I recently returned from my annual 3 week section hike along the Appalachian Trail. I started in North Adams, Massachusetts, and 162.4 miles later I exited the trail in Hanover, New Hampshire. I had successfully thru-hiked the beautiful green state of Vermont (now affectionately nicknamed "Vermuck"¯ due to the ever present rain and mud we experienced along the trail.)

My friend Mary Ann and I always wanted to hike the A.T. We were inspired to hike the entire trail 12 years ago while out over a long weekend with our friend Monica and our daughters for our annual Mother/Daughter Backpacking Trip. Along the trail that year, we met a 78 year old woman that was thru-hiking the entire 2,000 plus miles of the A.T. alone"¦For the second time! Wow! We were hooked and we told ourselves that when our kids were independent, we'd hike it in sections. (Unfortunately, quitting our jobs to thru-hike wasn't an option.) However, I did discover this year on the trail that I am what is commonly referred to as a LASHER: Long Ass Section Hiker. I like acronyms so being a LASHER helps take some of the sting out of not being a thru-hiker.

So true to the promise I made to myself back when my daughters were young, I began section hiking the A.T. three years ago in celebration of the first summer that none of my three young adult children would be living at home during their respective college breaks: It would be my Empty Nest Pilgrimage. After helping to launch three independent young adults out into the world, it was my turn to pack my sack and nudge myself forward out of my own safety zone. So, with our husbands' blessings, Mary Ann (8-mile MA), Monica (Topo), and I (Traildancer) donned our trail-names and our 50 pound packs and off we went. And onward we will continue! The Three Trail Marms from Pennsylvania have now LASHED through 5 states (only 9 more states to go). At this pace, I'll be 61 years old when I complete the A.T. Then, perhaps I'll thru-hike the Pacific Crest Trail in my mid 60's when I retire from teaching"¦maybe even with a grandchild in tow.

So, what is it that draws me to the Trail? The simplicity. I carry only what I need. I need only what I carry. My pack is not burdened with extraneous things. (Okay, I admit"¦we do bring one plastic bottle of Peppermint Schnapps to share.) On the trail, I have to make choices about what I really need to sustain myself for 7 or 8 days until I re-supply in a town. I have to literally weigh my wants and needs. Then, Maslowian-like, I stuff my stuff in my backpack and the process starts of unburdening myself not just physically ("Damn that gorp is heavy!"¯), but mentally, until my consciousness is free to roam the terrain, flora, fauna and the universe around me.

It takes a full three days for me to unpack and unburden my brain of the concerns of work, home life, and ego. I wish that I could assert that the simplicity of trail living is just a natural extension of the simple life I lead in my regular waking day. But I can't honestly say that. And although my husband Jeff and I have chosen to live a simple life free of material gadgets and consumer trapping, and to try to live in a sustainable manner by composting, recycling, reducing, reusing, organically gardening, and supporting Community Supported Agriculture, the truth is: Life ain't simple because I make it complex.

My first year on the trail taught me that I can create stress for myself no matter what circumstance I am in. ("Oh my gosh, it's getting dark. By the time we get to the shelter, I'll be cooking in the dark"¦having to hang my bear bag in the dark"¦ What if the shelter is full? I'm too tired to set up the tent in the dark. What if my batteries burn out and I can't see the trail in the dark? What if "¦"¯)

My second year on the trail taught me that if there is an easy way to do something, I will complicate it because I errantly think that something has to be difficult to be done right. ("Mary Ann, I just need a few more minutes to repack my food. Anyone have an extra Ziplock bag? My breakfast bars are mixed in with my snack bars. I have to put all my breakfast items in one bag, this way it will be easier for me to find what I need later. Where did I pack my nuts? With my snacks or with my protein bars? I better just repack the whole food bag."¯)

My trail dance through Vermuck this year affirmed that I am finally loosening up. The hiking is getting much easier because I am being easier on myself. Thus, it is also getting easier to live totally in the present. As a student of yoga, I find backpacking to be the ultimate Zen experience and the more challenging the terrain, the more present I am in the moment: breathe in, step up, reach hand on rock, scramble up, exhale, breathe in"¦until there is no separation between my concept of myself and the trail.

Life on the trail is as simple as life can get: Eat, hydrate, pee, shit, walk, walk some more, think, think some more, try not to think so much, observe, talk, listen, meditate, pray, read, write, sleep, wake up"¦ and do it all over again the next day.

It's as simple as that.

No Longer Keeping Up With the Jones'

In Boulder, Colorado, Kipp Nash is one of many people who have uprooted their grass in favor of growing crops. Utilizing every last square inch of their front and backyards, suburban farmers like Nash turn to their neighbors, instead of moving to the country, when they find that their minute acreage is not enough to sustain the farm-size yields they wish to produce. In true co-op style, neighbor bands with neighbor to create checkered plots of crops, which are then harvested and shared among the farmers and their cooperative neighbors.

In terms of sustainability, this is one way that Americans can combat the urban leeching of resources from outlying communities and even other countries that our decidedly unnatural urban-planning has produced. There's nothing like buying and growing locally to reduce our carbon footprints, especially as resources like food are outsourced to distant lands. As with most sustainable projects, suburban farming is as unconventional as you can get, and as Kelly Spors of the Wall Street Journal reports in the video that inspired this post, some neighbors may not like the way tilled front yards look next to their prized rose bushes, but sustainability has never been about being pretty. Rather, sustainability is about the compromises each of us, and our governments, are willing to make to ensure that our environment is protected and sustained. Sure, a brown front yard may not look like much at first glance, but come harvest season, those crops sure are a pretty site.