After many hard hours of hiking, I reached the end of the Art Loeb Trail. I hobbled over to my car and threw my hands on the hood like I was touching something holy. For the first time since dawn, I stood still. Raw emotion bubbled up, having simmered in the background too long as I’d hiked. I doubled at the waist and sobbed bitter, exhausted tears.

How could you? I wanted to spit the question at the dirt beneath me. I felt betrayed by the trail and everything it had put me through in a mere three days. I thought back to the naive girl who started this journey. She had no idea the hurt she was in for. I mourned her optimism and her beautiful wholeness. Now, I felt broken.

“How was it?!” my friends asked when I saw them the following day.

“It was…so…hard,” was all I managed to utter. What words could accurately sum it all up? 

I shared the major plot points — how it rained all three days, how I didn’t see another soul, how impossibly long that final day felt — but I held back my emotions. I was embarrassed to reveal how defeated I still felt. 

My friends hung onto my every word. Looks of shock and amazement spread across their faces. “Oh my god!” was all they could say in response. “I never could have done that.” 

Hearing their reaction, I felt a wave of relief. It reminded me that what I had experienced was wildly difficult. Many people, my friends included, wouldn’t even have attempted what I’d done. I had lost sight of that objectivity.

As my shame slowly ebbed, I settled back into my seat. For the first time since walking in, my mind left the trail, and I took stock of my current surroundings. The coffee shop felt extra inviting with the glow of Christmas lights. A steaming plate of food was heading my way. Rain hummed gently outside, but I had barely noticed from my place, surrounded by friends. 

The company, the comfort, the sheer ease of it all — this environment was the exact opposite of everything I had battled on trail. I had felt defeated a moment before, but being in a place like this sure felt like I’d won.

As I continued into my story, I felt a smile creep up on my face.

“IT WAS CRAZY! Just wait till you see a picture of the leaky old shelter I stayed in… I did fifteen miles yesterday. FIFTEEN!”

I glowed for weeks after my hike. What had first caused me shame — that this hike had nearly broken me — became a point of pride. I had done something hard, something truly outside of my comfort zone, something that pushed me to my limits. Hell yes, I struggled, but I came out standing. I’d impressed everyone, but better yet, I’d surprised myself. I walked away with a new sense of my abilities. 

The Art Loeb Trail was my first brush with “type two” fun — what the outdoor community calls an experience that was difficult in the moment but epically fun in retrospect. As I soon discovered, the stuff is addictive. 

The following spring, I embarked on a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail, a 2,200 mile journey across the mountains of the Eastern US. Much like the Art Loeb, this experience brought ample rain, cold, loneliness, and physical struggle. In moments of self-doubt, though, I remembered my lesson from the Art Loeb: the struggle would be worth the glory in the end. 

Just before Labor Day, after six continuous months of backpacking, I summited Mount Katahdin and completed the Appalachian Trail. To this day, it is the single greatest and hardest thing I’ve ever done. (But there are more hikes to come…)

Sometimes, I still wonder what motivates me to take on these endeavors. While most people relax with a beer in hand on their days off, I choose to whack through bushes and hike til my muscles scream. 

There’s an element of masochism to it, to be sure, but in my experience, there’s also a deep optimism.

I think back to that naive girl who embarked on the Art Loeb Trail. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she was excited. She believed — despite all the risks and unknowns — that she would discover something incredible out there. She hoped to learn something about herself and about the world, something that she would never discover if she didn’t take this leap and try. She may not have known much about backpacking, but she knew to act on hope rather than fear. 

I am grateful to that girl. In her naivety, there was bravery. No matter how many miles I hike, I hope to always carry her with me.