“Adventure is allowing the unexpected to happen to you.”
– Richard Aldington
I gazed out the window of a dog-scented minivan, the world a blur of raw sienna grass and caramel dirt. I was in Arizona. The trip that began as a far-fetched daydream two months earlier was now reality. I had arrived in a whirlwind of confusion and panic, the moments burned together in a jumble of scary news reports, self-doubt, and vacant airports.
My inspiration for an 800 mile walk came in a world starkly different from the one that now existed, and there was no “How To” for the current situation. The infinite thru-hiking resources online did not yet include information on hiking amid the onset of a pandemic. When I flew to Arizona, the COVID-19 cases in the U.S. were sparse, and concentrated in New York City. I did not realize how quickly and how severely the virus was about to spread.
In the week after I started, the New York governor issued a stay-at-home order, my roommate was laid off, and information on thru-hiking during a pandemic flooded the internet. After all this happened it took me longer than it should have to decide to get off-trail. I am critical of myself for that now, but it was a painful decision to make.
This hike was everything to me, and all I thought about for two months. I typed up food lists, created re-supply plans, compared gear costs, added up gear weights, and estimated daily mileage. I watched hundreds of videos on the Arizona Trail, read 1,000 tips for thru-hiking, and reached out to people I knew for advice. I said goodbye to family and friends, left my job, and prepared mentally, physically, and financially to put my life in the Adirondacks on hold and hike for eight weeks.
It is rare to have the opportunity to do this, and I did not know if I would be in a position too do it again. A thru-hike is a journey I have long-felt I needed to take, and it was not easy to acknowledge that this was not the right time to do it.
But these were all thoughts that came later, and in that moment I was in a van with three strangers on my way to the Mexican border. I was mesmerized by the shades of brown rushing by outside the window, and my main source of anxiety did not come from a virus, but from the 800 miles of unknowns that stretched before me.
It only took few steps into wilderness for the rest of the world to become distant. The trail had once been a dream and the world a reality, and now the roles were reversed. The word was a dream, and my reality became hiking, self-reliance, beauty, and survival.
Dar was the trail angel piloting the minivan, and she pointed to distant landmarks as we drove South. The words were muted, and if they reached me at all it was surely through water. My brain was filled with a flash-flood of thoughts and I struggled not to get swept away.
How many hikers before me felt the same fabric beneath their legs, gazed at the same blurred world out this pane of glass, and answered the same questions from Dar? Who were they, and what motivated them to suffer what would surely be severe physical pain, emotional distress, and mental anguish? What motivated me? I had no clue, but couldn’t stop the tug at my cheeks as my face broke into a smile.
I brought myself back to the two strangers in the backseat, and tried to fish their names out of the mess of words in my memory. Vance (who I called Lance for three days) and Rod (who I thought was Rob) were also Northbound thru hikers, and I had expected them to be women.
Dar originally told me I was starting with two other solo female hikers, and I had an image of three strong, independent women taking on the trail together and smashing the patriarchy as we went. This would be different, but at least both people seemed kind and were not emitting any red flags that would make me question my safety.
Vance, a 21 year old from Florida, chose a very literal interpretation of ultralight. His pack was microscopic. Even fully loaded it had counted as a personal item on his plane ride over. His hiking clothes of choice were a crimson pair of short-shorts and a silk button-down shirt. Dar offered five times to stop at a dollar store so he could buy some pants, and he refused. He reasoned that even if he got cold occasionally, it would be warm most of the time.
Rod, a 30 something from Denmark, seemed to have his gear selection down to a science. He hiked the Pacific Crest Trail in 2018, and his pack was a thru-hiker classic. Grey Z-pack, complete with two Smartwater bottles and loaded with a Z-pack tent. I soon learned that this man did not hike, but practically levitated down trail at 4.5 mph.
It was with more than a little embarrassment that I had hoisted my 45 lb pack next to the other two, it landed with an audible “thud”. Yes, I needed to work on my gear selection. The heaviest part of my pack was water. For reasons unknown to my present self, I thought it necessary to carry 4 1/2 Liters of water that first day.
The weight of my pack summit stewarding was consistently 38 lbs, and I knew I could carry 45. I’m stubborn, and overtaken with a need to prove that as a woman, I am just as strong as if not stronger than any man on the trail. As result, even though my arms strained under the weight when I swung my pack over my shoulder I flung that monster around like it was full of air and told everyone who commented on its size that it was only 45 lbs.
I also fiercely justified my gear choices in that it was better to be over-prepared than underprepared.
At 9:00 a.m. Dar dropped us at the trailhead to the Coronado National Monument. I had barely gotten my pack out the door when she urgently started telling us to “Go, go, go”. There was weather coming in (wind, and rain) and apparently the 9,470 ft summit of Miller peak was not an ideal place to be.
We left our packs at the visitor center and scrambled down to the Mexican boarder. Quickly taking the obligatory Southern Terminus pictures we backtracked, now officially starting the trail.
My arms strained again as I shouldered my pack and cranked down on the waist belt. I knew that the weight would leave me hiking slower than Rod and Vance.
I fought back the fiery streak of feminism that urged me to keep pace with them. It was wiser to go at my own speed and not wear myself out. In that moment I wished I was a guy so I could hike as slow as I liked and not worry about perpetuating stereotypes. I told them to go ahead, and added that a heavy pack makes anyone a bit slower.
The trail began a climb that would last for the next 10 miles. Higher up I turned a corner and wind shoved me backwards. I could barely keep my eyes open against the pelting snow, and the entire peak was obscured in a cloud. It felt like I never left the Adirondacks.
I took everything in me to keep putting one foot in front of the other. My fingers quickly went numb, and I stopped to put on fleece gloves, rain pants, a raincoat, and warm hat. The addictive adrenaline rush only high winds on a mountain can bring pulsed through me, and despite the pain I felt on-top of the world.
After another eight miles of climbing this feeling did wear off . Shivering, aching, and panting for air I watched in dismay as the footprints of Vance and Rod became fainter and fainter in the snow. I assumed they were a good hour ahead of me, and that got to me mentally. Maybe I didn’t prepare enough physically for this.
I felt very out of shape, and found it increasingly difficult to breath. That was when I realized I must be above 9,000 ft.
The only thing to do was to keep hiking, so I did. Stabs of pain shot through my legs and my “mild” asthma letting me know it wasn’t so mild at higher elevations. It was an agonizing first day.
During the last four miles my legs felt like led, and I had never experienced that much trouble getting my body to move. I had to stop every twenty steps to prevent an asthma attack and give myself a mental pep talk for the next twenty steps.
I nearly cried from happiness when the trail finally started to go downhill, with just two miles left to camp. At this point I did not expect to see Rod and Vance again. I had also convinced myself that I was in no shape to do the trail.
Then a glint of grey flashed ahead of me on the trail, it was Rod setting up a tent, and Vance doing something with a trekking pole and piece of fabric.
Rod said they had just gotten there ten minutes ago.
I couldn’t believe it.
It was pouring buckets at this point, and the temperature was dropping fast. By the time I fought against the wind to get my tent up every inch of it inside and out was drenched
Meagerly I tried to use a bandana as a sponge to soak up and wring out the puddle that had accumulated right where my sleeping bag would go.
With a stroke of genius, I remembered my space blanket, and put my entire sleeping bag inside to prevent it from getting wet.
Vance, with his ultralight set up, had neglected to bring a tent and was huddled up in a literal puddle of water under a scrap of fabric he called a tarp. He shivered violently as the rain turned to sleet and snow.
I was genuinely concerned that he was becoming hypothermic in his shorts and soaking wet down sleeping quilt.
I told him to come sleep in my tent. He thanked me for not letting him die, and told me that it was his first snowstorm ever.
Even in the tent he didn’t seem to be getting warm, and I hoped he would be okay through the night.
It was a long, cold night. The wind kept pushing the sides of the tent in, and my legs hurt so much I couldn’t fall asleep. Rolling over was pure agony.
We woke up to a tent covered in snow. I ate a granola bar while huddled in my sleeping bag, then lost all feeling in my hands packing up a frozen tent.
Vance was still very cold, but seemed okay.
Rod did not get feeling back in his hands for seven hours.
My pack may have been heavy, but at least I had enough gear to not get mild frostbite or hypothermia.