From Mormon Missionary to Hiker Trash

Searching blindly is a contradictory statement, and yet for millions of people this is the tactic they apply to find direction in life.

How could I know what I wanted to do in life? I was only 18, fresh out of high school, and working as a janitor. The only direction I had with my life was what I didn't want to do with it. I didn't want to submit myself to a career that took my time away. I didn't want to be stuck with an unhappy marriage. I didn't want to live my life day to day struggling to keep financially afloat.

What else was adulthood but the examples I displayed above? I was depressed, full of anxiety about my future, and feeling futile about any action for a better future. It seemed my youth would be my most happy years, and adulthood would be full of nearly innumerable problems.

To vent out my frustrations I went to the ring, pulled up my gloves, and fought with other men who had the same problems. We all were angry, and the ring was the appropriate place to vent it out. I could try to kill the man opposite of me and he could try to kill me with equal rules. After punches were thrown and throwing up in the bathroom from concussions occurred, then I could feel at peace again with life for a moment.

I was a boxer, and it seemed my life was directed towards getting my brains beat out as entertainment to rich gambling men. I wished my life could be different, but this was seeming to be the best option.

When I turned 20 I had a strong feeling that I needed to quit boxing. Perhaps it was that I subconsciously knew I needed to stop to save my brain from being dysfunctional. Perhaps it was the feeling of being a dog in a dog fight; being so disgusted that people wanted to watch me harm others and myself. I wasn't sure, but with each hard workout I would sit and sweat over a drain connected to the floor of my gym. During this time a voice in my head would say continually "prepare to be a Mormon missionary."

"A mission!?" I would detest back to it. I wasn't Mormon anymore. While I grew up in the Mormon faith I left it at 17 years old to find my own path in life. I had many issues with the church on a philosophical level. No, I simply couldn't go and serve a mission for the church.

But the feeling persisted. The thoughts became obsessive, and guilt drove me to a deeper depression. I felt what I was doing was not the path I needed to take anymore. I needed to go and prepare to become a missionary.

I left boxing in June of 2013, with tears rolling down my face, and violent convulsions. I was leaving the little bit of hope I had for a world I hated. I prepared myself spiritually and mentally, saved up what money I had, and on by August I had received my mission call in the mail.

"You are to serve in the Roseville, California Mission." The paper said. My family was around when I opened the letter and they were shocked to hear I'd be going to California. I am from Kansas City, Missouri and had never been more west than Utah.

"You gonna go surfing?" My friend asked mockingly.

"Don't get too distracted by those California girl." My dad laughed.

I couldn't believe it! The last place in my mind I ever wanted to be was California. Then I looked at my mission area on a map. To the northern terminus was the town of Weed which neared the Oregon border. To the southern terminus was Sacramento. And right to the east of my mission was the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2650 mile trail from Mexico to Canada.

I knew about the Pacific Crest Trail. My dad used to tell me about the Triple Crown of hiking, which was hiking these 3 large trails in the United States that go through the Appalachians, Rockies, and Sierra Nevada Mountains. I had always wanted to thru hike this trail but never saw it as realistic.

On October 15th of 2013 I flew out to Provo, Utah to be trained as a missionary. After a few weeks of learning about how to be a sales man essentially I flew out to Sacramento, California and was picked up by my Mission President. He resided over all the 200+ missionaries in the area. He was a lawyer at home, and presented himself very professionally and stiff. I immediately found him unrelatable.

He assigned me my first missionary companion which was a man by the name of Elder Tomblin. As a missionary we all had the title of "Elder" instead of our first names. I was Elder Tils.

I learned that I would be assigned to serve in Cottonwood, California with him for the next 4 and a half months. A mission itself is 2 years long, but you serve in multiple areas throughout the mission area. Cottonwood was a funny little town of about 3000 people. If you mixed cowboys, hippies, and meth heads all together you would roughly have what Cottonwood people were like.

I remember each day waking up and looking outside to see Mt. Shasta, a 14,000 ft. tall mountain to the north. And then I could look to the east and see Mt. Lassen, the tallest mountain over Lassen Volcanic National Park. While the landscape I was in was brown with manzanita trees, I could look off at these tall white topped mountains and imagine the smell of pine and the crisp air.

My time in Cottonwood was pretty fun for the most part and I felt like being a missionary wasn't such a bad idea after all. But by March of 2014 I had received a call from the mission office.

"Elder Tils, you are now to serve in the Roseville, California 2nd Ward."

I was devastated. I knew Roseville was populated, rich, and snobby. I enjoyed so much the wildness of Cottonwood, and now I would have to be in the city.

So I went down to Roseville and almost immediately had a rough time. My new companion, Elder Harvey, wasn't at all motivated to proselyte. And to be honest I was in complete agreement with his lazy and almost nihilistic approach to the mission life.

However during my time with him we had by chance found a young girl by the name of Marissa who wished to be baptized in the Mormon church. She was 18 years old, fresh out of high school, and best friends to the bishop's daughter in our area. Within a few weeks we baptized her and within a few weeks after that she quit going to church.

Elder Harvey had now left and I had gotten my new missionary companion, Elder White. He could see the lack of things to do in Roseville but insisted we reach out to Marissa and try to get her to return to church services.

I messaged her on Facebook.

"Hey Marissa." I wrote. "I've noticed you haven't gone to church in a good while. I am honestly okay with that, I just want to know why you aren't."

She responded rather quickly to my surprise.

"I just don't feel like I believe in this church as much as people are telling me to believe in it. I don't like how controlling it all is. It just isn't for me"

"I understand that." I responded. "To be honest I have a lot of the same issues. I am trying to find out if it is true as well. I don't know but I figure being a missionary is a good way to find out."

"Then why did you tell me that you KNEW the church was true." She wrote.

This struck a cord deep within me. As a missionary you have to "bare your testimony" which means stating things that you claim to know are true. I didn't know any of the things I claimed to be true were actually true. I didn't know if there was a god. I didn't know if Jesus died for my sins. I didn't know if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I didn't know if the Book of Mormon was the word of god.

I realized at this point that I was lying to be a missionary. I couldn't lie anymore.

I was desperate for answers now, feeling as if I was holding onto a dangling branch in a tree. I had to get answers so I went to the Sacramento Temple to pray fervently for answers.

I felt nothing at the temple. Why did I leave boxing for this? Why did I save up so much money for something I didn't even believe in!? I couldn't live with it.

When I had gotten to our missionary apartment a strong voice spoke to me in my head.

"Where do you feel most spiritual?" The voice asked.

"I feel it most in nature." I responded.

"Then go to nature."

It was now July of 2014. I woke up to workout, but had found that I lost all motivation to do so. I looked at the map that hung in the living room. I looked specifically at the Pacific Crest Trail. It was over 100 miles away from where we were, but I needed to get there to find my answers to life and the direction I needed to take.

Elder White stumbled lazily into the kitchen to make some oatmeal.

"You okay Elder Tils?" He asked.

"I can't do this anymore." I responded.

"Can't do what?"

"I can't be a missionary."

"Are you planning on going home?" He asked while observing my body language.

"No, I need to get to nature. I need to hike the Pacific Crest Trail."

He knew at this point my infatuation with nature; I made that very clear since the first day we met.

"Well I hear you talk about it, but I'll wait and see if your words have any meat to them before I react." He stated.

Later that day I insisted that we ride our bikes to the nearest outdoors store. When we got there I spent all of my missionary money ($500) on a backpack, tent, sleeping bag, and all the things I would need to survive out in nature.

After a few days I had thrown away all my white shirts and ties. I quit shaving. I got increasingly more disobedient to missionaries of higher status. I was pushing myself away from being a missionary.

Elder White and I had met a woman who found a liking to us. Her name was Cheleasa While she was anti-Mormon, she also liked us as individuals and would allow us to talk and hang out with her. I knew if I was not able to get to the Pacific Crest Trail by other means that she would be my last resort of an option.

The day had came. It was mid July and I received a call from the mission office that I would be transferred to serve in Orangevale, California.

"To hell I ain't!" I declared as I hung up the phone. "This is the night that I leave."

Elder White was nervous, and he frequently felt like he should call the Mission President and tell him what I was planning on doing.

I posted a video on Facebook for all my family to see which declared why I was going to leave the mission. I gathered my stuff, which was 2 backpacks that together weighed 80 lbs., and started to say my goodbyes to Elder White for helping to keep it a secret that I was leaving. My plan was to ride my bike in the night and hopefully make it to South Lake Tahoe in a day or two.

I went to check the time by looking at our phone. I then saw over 5 missed calls from all the higher ups in the mission field. The Mission President, the Assistant to the Mission President, the Zone Leaders, and our District Leader had all tried to get ahold of us. It was midnight and so therefore I knew that they somehow found the video I posted on Facebook.

"I have to leave right now!" I said to Elder White as I grabbed everything I could. "They could be here any minute!"

"Well hurry up and get out of here!" Elder White said to me.

I quickly got on my bike and started to ride my bike away. Suddenly I realized that I should give Cheleasa a call and see if she could have me stay for the night. I rode back and grabbed the cell phone to call her.

"Hey is this Cheleasa?" I asked in a panic.

"Yeah. Is this Elder Tils?" She responded sounding concerned.

"Yes it is. Listen I don't have much time. The church is after me. I have to have a place for the night. Can I come stay at your place to hide?"

"Yeah get over here right now!" She demanded.

So with that I rode off into the night. I remember hearing police sirens behind me. I remember all the lights of the street lamps just zooming by as I huffed and puffed towards Cheleasa's house.

I had made it to her house and felt safe. Shortly after Elder White called her. She answered.

"Hello?" She asked.

"Is Elder Tils there?" He asked sounding very saddened.

I shook my head to Cheleasa. "I'm not here!" I whispered.

"No he isn't here." She said.

"Well alright..." Elder White somberly said and then hung up.

What I didn't realize was behind him was not only at least 8 other missionaries, but the police as well. They had called and claimed it was a suicide attempt. I learned later though that the police later dropped the case.

That night the many missionaries searched all over the local parks to find me. They never found me but they still searched all through the night.

I stayed at Cheleasa's house for 3 days. Her family begged her not to take me out to the Pacific Crest Trail, stating that "they think I will die out there." However she had a guy friend who didn't really like me much. I realized if anyone would take me to South Lake Tahoe where the Pacific Crest Trail was, it was this guy.

"I really need to get to South Lake Tahoe." I told him. "I won't have a need for my bike if I get out there to hike. You can have it if you give me a ride?"

He couldn't refuse that offer and with that I had gotten my ride to the trail! Finally I would be free. Finally I could breathe!

He drops me off and I start to hike northward. I felt worn out extremely fast and would take frequent breaks to catch my breath. In my backpack was a lot of apples, walnuts, and almonds. These wouldn't give me the energy I needed though I felt healthy food would be ideal for hiking. (I now know you want unhealthy, high calorie foods since long distance hiking is so demanding.)

The contrast of scenery from Roseville was almost overstimulating. From car exhaust scented streets to pine fresh air. From honking cars to bird chirps. From concrete buildings to granite peaks. I had felt like I was in another world.

After 2 days I realized I didn't need half the gear I owned, so I trashed it. This made my energy and pace go way up, and I was able to hike 20 mile days. I ran into other hikers too who were stinky, dirty, worn out, and happy as can be. They called themselves hiker trash and were known by their various trail names like Ninja, or Bebop. I loved the world of hikers.

Hiker trash was very different to Mormon missionaries. They smoked weed, at only candy, and as wild as the lands itself that they roamed in. I loved the world of the hiker trash!

I had gotten to taste my first beer, flirted with women for the first time, and tried to catch up on the experiences that Mormonism didn't allow to express. Every morning I would wake up, take down my tent, hike 20 miles, set up my tent, and sleep. During all of this I prayed and prayed for guidance in my life.

After a week and a half of hiking I started to feel extremely sick. I couldn't eat without feeling nauseas and worn out. I couldn't drink water without wanting to throw up. I had become very sick. To this day I am not sure what caused it, but my main theory is arsenic poisoning. Eating almost only almonds and walnuts had made me very sick. Both contain small traces of arsenic. Suddenly I realized I needed to get off trail and recover.

I approached a highway which had 2 town options. To my east was the town of Quincy, and to my west at 11 miles away was the town of La Porte. I took a stab in the dark and decided La Porte would be my town to rest in.

I was very fatigued. The hot summer sun beat down off the black pavement of the road and burnt me. I was out of water, half delusional, and angry with god. I felt I had been guided to the wild by insurmountable odds to only be left to die on a road up in the mountains. I cursed and swore at the sky in violent anger!

At one point I lied down to just die. I was too worn out to hike onward. I had submitted to death. I lied there waiting to pass out and hopefully sleep away my mortality.

After a few minutes I opened my eyes and looked around. What I saw disgusted me! Thousands of small pulsating caterpillars were crawling in every which direction. And the thought of them crawling all over me repulsed my senses. I got up, yelled, and continued to hike.

Within 30 minutes I had lied down again to die. And to my surprise there were thousands of caterpillars yet again! So I got up and continued to hike. This happened 3 times during my hike to La Porte, and I am not sure if this was hallucination or reality.

I made it to the tiny town at last! The population might have been 20 people max. I went into a store to buy Gatorade, water, and some snacks. I asked the owner if I could call my family on their phone to which they agreed. My parents didn't pick up so I left a voicemail. Little did I know that I had sounded so sick that my parents called the Mormon church to find missionaries to drive me to the hospital.

When I woke up one morning and went into town I was surprised by a lady aggressively coming towards me.

"Boy, you've caused quite a stir here in our little town!" She said loudly.

"Why, what happened?"

"Two young men who kind of looked like you came last night looking for you. We know you're out on the trail to find god though so we kicked them out. You are kind of like the Jesse James of La Porte!"

I liked that, the Jesse James of La Porte.

After a few more minutes of talking to her I went to call my family and find out why they sent the missionaries.

"You sounded so sick!" My mom stated.

"Well don't call the church when I'm trying to escape the church!" I responded angrily.

After a few days I went back to the store to call my parents again.

"We are in Wyoming." My mom said on the phone.

"What are you doing out there?"

"We're coming to pick you up!" She said.

I was ecstatic! My hike was over but I could now lick my wounds and reassess what I needed to do with my life.

My parents came in late July and picked me up. By the 1st of August we made it back to Missouri. To this day I am still known as the Runaway Missionary to the Roseville Missionaries, though few know who I am. I have become a fable in a sense to the Roseville Missionaries.

I pondered why this had all happened to me. Why did I leave boxing to become a Mormon missionary. Why did I run from the mission to the Pacific Crest Trail. Why did I only hike 200 miles before getting sick and getting off trail? I tried to make sense of it all.

I wasn't sure what I needed to do with my life at the moment, but I knew it had something to do with the trails.

After that event, when I prayed for guidance I would hear my inner voice say "Go to the trails." I didn't know how I would return to the wild and hike the trails, but I knew I needed to somehow do it.

This was the start for me; the start to a roller coaster ride which would take me to the most beautiful places in America. Sometimes I would face fires, lightning storms, floods, avalanches, and even a grizzly bear attack. But I have survived to tell the story today.

This is a very simplified version of my runaway missionary phase, a time where my search for direction in life had brought me to the Pacific Crest Trail. I felt guided and this confidence of guidance I knew would help me get to my next trail goal; the Appalachian Trail, a 2200 mile long trail from Maine to Georgia.

But that is for another time to share.