When I was in Australia, a little over a year ago, I received a key ingredient to how I relate to nature. For much of my walking life, I had been focused on listening. I knew that nature had a voice. I felt song through frequencies and rhythms that were becoming vivid in tandem with my time spent washing away the gunk in my energetic body. I believe we call that ‘forest bathing’. As though the field of buzzing things around me was silenced by waves of crystal clear water. 

It has been delicious. Words and melodies have become things I can pick from the air like apples. A sense of purpose fills my chest and tickles my skin like a loving hand behind my heart. It started with saying thank you to trees. They said something back. Something wordless. Deeper understood than words. And from that space I am learning more and more to communicate with nature. 

Somehow I still forgot how circles worked. Until an ancient human culture spilled into my cells in Australia and reminded me of something I was born knowing. Our communication with nature is a dialogue. In a short lifetime of projecting my dreams upon the earth, the earth has been whispering its dreams for me to embody. While focused on honoring her by deeply listening, she has been listening back. 

This past week I’ve been gifted with a visit from a magnificent teenager who walked with me. They came all the way from Montana to remind me how much it matters to know each other and to be there. I’ve gotten to cook meals and pick lettuce. Laugh with my trail brother and his amazing wife. Bounce their 8-month old on my knee. Behold the power of grandparents. Marvel in the architecture of academia. Sit in circles of harmonic singers. Cuddle with a cat. Chase a ball with a dog. Basically, I’ve gotten to celebrate much of the beauty that we get to experience as living bodies doing their best. And I’m honored. 

And what do you know? The same magic I percieve in the trees is in the eyes of the infant. The one that gives. 

I carry on with a sense that life can’t lose, like the ace of trump is in its hand. And since people love to play games, I let it be. I step out of this round to be with the forest instead. I do it for delight. Like canopy light in a deciduous forest. What a gift to walk in a tunnel that gives and gives. And to know that I am giving too. By being. The journey is the offering.

This it what it feels like to be rich. To give what you have. 

I recommend a walk in the woods. A chance to wash off a bit of the that buzzing gunk around us. It’s good stuff. 

‘System’ kind of feels like a hot word these days. And it’s got my thoughts tangled in its webbing. I am devoted to the Rocky Mountain Ecosystem, especially the GYE (Greater Yellowstone) which I feel is somehow the director to my life work, though I couldn’t show you on paper. So far.

It seems all drains lead to the ocean and watershed deliberately represents something that’s been going on. After 15 years of walking in the woods, asking questions and listening, I give my heart to the wolf; the most contentious predator. She is, after all, the species who can do more for the river than any. 

I honor the system of nature, and the bear, the bison, and the beaver beside the wolf who play pivotal roles in keeping things in flow. I walk in places where the wolves have been removed and listen to the land’s story.

Here in Appalachia I notice systems every day. I lifted a stick yesterday that revealed a mycelium network. White strands, thicker than webbing, let go of the stick and recoiled onto the earth. Like springy silver hairs amongst the earth’s black head. 

I watch moisture systems build and release each day. I don’t remember seeing that in New England before. For two and a half weeks life has been so steamy I could always see it. Clouds formed in every valley, then rose with thunder. 

I experienced a system loved by many, especially in New England. The hut system of the AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club). It is 149 years old and impressive. It shouldn’t be surprising in a land of such academic vigor, yet for me it is. The White Mountains of New Hampshire celebrate the worst weather in the world and yet have infrastructure all over the place. I didn’t pitch my tent once from Gorham to Wentworth (111 Miles).

My first two nights were opportunities to do a work-for-stay at Lake of the Clouds and Zealand huts. For an hour of work I was allowed to eat dinner leftovers and sleep on the dining room floor. The huts host hikers by the bucket-full and provide bunks and meals for roughly $150 per person per night. It would be a great way to have a dreamy family vacation in some of the most challenging terrain I know.

As a thru-hiker, I was grateful for the stay. It certainly wasn’t the best sleep I get on trail and dinner happened rather later than sooner, but I was grateful. The Zealand Hut was lovely since it’s staff was quite sweet and I spent hours in a shallow, rocky waterfall.

My next night, I bunkered down for a storm. Before ascending Franconia Ridge, I heard thunder. I knew in my bones not to continue on, and sat under my tarp as the rain came heavy. It lasted about an hour and was done at 6pm. I had been planning to make it to the next water source before stopping. That storm had thrown me off my groove. It would have been fine, there was plenty of trail mix and bars to keep me satiated, yet the call of a hot meal was alluring. Then the birds starting singing. I stepped out from under my tarp and looked around at the dripping trees. Three hours of daylight would be enough to get over Mount Lafayette and down to the Greenleaf Hut, where I could get water. I carried on.

Several hikers going the other way warned me not to continue. I suppose getting up to one of the most exposed parts of the trail after 7pm seemed unwise. Though their wisdom was questionable, having walked 2 miles above the alpine in a thunderstorm. I thanked them and kept walking. 

What happened was magic. I crested the ridge just as low clouds began to clear. Orange and purple hues streaked through a sky of grey and a shimmering landscape revealed itself beneath me.

And then came the sunset of a lifetime…

When I arrived at Greenleaf Hut, I was invited to stay in a bunk. Hikers had paid for a room they decided not to hike to. They requested it be offered to any wandering strangers, should they come roaming through. I was in the perfect patch of orange sky at the perfect time. There were giant bowls of leftover chickpeas, lentils, and rice. I was in vegan heaven. I offered to do a few chores and the staff insisted that I enjoy and join as a guest. So I did.

The next day I stayed at the Notch Hostel and slackpacked my last full day in the Whites over Kinsman Mountain. Then hiked on south over the gateway back into the soft life, Mt. Moosilauke. From the top of the last wild climb I honored the miles behind me, then dropped into an almost comical transition. From miles like this…

I found myself on trails as smooth as a baby’s bottom, like this…

And four miles later the colors changed. After walking a Boreal Forest for weeks, bright green leaves stopped me in my tracks. I often feel like the chlorophyll is shining as gold as it is green. I don’t understand it, but I experience it all the time. This moment truly amazed me. And still does.

Back home, my dear one was able to witness in person a presentation by the woman who’s work I admire most, Robyn Wall Kimmerer. If ever there was a leader to help us into a system, it would be her. In her best-selling book, Braiding Sweetgrass, she speaks of a system of reciprocity. One that has been around since the dawn of time. “All thriving is mutual,” she says. And she’s right.

Sometimes we are digging and reaching and stressing to hold humanity in a functional system. It’s already here. The trees never gave up on us. They still give. 

We’ll get there. 

I’m a little tired and a lot grateful. And I’ve made it to New Hampshire.

It took me 8 days to get here from Caratunk and each one could be it’s own short story. 

Like the uniqueness of the Kennebec Ferry. A canoe with white blazes freshly painted and a steward who loves his job like he loves his life in Maine. Robert Starbird paddled us across the river and told stories of the loons and eagles he sees every day. He emphasizes that the AT is less than one percent of the beauty this state has to offer. “Come back and explore Maine.” He says. “There’s so much more too see.”

He recommended a place just up trail to climb down to a waterfall and see an old mortar and pestle made of a hollowed rock. Which I did. And enjoyed a quick dip in a pool of cool water. 

In a few short miles I came to this…

Which leads to this…

It’s a sporting lodge. There are many throughout Maine and they are places where one can stay while they hunt or fish and be fed by a caretaker. If there is one thing I am learning about Mainers, it is that they live with their land. Everybody I meet from here has a relationship with life outdoors, and depends on it for peace of mind as well as the life it gives. This lodge is on Pierce Pond and its caretaker, Tim Harrison, is as abundant in spirit as the woods themselves.

I sat with him for a bit, talking about birds while he provided a glass of cold strawberry lemonade. It might have been the most delicious beverage I’ve ever had. We played songs for each other on his electric piano. I played “Through” and he offered the most sincere and touching song I’ve heard in a long time, “Tucker’s Rhapsody.” He had written it as a tribute to his son who passed away. I listened with all of me.

The wilderness is soft around Pierce Pond. I walked on feeling full. Before long, I came upon a familiar sight…

This is West Carry Pond. I never imagined it would be the cover of my book when I stopped there four years ago to scoop up water. And today, it’s good to know its name. East and West Carry Ponds got their namesake from the endeavors of Benedict Arnold on an expedition in 1775.

I appreciated the beauty among the historic tales and thoughts of what is today.

Before long, the soft landscapes gained edges, and the next day I found myself climbing Little Bigelow Peak. From that point to Mount Moosilauke (227 Miles), the steps along the Appalachian Trail are their most strenuous.

I fell pretty hard that day, an epic trip where I sort of super-manned for an instant and then was body slammed onto the path by the weight of my pack. I laid still for a moment to make sure I was still alive then peeled myself off the ground. My right wrist had taken more of the blow than I wanted it to. Maine is not the state to decommision a wrist. You need those for all the handholds and hoists necessary to get over the many rock piles and root scrambles, not to mention the hardware of rebar and fine crafted ladders. Most of my functionality has returned by now, but for a few days, I had to get creative with my three points of contact. Here are some of the obstacles.

Overall, there has been a lot of beauty. I was able to slack pack for a day with the help of my friend AT Gracie. It was wonderful to see her, though I could have talked with her for days and wish we had the time. She dropped me off at a hostel known as The Cabin, where a 93-year-old woman, Honey, is still hosting hikers and sharing stories that shaped AT history. She cooks dinner for her guests and drives shuttles to the trailheads. Her dining room table is covered in hiker signatures and her walls have pictures of Warren Doyle and Earl Schaffer. Her husband’s trail name was Bear and though he is no longer with us, the love of what they built together is quite alive. It’s also represented in symbols all around the house of bears covered in honey.

I caught up to most of the south bound hikers I met in the 100 Mile Wilderness. One of them I was able to go through Mahoosuc Notch, the hardest/funnest mile of the AT. It was enjoyable to share that part of the journey, and with Dragonfly I was honored to be in the company of a vibrant New England enthusiast who had a personal history of building a bog bridge at the notch’s north entrance when she was 16. Ten years later, I got to witness her nostalgic return. Plus, it was extremely helpful to have a buddy to pass your pack to when crawling through the caves.

I called my mother on my last camp out in Maine. I’d been missing her. In 2011, she was here with me doing road support and memories of getting to be with her are still at every road crossing. It’s amazing, the memories in the air. Noticing my own, one little life in three little crossings makes me wonder just how much the trees have witnessed. I hope to witness them. Along with the rocks and the lily pads.

It’s rest day today. Much needed. And my dear shoes have reached retirement. I’m happy for them, maybe a little jealous. Even though I know it’s an honor to keep walking.

Hop off trail in Caratunk, Maine.

Skip my way down to Harpers Ferry to walk north for a spell.

And Jump all the way back with the help of a man I consider legendary.

All of this has happened in the last four days.

Mateo and I walked from Monson to Caratunk. Views were gorgeous and fords were high, hip level at their most on the Piscataquis River. My hiking poles vibrated under water in a similar way that one might play the saw as an instrument. For a second, I wondered about myself. Then I saw Mateo standing steady downstream and felt safe to move along.

That last sentence sums up how it was to have him walk with me. His companionship and respect for nature combined with red cedars and loon calls have made my first 12 days on the AT this year the most enjoyable thru-hiking I’ve experienced so far. I’m honored to get to be with nature in this way, and more so, to have someone deeply listening with me.

We hired a ride from Caratunk to Augusta and talked about paranormal activity in forms like Big Foot, plasma, dark matter, and alien encounters. I couldn’t imagine a richer and more intriguing conversation. Our driver was a documentary film-maker and public speaker on such matters. Bill Brock. Nary a dull moment in Maine.

From Augusta, we sat by a replica of the liberty bell in front of the Capitol building for a short while and I read my book out loud to Mateo, Where the Water Goes by David Owen. After a riveting chapter of water politics my hiking buddy, Cookie Monster, arrived. He drove up from Massachusetts to take us back to his phenomenal home and then to the Boston airport the next morning.

Cookie Monster was part of my PCT and CDT thru hikes in 2013 and 2015. I ran into him at Trail days last month. After a pleasant greeting, he gave me a package of dark chocolate-covered espresso beans and introduced me to his amazing company, Triple Crown Coffee. Connecting with him again was a real treat. And I can honestly say, I have never had a better cup of Joe in the backcountry.

He brought Mateo and I to the Boston Airport the next morning, where I boarded a plane to Washington D.C. and Mateo to Denver. It was great for Mateo and I to get to travel together, and then it allowed me to make my way to Harpers Ferry and hike north for a few days. I could walk my way into my first on-trail gig; The Appalachian Trail Arts and Culture Festival.

It was a smooth transition to ride the metro to the Amtrak. Through quick flashes in the train windows, a world of monuments and museums transitioned to houses and forests. I was stunned by the sudden view of the Potomac River, and when I stepped off in Harper’s Ferry, I could feel the presence of a dear friend, the Shenandoah.

Harpers Ferry is a confluence like non I’ve seen elsewhere. Not just in rivers. Three landmasses come together like a trinity and nature has established a deliberate mark on time. One that human history has experienced as drastically as the landscape. Where change flows in and out like tidal waves and people crash like symbols.

I sang a medicine wheel song before I started walking and introduced my intentions to the converging rivers. And to the geese who pecked at the park grounds under the fort of John Brown.

Perhaps this is romance at its finest; to stand on grass that remembers and believe in beauty.

I walked north across the Sandy Hook bridge and hiked until after dark. I was jumpy in the night, having forgotten what a ruckus falling acorns make. It’s astounding to be surrounded by acorn bearers suddenly, from pinecones and poplars. I look forward to witnessing the transition at a more natural pace.

For the next two days I went between historic markers such as civil war battle sites and the original Washington Monument. It looks like this…

Between walks with history, were walks with my hiking body. I wasn’t sure what kind of hiking shape I was in and it was a perfect opportunity to test myself. It wouldn’t have taken two days over 30 miles to get to the museum in time for the gig. About halfway through my first day I concluded that I’m not there yet. And 27 miles felt like plenty. I went 22 the next day, on which I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line.

The “his story” of humanity is gripping. I look forward to kinder times. And I’m glad I’m here to walk with this land. And to listen.

I was scooped up by trail angels on the evening of the 28th. Two enthusiastic trail women, who were part of the group that hosted the event, came to pick me up on highway 233 and hugged my sweaty body like it wasn’t at all disturbing. They took me back to the Ironmaster’s Hostel, a hub beside the halfway point for the trail and a home base for our event. The mansion hostel was once a safe house for the underground railroad.

Warren Doyle pulled up next to us. I met him a little over a month ago, and feel honored to have gotten to know him from the spirit of the trail and the heart of a poet. He has been a dear friend and support for me on this hike, and was the keynote speaker for the event. I probably would have opted not to attend had he not offered me a ride back up to Maine. Having a spot on an authors panel was a fantastic opportunity for my book, yet a tall order for a thru-hiker. Warren really made it possible and filled my heart with excitement to get to drive across the country with a wellspring of trail knowledge. He has thru-hiked the AT 9 times, and section hiked it 9 more. He has also been an educator for many hikers and a support system and sharp tool for those who break speed records. He knows every location on the entire trail. A master of his craft unlike any other.

The event was beautiful. The Appalachian Trail Museum and Earl Schaffer Foundation hosted with gusto. Hikers and townspeople gathered to honor and celebrate the trail we all hold dear. I was touched to arrive just in time on the morning of the 29th to a table already set. My neighbors were three authors I shared a space with at trail days, Mike Raynor –Altered on the Appalachian Trail, John Turner- Killing the Buddha on the Appalachian Trail, and Lee Lovelace- The Last Hike. I’m brand new to the scene and already surrounded by friends. The AT is like that.

There were two more authors panels. One on books about Earl Schaffer, a veteran known for walking off the war as the first publicly acclaimed AT thru hike. The next was a panel of AT historians. The final act was the boisterous storytelling of Warren Doyle, who spoke of many things; conversations with Walt Whitman, discos atop New York Mountains, and frolicking like a dear through battalions of military men in camoflouge.

My takeaway from this event is that we all really love this opportunity to walk. There is no denying that the Appalachian Trail means a lot to the many and I have a sense that it’s untouchable spirit will continue on for many generations; that its heart is too strong to be buried, no matter what we hear on the news about our public lands.

I’m still pinching myself to be back in New England. Back at Shaw’s Hostel in Monson. With the help of Warren I will walk the miles I missed from the flooding over a week ago. Then carry on from Caratunk the next day. Less than 24 hours after the closing of the festival yesterday, we pulled up to Shaw’s.

Warren is truly a magician. He knows how to flow. I hope to learn from him and continue to form a friendship around this beautiful thing we call the Appalachian Trail.

*Photos by Mateo Sandate

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Mateo and I have come through the 100 Mile Wilderness. In 8 days we walked 100 miles.

I am pleased to say that Southbounding makes sense. There is a grace to it. You start with the most difficult climb on the entire trail. Weightless, or mostly weight free without your overnight gear, thanks to the kind and thoughtful people of Maine. You climb 5.2 miles up the Hunt’s trail to the summit, Baxter Peak. 

My other two times climbing Katahdin, I thought it was surreal because of what it symbolized along my path; the completion of a walk from Georgia to Maine. Now I understand that it’s surreal because it’s Katahdin. Great Mountain. I’ve never been anywhere like it. And I’m grateful for the yes I was given when I asked its permission to carry myself to it’s peak. We sat there and shivered in the clouds. Occasional glimpses of the surrounding area peeked through the clouds. Lakes in the sky; the mountain view of Maine. 

I once stood there and looked south, thinking what a long way I had come. Now I stand there and look all around. I look in. It has become a wonder to be alive, anywhere. Walking is my honor of celebrating it. 

Next as a southbounder, you add the weight of your backpack and walk flat trails with good footing for a slight while. Then you cross a boundary into the 100 Mile Wilderness, with a sign that says, basically, “Know you’re shit.” It can be a bit intimidating, for how do you know when you know your shit? Most of us who have been doing something for a while are just starting to understand how much we don’t know about something. 

And that’s how I feel about thru hiking today. Like I’ve done enough to know that I am just getting started. That I don’t know as much as I thought I knew, and for that I am truly grateful. That’s the one thing that does feel like I’m getting somewhere. 

The next part of the wilderness adds complicated footing. Bog walks on rotting boardwalks, roots rising up from the earth, mud between slick rock, streams tucked in all the nooks between boulders, and so on. You get to surprise yourself with impressive trips. Some where you belly flop fast and hard on duff-covered surfaces without knowing what got you. Some where your feet slip out from underneath you in a millisecond and you find your bum to be your new baseline. The trail is teaching you how to step. And how to take a fall.

After about fifty miles of those learning lessons, the layer of up and over is added back in. And how. Climbing ascents as steep as 900 feet a mile (with the afore-mentioned tripping agents) to exposed mountain tops. Add a lightning storm and Aha! Now you are hiking the Appalachian Trail. 

I never noticed all these things pealing away as I finished the last two hikes. That layers were stripped as my steps met solid ground. As opener, I felt it all. And I want to say thank you to Maine. Thank you for the wildness. For bogs on mountaintops and carnivorous plants within them. Thank you for the stream we couldn’t cross safely. For the mosquitos that never stopped. The loon calls that go straight to my Minnesota-born heart. Nighthawks. Moose. Beavers. Lady Slippers. Kinglets. Warblers. Toads and frogs. 

Thank you for all the people who are walking here. We bring our essence to the woods. May it be an offering to the things that are. May we walk beside ourselves and next to everyone. For you, dear Maine. And for the Appalachian Trail. A friend. A guide. And a Great Teacher.

How Mateo Got His Trail Name- June 21st, 2025

I’ve been told many times to look out for the stream crossings of the 100-Mile Wilderness. Bill Bryson makes a rather large deal out of it in A Walk in the Woods. I’ve often looked around confused at those same crossing, wondering where the said water was. It’s ankle deep or a rock hop above the stream. I like Mr. Bryson, and his book changed my life, and I’m pretty sure he got the book deal first and then had to hike the trail which turned out to be a bit dramatic. Could the streams really be that bad?

Shut my mouth, I got my answer.

Last night, Mateo and I were coming down the ledges of Barren Mountain. It had been a long and technical day with 6 summits and a lot of wet rock to navigate. As we rounded the bend next to remnants of an old fire tower, we saw two things: a descent that looked easier to slide down on your butt than walk with your feet and the sudden darkening of the sky. The sun wouldn’t be setting for an hour, which could only mean one thing.

Sure enough, we heard our first rumble of thunder. Soon after, the sky lit up with lightning flashes.

I was grateful that we were on our way down, though a bit anxious for the exposure. Most of what we were walking was barren rock face. I hesitated once or twice as lightning flashed, then ran for it, knowing the trees on the lower side were the place to be.

Right when we hit the tall forest, the wind started roaring. “You might want to get your rain jacket on,” Mateo said.

We took off our packs and dawned our apparel, including headlamps. A moment later the rain began. It hit us like a wall; from dry to wet in a matter of seconds. 

We picked up our feet and began to swiftly make our way down. We were heading for Long Pond Lean-To which was a mile away. Mateo counted the seconds between lightning and thunder for the first four thunder claps. After he got from 8-1000 to 2-1000, he stopped. It was pretty obvious that we were in it.

Our goal for the day was a campsite next to a stream a mile beyond the shelter. We preferred sleeping out in our tent in quiet places in the woods and wanted to make it to the next water source. Yet, the opportunity to cook dinner under a roof was quite appealing as we turned down the side trail to the lean-to. 

All of the Appalachian Trail has 3-sided structures for hikers. In Maine they are called lean-tos, in Virginia they are shelters, though they are generally the same and maintained by volunteers who belong to clubs along the AT. I depended on them heavily on my first thru-hike in 2011 and avoided them entirely in 2021. 

Last night, it was bliss. We rolled in sopping in the dark and had a shelter all to ourselves. It’s amazing how phenomenal a nail to hang your pack under a dry roof can be. The downpour was fantastic on the tin roof and really didn’t seem to let up all night long.

The next morning (today) we got up and hit the trail before 7. Within minutes, the path joined the edge of Long Pond Stream. It was brown and white-capped, like a root beer float. The pounding roar of its flow was as ominous as the thunder the night before. 

Mateo shook his head at me. “I’m not crossing that.”

I nodded and kept silent as we walked on. Surely there was a safe way across, like a log bridge or some ideal soft water. A few minutes later, the trail disappeared under waves and white blazes marked the way to the other side of the raging stream where a small island separated two raging waterways. A rope was strung above class 4 rapids from our shore to the island.

“I bet it will drop enough to cross in a few hours,” I said.

By late morning we were joined by 3 other hikers; a couple from Florida called Gator and Croc, and a young man named Isaac. We kept each other company and watched the river come down slowly. I clung to every inch as a possibility, attached to our plan to make it to town and shower. Yet, each hour, I tried stepping into the stream to test the footing. There was no doubt that it was risking our lives. The footing was slippery and the water was up to my thigh in the mellow bits. It was far too swift to fight and under the surface was a rock garden. 

I went to sit for my second cup of tea with the group when Gator suddenly stirred. “Someone’s coming.” She pointed to the other side of the stream.

A tall slender woman was thigh deep in torrents upstream of the island between us. She dug hard with her hiking poles and pushed her way into the small chunk of trees on the other side of the rope, then tried the rope for a second and turned around. Searching with an expression of urgency she looked up and saw us. Her face cracked a slight smile as she waved then she got right back to searching; running up and down the small island to find a crossable line. Nothing looked safe from where we were sitting.

Mateo began to tie up his shoes with a sense of urgency. He ran to our side of the rope string and held on to it. With his legs braced on boulders, he gripped the rope and leaned back, taking a bit of the slack out of the line. She stashed her poles between the small of her back and her pack and crossed herself in a Hail Mary, then gripped the rope with both hands.

“Game on.” I said to the river as I ran to grab the rope beside Mateo, activated with the same sense I get when I’m assisting with a medical emergency.

Foot by foot she scaled across the white water. Waves were tearing her body away from her footing like a pressure hose. We pulled with all our might while she wobbled back and forth. Her arms pushed and pulled as the rope suddenly slid over her head. She caught herself after shifting to the downstream side and clung to it as though she was falling off a cliff edge. We heaved harder, pumped with adrenaline and yelling to her to hang on and keep going. 

Her eyes widened as she made a few steps in our direction. Her strength was dwindling and she had about eight feet to go. She took two more large steps and then her feet slipped out from under her. 

Mateo dipped his body under the rope and grabbed on with his left hand while reaching for her with his right. She gripped him while they both lost footing completely. My heart seemed to stop beating for a second as they both clung to the rope and each other with their feet dangling in the currents. I pulled on the rope and reached for Mateos torso. With one big move, mostly coming from her, the both surged toward shore and where somehow able to get footing on boulders under the gushing waters. 

All three of us took a gulp of breath together.

“I didn’t mean to die for this.” She said.

“I’m so glad you didn’t.” I said. “You too.” I said to Mateo who was speechless and shivering. 

She talked to us for a minute about the other crossings she had done that day. She asked us our names and told us hers was Bubble Wrap. She had a Kiwi accent. “How did you all get across?”

“We didn’t,” I said. I was nervous that our presence had given her the impression that it could be done. “We’re Southbounders.”

She was going northbound. Long Pond Stream was a raging moat meant to separate us. Yet there we all were, collapsed in a sopping pile on the north side. 

We stepped on to shore.

“I better carry on.” She said. “Thank you for saving my life.” And all too quickly, she was gone.

It was pretty clear we were not crossing that river any time soon. I made my way back up the hill to call the infamous Shaw’s Hostel in Monson and cancel our reservation for the night. 

To my very pleasant surprise, the hostel owner, Hippie Chick, told us on the phone that there was a place she could pick us up two miles north of us. “I’m not surprised to hear that hikers are stuck there. We just got word that a northbounder nearly went down Long Pong Stream.”

“Wow, word travels out here. My partner was the one who pulled her to shore.”

An hour later, Poet met us in a parking lot off of a side trail. He thanked us for being there to help Bubble Wrap across the water. She had missed the warning that all the other hikers received when they left today. The rivers are three times higher than they usually get in rain storms. The CFS, which is usually 100-200 Cubic Feet was 3700. It wasn’t likely to go down to a safe crossing level for a few days.

When we checked in at their gear supply shop, I wrote down my trail name then looked up to Mateo. “I think we call you Hero.”

Everybody in the room nodded, including the two owners, who are among the most immersed and connected keepers of the AT. 

And so it is.

*Photos by Sara Leibold

I’m in awe. That the earth should open so generously. That the water should be so alive, journeying to the sea. 

And that me and my feet should be welcomed by the things that are. 

In early May, I made my way through the many rocks of Utah. My dear friend, Sara-Tide, had invited me to join for her last stretch of the Hayduke Trail. It is an 800 mile route through Utah and Arizona which most hikers start in Moab and finish in Zion. The little I knew about the trail was that it included canyoneering and logistical challenges like burying food caches before you start your walk.nThe stretch remaining for Sara-Tide was along the north rim of the Grand Canyon. 

I was touched. Our friendship was a big deal to me. Born on the Appalachian Trail in 2011 on our fourth day as thru-hikers. The ripples of what life and walking can do made a great impression, perhaps even a groove. A powerhouse friend is worth their weight in gold. 

Hiking the Hayduke with her was a rare opportunity on a few levels. One being that I got to support her. I have received her company and road assistance many times on sections of the Appalachian Trail and Continental Divide. I got to support a journey of hers. A sense of purpose rode with me to southern Utah, where we could shuttle our vehicles to the start and finish of a 60-mile adventure.

Another rarity was showing up without having much of a clue what we were doing. I’m usually the planner. This time, I packed 5 days of food and arrived. The rest of the details were up to her.

Our first day would be dropping down to the Colorado River from the north rim of the Grand Canyon. It was over 5,000 feet of descent in 9 miles to our campground near Dear Creek Falls. From there we could either bushwhack along the Colorado River for 7 miles or hope to catch a ride with a raft. (Hitchhiking on river rafts is a thing for Hayduke hikers). Next we had 28 miles of boulder scrambling up Kanab Canyon; a place known for flash floods. And then 15 miles of trail and forest service roads. 

When we arrived at the Bill Hall trailhead to start our journey, I did something I’ve never done before. I asked permission. With a lit candle and a song to the directions I made an offering to the Grand Canyon before we entered. My body trembled as a sang. Warmth spread across the back of my heart, like a comforting hand. I felt the yes. “This is big medicine.” I said to Sara-Tide.

I had known for a long time that some kind of magic was in that canyon. It was obvious in the eyes of people I’ve witnessed emerging from river trips. I recognized it as similar to how Glacier had opened my soul when I first laid eyes on it at age 14. And there was no doubt it had transformed Sara-Tide.

After the ritual, the space was open. Rock structures felt like beings. Certain minerals from the depths of the earth greeted my fingertips like family. The stars and planets spoke. The river itself was a friend, especially to Sara-Tide, though I was scooped up in it’s charms as well.

And in the spirit of being scooped up, I had the most phenomenal opportunity to practice the law of attraction.

On the morning of our second day, Sara-Tide and I had breakfast with the Colorado River. The base of Deer Creek Falls was alive with mist and the powerful yet soft energy of water shaping land. 

We had a day ahead of us. We could hope to catch a ride with a rafting party or we could start walking seven miles along the steep canyon walls filled with brush and boulders. 

“We should start now.” Sara-Tide weighed out the logic. If we waited for a ride and never found one, we could be hiking into the night. And it wasn’t getting any cooler. 

I looked downstream for a moment. “Nah. Let’s order up the best day possible. What would that look like?”

I talked us through the possibilities, lit up with the alignment of the canyon itself. “How about we spend half a day on this beach and then a nice dinner and sunset at the next one? We can have lunch, swim, meet nice people, then catch a ride this afternoon.” 

“And while we’re at it, let’s order a beer. Because if we believe in it, we can have it. I’m going to put in an order to the universe for a cold IPA from a boat full of Montanans.”

We sat down on the river bank and waited. 

A rafting party of four arrived in two boats less than an hour later. In our first few minutes of conversation, they offered us a ride. They had plans to spend the bulk of the day at the beach and would be heading out in the afternoon. 

“Perfect” I said. “That way we get to hang out here for lunch.” 

I smiled at Sara-Tide, while we made ourselves comfortable in a patch of shade in the sand beside the canyon wall.

Several parties of various sizes tied their boats to shore. Everyone was aglow with gratitude and joy, living their best life on trip down the Colorado. Most of the parties were out for a three week journey that was nearing it’s end.

Their eyes showed their adoration like sunlight reflecting of the water. I knew the feeling well. I’ve had similar gazes toward the end of a thru-hike; drinking in my surroundings in hopes to hold on to it. Wanting to infuse myself with water and trees so that I can never be separated. 

Two young men rolled up in river kayaks, followed by two rafts. One with a solo rower in the middle and another with several young women and men. Their ease and comfort with the flow of the current struck me right away.

“That’s gotta be the Montanans.” I nudged Sara-Tide.

We stood in the little free space left of the beach with our feet in the water, a few yards from their boats. The man in the raft by himself jumped out after securing his vessel and then walked over toward us with an open dry bag. 

“Hikers?” He asked.

Sara-Tide and I nodded.

He held out the bag. “I think you’ve earned a cold beer.” 

I peered down to the collection of cans before me. An IPA sat on top of the pile. Aha, there is was, the beer I ordered. I reached for it and smiled as he approached Sara-Tide. 

“Where are you from?” I leaned in waiting for his answer.

“Idaho.” He smiled.

“So close.” I said over my shoulder to Sara-Tide. “That’s like the other Montana.” I took a step toward him and reached out my hand. “Thank you so much for the beer. I was working on manifesting one today. I’m Shayla.”

He shook my hand. “Good work. I’m Montana.”

Sara-Tide and I howled at the river. “Amazing.” She said.

Soon after that, we boarded a raft with borrowed life jackets and gaping smiles. The group we were with had an age range of 10-76 and insisted that we sit in front to get the full experience. Nothing could have prepared me for the thrill of those rapids as we dipped before our first 6 foot wall of water and received it’s icy greeting. We laughed and squealed and held on tight for an hour.

When we were dropped off beside Kanab Creek, we waved goodbye and stepped back into the peaceful energy of canyon sand. We ate our dinner with our feet in the water. Then I slept under the stars and had a conversation with the Moon and Mars before the morning light woke me. 

A beaver swam back and forth along the shore as the sun rose. I wouldn’t have guessed I’d see one there.

Our walk from there was brilliant and challenging. We made the best time we could over giant boulders and through pools of water. We drank from a spring that fell from hanging plants above us. I imagined my life might have truly meshed with the whimsy. Perhaps a fairy garden or a mermaids lair. I’m no longer unsure that those things are possible. 

When we made it back to our getaway car the next day I felt completion. As though an opening had closed and I’d landed back in whatever world this is. I thanked the Grand Canyon and Sara-Tide and drove back to Carbondale. 

Today I put my feet in the Crystal River and cheer on the skipping water. I understand why it’s in a hurry to get to where its going. And I pray for more of that. May the water flow. 

Thank you for allowing us to journey along.

It’s been difficult to describe the way my life is taking shape. The earth is getting louder. We’re getting in line with what’s actually true. Universally true. Yet unnamable.

In Australia, there were Aboriginal elders who knew me before I came. By the Magpies and the grass, they understood who I am and what I’ve lived for. And they ask me to sing.

And so I do. I sing to the rivers and remind them to flow back to the sea. I sing to thirsty earth. I sing to the sky and the crackling fire. And it matters.

There is something happening on a global scale. I can’t name it, but I am honored to be in service to it. I am committed to a confluence. One where music and nature lead the way. Where the invisible is given form. Where barriers can no longer stand between us, the illusion of separation comes down like a wall of sugar in the pouring rain.

And it’s time.

Today was a day of shifting. More than I understand. For it came in the most unsuspected way. And I’m still spinning.

Last night I had the strangest flight. In the late hours the captain’s voice rang on the loudspeaker twenty minutes after we were meant to land, delivering the phrase, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

I didn’t feel panic, though I generally would be inclined to. Instead I felt a spark of curiosity. How interesting.

He went on to announce that we weren’t allowed to land in Adelaide, instead we were returning to Melbourne, where we would be landing at 12:30am. There had been a miscommunication between airports. He apologized along with a request for grace and patience. Energy heightened, but only a bit. Most of us chuckled.

Not sure whether we were dreaming, a long line of sleepy people stumbled out of the plane and back into the airport we came from. I was struck by how kindly we interacted. We stood in a line that barely moved from 1am to 3am, getting to know our neighbors.

It reminded me of a natural disaster. When I was a teenager, my neighborhood in Brainerd, Minnesota experienced a tornado. None of the houses on my block were damaged, though an F4 swirled over, then touched down a tenth of a mile away. There was a distinct grace period after the storm. One in which the strangers on my street became my neighbors. I became theirs. I got that same feeling in the service line of a dim hallway in the wee small hours this morning.

I cried a whole bunch more. Sat down in a pew willingly for the first time in my life. And prayed.

I’m ready to forgive.

How do we forgive our Fathers?
Maybe in a dream
Do we forgive our Fathers for leaving us too often or forever
when we were little?
Maybe for scaring us with unexpected rage
or making us nervous
because there never seemed to be any rage there at all.
Do we forgive our Fathers for marrying or not marrying our Mothers?
For Divorcing or not divorcing our Mothers?
And shall we forgive them for their excesses of warmth or coldness?
Shall we forgive them for pushing or leaning
for shutting doors
for speaking through walls
or never speaking
or never being silent?
Do we forgive our Fathers in our age or in theirs
or their deaths
saying it to them or not saying it?
If we forgive our Fathers what is left?

Dick Lourie and Sherman Alexie

A journey is alive in every moment. Each step. Katahdin was not a place to reach for, it is a place to be, among many. What matters to me is what’s been here, alongside me. This hike has been a celebration of what I’ve got.

I love my body so much, it makes me cry. A little of that’s sadness, for how I used to treat it, but mostly, it’s gratitude. I get to walk. That’s my honor in this human experience.

I carry a heavy heart, only because it’s so freakin’ big, and there’s room for everyone in it. So my legs are strong. They have no choice.

I carry faith, that this is what’s real and what will always be; sunlight through the canopy and mud in our leg hair.

I carried an mp3 player this whole time, and only started listening to it in the 100 mile wilderness. My last three nights camping, in the dark, up against my dinner tree, I sang along and laughed at myself.

I carried a letter, from my Montana family. I asked them in January to write something magic on a piece of paper so I could keep it in my pocket. I finally read it, on Katahdin. “Sing your song” was in the center and statements about the love in my heart filled the rest of the page. This family is mostly composed of children, and it’s astounding how deeply seen I feel.

I carried a tacky, blue, screw-top container. Translucent, unceremonious, and precious. It holds ashes. This is my fifth time walking across a country, but the first without her voice. God! I miss her voice. It was especially loud. I feel distinctly quiet.

It feeds a sort of loop. It’s painful to think about these hardships, and then it wouldn’t hurt if we weren’t so alive. So I circle back to noticing and I say “thank you.”

Thank you heart.

Thank you feet.

Thank you Appalachian Trail.