We are all tired.

At a certain point, hiking 15+ miles a day every day for five months wears on you. On top of the physical aspects that are causing more persistent foot pain and weariness, there have been growing mental and emotional battles.

Less than a week after Cheese left, Fail announced he was going to leave the trail too. Cheese I was already missing, but I had weeks to prepare mentally for his departure, and we left knowing we would be able to stay friends after the trail. Fail’s departure was less of a slow preparation to leave the trail in favor of something else (law school, for Cheese), and more of a snapping of a over-tightened elastic band. Fail has been struggling with pain and rotating injuries for months, and he has said repeatedly that he is really only still on the trail because he likes hanging out with us. Otherwise, he doesn’t like the hiking and he wants to be home. Despite his protestations and complaining week after week, I’m not sure any of us really believed he would quit.

And then he did.

The loss of Fail came at a shit time for me, personally. He was one of my first trail friends, and he and Cheese and Stoker were my original tramily since  Hot Springs, NC. That’s about 1300 miles of hiking together, and 4.5 months of knowing each other, which on the trail, is a long time. I never expected him to leave, and after Cheese was gone I told the remaining tramily I would be taking some time alone, skipping the next zero to go my own pace for a week, intending to reset mentally and process over some other frustrations that come with spending 24/7 with the same people for weeks on end.

Over the last few weeks as we prepared to send Cheese off, the tramily dynamics got a little tense, and communication wasn’t flowing in the normal way. What was once easy and fun hiking with friends day in and day out became more and more alone time, which isn’t always a bad thing, and I got to spend more time with Mountain Dew in the process, which was a great thing! Taking time alone in the woods can quickly change from giving yourself space to think and process to spinning in circles without resolution, creating imaginary scenarios where everything goes wrong. It’s important to bounce ideas off other people and get feedback for those crazy thoughts loops when you have the chance, and I’m grateful for Mountain Dew for hearing me talk through a lot of the same thoughts for the last week.

Mountain Dew was also taking some time alone after losing her last original tramily member herself. We grieved together for our loss of Cheese, and when Fail told us he was leaving, we cried together and squeezed each other tight as we felt guilt for our friend leaving as soon as we went our own way on the trail.

It turns out that the trail is just like the rest of life. We have entered the era of friend drama and emotional difficulties. The trail is just the background to our everyday lives out here together, and it’s just as easy to create problems here as it is anywhere. Sadly, not everyone finds the strenuous walks through the woods and over hills everyday to be calming, joyful, or worth it in any sense. For Fail, he stuck it out for longer than he ever wanted to, and now we will stick it out the rest of the way without him.

Mountain Dew and I did a rainy slack pack southbound into Manchester, Vermont on Fail’s last day. We met him at a restaurant in town with Gaslight and Roadhog, shaking from the cold of our damp clothes after we had been out in the wet day and accidentally tromped through a beaver bog off trail trying to take a short cut. We video called Cheese, who Fail would be seeing soon since they will be temporary roommates until Cheese finds a place for himself in his new city.

When Becky arrived to pick Fail up and take him home, it was all I could do to hold back my tears. We hugged each other and he reassured me that we would see each other again. Of course, knowing that I really will be able to hang out with him in the future helps with the sadness, but in the moment of losing one of my oldest trail friends while already feeling the mental pressures of being on the trail for so long myself… Well, I was sad. Real bummer, knowing I won’t have my long-term hiking friends with me at the end of this journey.

But we move on. Roadhog and Gaslight choosing to continue their hike together at a slower pace, planning to finish the trail in late September. Mountain Dew and I are blazing our own trail together now, heading off through the last of Vermont and into New Hampshire soon enough. While we moved forward alone, we decided to take it easy and give ourselves the time and space to relax for a moment. After warming up and cleaning off at a local hostel for the night, we caught a ride up to a trail head that would be only a 2 mile hike to a lake. There, we would spend the afternoon and night, trying to soothe our exhausted hearts and minds while we also allowed our bodies more time to rest.

The lake was beautiful, and it was indeed soothing to be able to set up camp in the early afternoon and. Just. Chill. I took a nap, we enjoyed dinner with some new friends (somehow even though we have been on the trail for 4.5 months and keep going the same direction at roughly the same pace, we keep meeting new NOBO hikers!), and I journaled about my mix of emotions flooding my brain from the last few weeks.

After weeks of 15+ miles a day (when we weren’t zeroing in towns), I was indeed tired of the feeling that the trail was just a path to walk on and that the trail itself wasn’t offering much that was worth slowing down for, not that we gave ourselves the time to slow down for much when we had places to be. In these last few weeks, most people I talk to have the same opinion: let’s slow down. Let’s enjoy the ride. Let’s do a 2 mile day to a lake and actually relax while we’re on the trail.

And so we did.

We will make it to Katahdin eventually, even if it’s not with the people we expected.

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Years ago, when I was 20-something, I heard comedian Jon Stewart on stage in San Francisco quip, “Do you ever shave one of your legs to make it feel like you’re in bed with someone else?” All these years later, Stewart’s line came back to me to inspire a unique way to test the Bolt Performance Razor, which claims to be the first razor made and marketed for men’s legs.

Many male cyclists, triathletes, and swimmers shave their legs for reasons related to performance that include aerodynamics, ease of taping, and better healing of road rash. I understand that men typically use their face razor or buy (or borrow) a woman’s razor, which are all intended for shaving legs.

Most women who shave their legs do it out of habit and societal norms for appearance. I’ve been shaving mine since I stole my mom’s razor when I was about 12 or 13. I’ve solely used inexpensive, disposable razors designed for women. I’d never considered using one intended for men’s legs…probably because they didn’t exist until now.

Inspired by Jon Stewart and looking for a clear comparison, for roughly three months, I shaved one of my legs with the $40 Bolt Razor, and the other leg with a simple $15 Gillette Venus targeted towards women. (There are many versions of the Venus; mine is the Extra Smooth Sensitive Disposable.) The Venus may be inexpensive, but it has replaceable cartridges with four blades, and skin lubricating panels built in, making it a step up from a single-blade Daisy Razor.

Did my experiment make me feel like I was in bed with a third party, aside from my husband? Not exactly. But it did give me some interesting results.

What Makes the Bolt Performance Razor Male Leg-Hair Specific?

First, I needed to find out what makes the Bolt Razor tailored for men. A company rep told me that it’s ergonomically designed to be held by larger hands for specific use on the legs (versus the face), and for non-slip use in the shower thanks to its heavy, zinc-alloy handle. The razor, designed in Finland, also has Swedish specialty steel blades tuned sharper for the coarse leg and body hair of a man. The Bolt’s 5-blade cartridge is bordered by strips made of aloe vera and vitamin E to help moisturize as you shave, which is not unique; my Gillette razor has similar strips.

The Bolt Performance Razor vs. Gillette Venus Experiment

During my 12-week experiment, my right leg became my Bolt Razor leg; my left, my Gillette Venus razor leg.

I soon found I looked forward to shaving my right leg with the Bolt Razor. I was also using the Bolt Shave Butter that contains aloe vera and menthol, said to exfoliate and prep the follicles for a shave. The process of shaving my right leg became more of a soothing ritual than a quick duty, and the extra time and care resulted in a smooth shave. I enjoyed the nice, weighty razor. It wasn’t too large for my female hands (Note: I wear women’s medium to large gloves). I began to like my right leg better.

My left leg suffered a bit, more because of my lack of attention. Shaving my left leg just wasn’t as fun. I regularly missed a panel of stubble somewhere. The closeness of the shave was similar between legs, maybe a little smoother on the right/Bolt Razor side, but not wildly different. I just enjoyed shaving the right leg much more, and so I didn’t tend to leave patches of unshaved hair, even around my knobby ankle bones. My left leg, it should be noted, also didn’t get the treatment of the Bolt Shave Butter, which contributed to its lack of attention.

Even when I switched to fresh blades on both razors, I didn’t perceive a significant difference in the closeness of the shave. I also didn’t note a difference in the two razors related to gender. Instead, I found that the Bolt razor delivered a significantly different shave experience due to its quality.

Simple razors work just fine. But, I discovered, a quality, weighted razor—with a handle that feels good and solid in the hand and blades dedicated to leg hair, male or female— makes for a better shave (especially when used with a nice shave butter). Cheap razors are also disposable, and I like the idea of using one razor for longer and keeping plastics out of landfills and the ocean.

A quick internet search tells me there are “fancy” razors made for women, which, no doubt, give luxurious shaves and are worth exploring. But, no surprise here: many are small and pink. I hate feeling pandered to. I’m an athlete, for God’s sake, not a fairy princess.

I’m going to keep using the Bolt Razor, male marketing be damned, for its superior shave experience. But I’ll stop taking Jon Stewart’s advice and start shaving both legs the same.

During the first year of living with Halle—a German shepherd-bordie collie mix adopted at ten months old—I felt like a prisoner to my pet.

When guests came over, she believed it was her duty to drive out the invaders from our house, barking nonstop until they walked out the door. If we left her alone at home, she would panic, pace, and become destructive—I once swiftly returned after seeing her attempting to chew through her wire crate in the doggy viewing camera I’d installed. Outside, Halle screamed and threw her body against the leash when she saw another dog, overcome with strong emotions. She obsessed over rabbits and squirrels, blowing me off to pursue them; she once killed a baby bunny while leashed, snapping it up and shaking it to death before I could say “leave it.”

On the advice of trainers, I shrank our lives. I walked her early in the morning on steep, loose trails that no one else wanted to hike. Friends no longer came over to the house. If we saw a dog while we were out, I would sometimes hide with Halle behind a bush or car. In my quest to calm her down, most of my non-essential income went to trainers. One, after ten lessons with no result, suggested that perhaps some day Halle might simply “grow out of it.”

Today, more than two years after adopting Halle, we are in a better groove. Our communication is clearer, and many of her worst impulses have been tamed. I credit our success to better training advice and discovering canicross.

For those unfamiliar, canicross is the sport of trail running with your dog attached to you—and, ideally, pulling ahead. The dog wears a special harness that allows unfettered movement, which is clipped to a bungee line attached to the human’s running waist belt. Originally an off-season activity for sled dogs, handlers use similar commands to mushers, instructing their dogs to “hike” and “gee” and “haw”—AKA hurry up, go right, and go left. In recent years, the sport has taken on a life of its own, with national organizations, local groups, and races.

For Halle and me, it started as a bit of an accident. Tired of being dragged by her on our pre-dawn hikes, I made a knot in her 15-foot leash, clipped it around my waist, and ran a three-mile loop on the trails (note that I do not recommend this sketchy setup). For once, her frantic behavior was not a problem—instead, her pulling made my uphills a little easier.

Later that day, I took her on a walk through a busy park on the same long leash. She didn’t bark or lunge at the dogs; she seemed more interested in exploring and sniffing. Maybe the run removed some of her pent-up frustration.

So much of what we ask of pet dogs is in conflict with their instincts and desires. For instance: walking by our sides. Many dogs naturally walk faster than us—meeting our pace probably feels like getting stuck behind a slow driver in the left lane. Dogs want to explore, sniff, and run in their limited time outside, and walks on a short leash can’t satisfy those needs.

Of course, dogs still have to fit into our world—learning to walk nicely on a leash, come when called, potty outside, and otherwise behave are essential to living harmoniously with humans. But when dogs don’t have outlets for their natural behaviors, owners sometimes find themselves playing dog training whack-a-mole, engaged in a never-ending battle to stop problematic barking, pulling, jumping, and digging.

That’s why having a mutually enjoyable activity is so important. A shared sport bolsters the canine-human relationship, which in turn makes it easier to do necessary-but-less-fun training.

By allowing Halle to run full-steam ahead, we finally had a shared purpose: shredding the trails. I found an online class on pulling sports and ordered proper equipment. Halle learned commands for walking to the end of the leash, speeding up, slowing down, left turns, and right turns.

I taught her that sudden sniff stops were a no-no, as was dragging me down loose slopes, but those rules came relatively easily just like how we humans accept rules in sports and board games.

Outside of canicross, we also focused on life skills, teaching a reliable “come” and “heel,” and practicing around dogs, squirrels, and other distractions. We used play to build impulse control, too, progressively strengthening her “drop it,” “wait,” and other commands around toys she was eager to chase.

Last fall, I met with another Reno canicross runner and her dog, and saw how all the running and training had paid off. I was nervous ahead of the run with Halle’s history of unruly and explosive behavior around dogs.

We started the run behind the other team. Halle was amped to see another dog, but she channelled her energy into pulling me up a switchback. Within 20 minutes, we were jogging and hiking close enough to have a conversation. Halle looked unsure around the new dog, but also glanced backward with worry when we lost sight of them after turning a corner—she seemed to realize we were a group and wanted to stick together. She made more progress over a one-hour run than she had over multiple training sessions with a trainer’s dog. She and Chase, the husky-pitbull mix, are now good friends.

In April, we entered our first race together in Susanville, California. Halle hunched nervously between the runners as we were crammed together at the start line. But once we started running, she was on fire. I flew the first two miles as she threw her weight into the harness—race volunteers joked that I was cheating (it was a dog-friendly race, but not explicitly canicross). She galloped past distractions she’d never encountered before, including photographers and volunteers ringing bells. After missing an unlabelled turn, we ended up running an extra mile and a half, but she was a better sport about it than me. She got her second wind after seeing a squirrel at mile five, giving me a much-needed boost.

After the race, we basked in our accomplishment. We might have botched the actual course, but we had cleared a hurdle in a larger race. In a new place amid crowds, our teamwork had shone through, and we ran together without a hitch.

Now, I’m organizing group runs in my area to build more interest in the sport. Maybe other people struggling with their pups can realize the potential and teamwork that canicross brings about.