On a hike, our needs are reduced to the most basic: food, miles and sleep. Everything else slowly dissolves. Simplicity is strength, they say, and they are right. The less you have to carry on your head, the more room there will be for calm.
Today, during a break, I lay on the floor, trying to slow my heart rate and waiting for the sugar in a cookie to take effect. My knees were shaking from exhaustion and lack of energy, and I was about to faint.
Above me, the treetops moved gently in the wind, undisturbed, effortless. And then came a wave of stillness. A quiet relief that everything is okay, here and now. There is no need to rush anywhere. Just breathe.
My mind wanders, when was the last time I consciously stopped in a city just to look at the trees? I don’t remember it. For a moment I catch myself again in the constant rush, the pursuit of something I can’t even name anymore, and then I return. Right now.
The present is that fragile. It always runs away if you don’t hold it carefully. So I let the thoughts pass. Softened, almost moved, I look at my teachers, the trees and the trembling leaves above them. For a second, a hummingbird appears near my head and disappears again, like nature itself sending a silent message.
«Are you okay now? Can we go?» My husband snaps me out of my reverie.
«Yes. I’m fine. The sugar kicked in and I’m ready for more miles uphill.»
After an endless climb, five straight miles with virtually no curves, we finally reached the shelter. Our refuge to spend the night. There is already a familiar face, a section hiker we met a few days ago. Recognition comes instantly and unexpectedly warms the tiredness.
We are drenched in sweat and still catching our breath. That last climb not only required effort, but everything we had left. We collapse onto the picnic table, unpack the food, and finally get to the moment we’ve been waiting for for the past two hours: dinner.
One of the small miracles of life on the trails.
Little by little the rest of our tram arrives. The fire is lit. The night comes. We sit in a circle and talk about kilometers, about time, about pain, about food, always about food. After two months, even my mind is starting to change in ways I didn’t expect.
I fall asleep first, listening to the crackling of wood and breathing in a generous amount of smoke.
In the morning the birds wake us up. One of them screams as if he personally has a problem with existence itself. The sunrise is warm and we leave before 8am, unusually early for us as we are usually the last to move.
The terrain is easy on paper, with a couple of climbs, mostly undulating. But the road is rocky and my feet are tired. Basically, I have no sole left in my shoes. The store didn’t have my size in town, so I ordered new ones ahead of time, figuring I could go another 77 miles.
I can, but at what cost?
By noon, I’m in a bad mood and prefer to stay at the shelter six miles earlier than planned. My husband doesn’t love that idea because it would ruin our schedule for the next few days. I get it, I do, but today is one of those days where everything seems a little off.
He sighs loudly and I already know that anything he says can and will be used against him.
The hormones are doing their thing and I’m filled with frustration. We walk in silence, giving each other space, both trapped in our own heads.
Finally, I crawl to the planned campsite with empty batteries. I’m tired enough to be grateful I made it, even if the road there involved a solid mix of self-control, complaining, and mild rage. I even manage, in a moment of weakness, to apologize and thank him for putting up with me.
I am, very clearly, completely exhausted.
Heavy rain is coming, so we settle in the shelter although we can already hear the mice running inside. We stay dry, but small flies bite incessantly and make it difficult to sleep. After midnight, the rain finally comes and doesn’t stop until morning.
It’s pouring rain all morning, so we stay put. We change plans, walk just to the highway, hitchhike to town, pick up my new shoes and add the extra miles tomorrow. Sometimes reaching an agreement is simply choosing the least bad version of the plan that still works for both of you.
I’m tired in a way that makes everything feel heavier than it should. Cold, humidity, dirt, smell, everything is closer to the surface today. I’m looking forward to Trail Days this weekend and then a three-day “aqua blazing” paddling a section of the trail in a canoe. A small vacation within the walk. Just in time, after two months and almost halfway there, the mind needs a reset more than the legs.
I don’t usually share day-to-day stories here, since I plan to publish another book after the tour and I want to save material for that. But more stories ran out on our Instagram. And if you’re curious about something specific, leave a comment. I’ll be happy to share more of our trip to the Triple Crown.
