of my own weaknesses and how they've hurt myself and other people. And I feel compassion and empathy for my friend. I feel guilt, but there's nothing I could have done. I feel anger, but it's not directed at anyone anymore. I feel sadness, but I'm also grateful for the experience that created space for this grief.

In the end, Maniac lost his battle with addiction, but I won't think of him that way. In my mind, Maniac is strong and sober and just up the trail, sitting under some shade, smoking a grape cigar and waiting for Wildflower and I to catch up.

Sean 'Maniac' Carlson                                  &nbsp… — Sean 'Maniac' Carlson